This gallery contains 38 photos.
We’ve just returned from a massive three week trip to China’s southwest corner. Here are some photos – click on the thumbnails for big versions.
This gallery contains 38 photos.
We’ve just returned from a massive three week trip to China’s southwest corner. Here are some photos – click on the thumbnails for big versions.
It started with my wife. She’s from The South, loves every kind of baozi, and takes me to eat them whenever she has the chance. Sometimes, if there’s time, we go out to eat them for breakfast. One morning we were sitting in a basic little restaurant around the corner from our place, eating some disappointingly soggy breakfast baozi (allegedly “Hangzhou Xiaolongbao”) with vinegar. These ones, in fact.
They were bad, overcooked, though on the plus side the meat inside seemed to be of an acceptable grade, better than the ones in 7-11. Thinking about this, I casually said that I’d like to take an afternoon to try a few of the different baozi available in Beijing, maybe take a few photos and write a review. V nodded at me, with a decisive smile and a twinkle in her eye. Over the next two weeks we then spent the best part of two and a half days travelling around, taking many buses, losing my hat, and eating more baozi than I could’ve possibly imagined.
Before I start, you might be wondering what “baozi” are, so let’s have a quick rundown.
Baozi are generally translated as “steamed buns” in English, the implication being that they are balls of bread, cooked in the vegetable steamer, which is a good definition of mantou, not baozi. As we’ll see what actually can be called “baozi” is a wide category of items, with a few surprising inclusions and exclusions. There only seem to be three basic rules
1. There’s a wheat-based skin (thick – i.e. pasta or thin – i.e. bread)
2. There’s something inside, typically meat
3. They are pinched at the top like a bag (‘baozi literally means ‘little bag’) rather than at the side (like jiaozi – i.e. dumplings are)
If you’re still not sure, you might want to refer to “Are these dumplings I’m eating?” – it won’t make things any clearer, but you might at least get a little more perspective on your confusion.
Each baozi will get a review from each of us, and an average score out of ten. Pictures can be clicked for large-size versions.
#1 – Laomanbaodu: this is definitely not baozi, but I’m hungry
We set out on the first day of our trip at 10.40am on a Thursday, and spent nearly two hours sitting in traffic before arriving at our first location just in time for lunch. It was on a main street in the old Muslim quarter, an area of the city I hadn’t even heard about before. The restaurant was old, smokey and packed with customers for the lunchtime rush. We found a couple of seats next to a man finishing his soup, made our order, and received our food within 30 seconds.
Location:Nanhengxijie NO.98-1 (near Niujie), Xuanwu District
Price: The Shaobing were ¥5 each, and the accompanying soup was just ¥2.
James – two ingredients here, and both of them are done just right. The bun is as crispy as it should be, not stodgy like the ones you usually get in Beijing. The lamb inside is juicy and tastes refreshingly free of additives. Really not bad at all. 8/10
V – This is simple food you can eat anytime and it will never leave a bad taste in your mouth or make you feel ill. 9/10
Total score – 8½
#2 – Dintaifeng: They’d better be good for this price.
The next restaurant was a short bus journey away, in the relative opulence of Beijing’s upmarket shopping hub Xidan. It shouldn’t be surprising at this point that the most pricy restaurant we went to all day was in the basement under a shopping centre. Dintaifeng is apparently world-famous, so expectations were high. Again the place was packed, but this time with an altogether different class of people.
We had some traditional Shanghai xiaolongbao with pork and crab, and an alternative version with chopped chicken inside.
Price: pork and crab xiaolongbao ¥39 for 5 / chicken xiaolongbao ¥23 for 5
Location: basement, Juntai Department Store, Xidan North Street
James – The pork and crab set were excellent. Delicate skin which didn’t break too easily, and inside the meat has a well-honed delicate sweet-salty flavour. Most importantly there’s plenty of soup and plenty of crab roe. 8/10.
The chicken ones, on the other hand, don’t work at all. The skin is just the same, but inside there’s nothing but dry, boring chicken meat, which seems to be just wrong for xiaolongbao. 5/10.
V – Pork and crab is good, though the skin could be a little better. 7/10. The chicken ones are not so good, 5/10. If you treat people it might be nice to come here, but it’s not a place locals would be seen in.
Total score: pork & crab 7½ – chicken 5
#3 – Achunjia: This looks very (un)familiar.
After two hours endurance shopping in Xidan we took a bus up the road to Gangwashi (which is pronounced “gang wah shuh” not “gang-washy” in case you were wondering) to a branch of my favourite baozi and dumpling shop, AchunJia. Unfortunately it seems the branches differ a little, and it wasn’t up to the standard of the one in DaWangLu, so we’ll need to return there later. These are Jiangnan baozi, apparently the area which sets the gold standard as far as these things are concerned. These people take their food very seriously indeed, and you can’t help but feel they’d still be making them if there were no customers to eat them.
Price: ¥30 for 4 pork & crab roe fried baozi
Location: Gangwashi, Xidan North Street
James – Unusual, grainy skin (wholemeal maybe?) but inside is savory and delicious. You can tell the quality from the fresh crab taste. No way of faking that. The skin is a nice change, but to be honest it’s a change for the worse, a little too doughy – a shame as I do love this place. 8/10
V – The skin is thicker than usual. Inside the soup has more crab, and is more oily. Oily is good, by the way. 7/10
Total score – 7½
Mary Roberts, my grandmother, died on the 29th of November at the age of 92. It’s her funeral today in Speke in Liverpool, where she spent most of her life. I’d like to be there, but one of the disadvantages of moving to the other side of the world is that you can’t just fly home easily at times like these. There will be many other members of the Roberts clan up there though, most of her 21 descendants, and many more besides, so I hope it’s a fitting send-off.
Here she is (holding me) in the summer of 1980
We seemed to always be visiting her and staying in her house, and I still have endless memories of life there, the normal things like going to mass and to bingo, taking buses across town with her, all the way to Southport, and on one memorable occasion taking me and my sister on her OAPs coach trip to the Blackpool illuminations. Then there were many other Christmases, Easters, summers… I’m sure none of these sound particularly exciting, but somehow it all sort of just was. There are other people with better stories though, longer memories, and I’m sure that they’re sharing them right now. I wish I could have joined them.
Rest in peace, Grandma.
So, we’ve moved back in with V’s parents, suddenly and without much warning. Her sister, currently seven months pregnant, decided she wanted her flat back, and that was pretty much that. Fortunately the two houses are ten minutes walk away from each other, and we don’t have any furniture to speak of, so it wasn’t much trouble moving everything back. Unfortunately I was at that moment in the last couple of days of speed novel writing, and had about 7000 words to catch up, but V was very understanding considering how pointless the project was and how I didn’t really have time for it in the first place.
The only heavy thing we needed to shift was M’s cot, a wooden thing on wheels, and V thought we should fill it with bags and wheel it over. I thought it might be a little too heavy to get up a flight of stairs, but a quick test showed it was just about do-able, so we wheeled it into the lift and downstairs, where, just at the point where it was impossible to go back, two of the wheels decided to snap off. After ten minutes trying to reattach the things, and looking for a missing screw, V reappeared with a sanlunche – a three-wheeled bike with a trailer (here’s a photo of one) which she’d borrowed from the shop downstairs. We hauled the cot up onto the back and I got on the front and started pedalling. The thing was so heavy it wouldn’t go in a straight line at all and I kept veering towards cars and walls, meaning we progressed much slower than walking pace. To make it worse we had the dog running round us and yapping excitedly, and I was concerned I’d run her over. I mention this on here as it’s a funny memory already, but I was not at all happy at the time. I get enough attention being a foreigner in the sticks, but the circus procession of it all seemed to draw an audience.
Anyway, we arrived ‘home’ just about safe and sound, and now a week seems to have gone by here. I thought we’d moved away from the in-laws for good, but it seems that a few more months are needed at least. There is a good side – less pressure on us to get everything organised, help with chores etc – but at the age of 33 I’m already stuck in my ways a little, and will always feel like a guest who has to follow somebody else’s rules here. The biggest problem is the disparity between our child rearing ideas – especially the bedtime routine – and M was confused by the difference at first and cried until 1am on one of the first nights. After a few days we agreed that night-time was ours and they should leave us to it, but we’ll see how long that lasts.
It’s cold, windy winter outside now, we’ve all got colds and are wearing several layers, even in bed. Luckily there’s a holiday in the south coming up, or it would all be a bit depressing. Will this be the last winter here? It sort of seems like it, but it may well not be.
I’m busy this month doing NaNoWriMo, which on top of work, baby, Christmas holiday preparations, etc, has left me very little time to sleep, let alone write anything non-novelly, but just in time to prevent this November being a NoBlogMer* my sister Katie has just put up the new issue of her magazine, Cassiopeia, featuring a short article I wrote about Shanzhai** – fake Chinese products. You can see it all here – enjoy!
*Apart from Freaks, Mis-shapes, Weeds, which I cunningly write months in advance.
**I seem to have left a typo in the first paragraph. Sorry Katie!
AKA The Conquest of Plassans or A Priest in the House

It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these, and for good reason. While the first three books in the series were a breeze to get through, this one was a bit of a trudge. I started it in April, now we’re in October, and a fair few other books have been read in the meantime. I’m not sure if it was the dull subject matter, tired writing or poor translation, but I only managed to get through the middle 60% by continually putting the thing down and coming back to it. The ending was almost worth it, though.
Translation
Another near-contemporary translation from Ernest Vizetelly, apparently less Bowdlerised than his other efforts, but there doesn’t seem to have been much sex or violence to Bowdlerise in the first place. According to whoever wrote the entry on Wikipedia it’s “much more readable than many of the other Vizetelly texts” but I found the style stodgy, humourless and littered with annoying anachronistic expressions, particularly during the more lighthearted passages. There was another translation produced in the 1950s, but it’s long out of print.
Historical Background
During the Second Empire the state was, on the surface, friendly to the Catholic church – the coup had been carried out with their support, and they grew increasingly restless after the country took the “wrong side” in the war with Austria over Italy. Numerous battles took place in provincial towns, where imperial representatives fought secretly with the clergy for control of local government.
Story
The novel is based around two aspects of a single story. On the surface, the more important thread is about the arrival of a priest, Abbé Faujas, who carefully uses his relationship with the infamous Mrs Rougon to steadily gain back control of the town of Plassans for the Empire. He concocts various plots, undermines rivals, brews discontent with the establishment, and generally acts like a bit of an all-round shit. After an oddly rushed chapter on a semi-rigged election he takes control fully and stops bothering to hide his true colours. This part of the story was the biggest pain to get through, with what seemed like hundreds of upper-middle-class people and clergy gossiping about each-other to little or no end. It was difficult to keep track, let alone care.
The other thread concerns the poor family who have to put him up – Rougon daughter Marthe and her husband (and cousin) Francois Mouret. At first they tolerate the priest and his mother, but later Marthe is used for various schemes and develops an attachment to Faujas, which soon develops into full-blown religious mania, resulting in the commitment of her husband to a mental asylum (after he is blamed for her self-inflicted wounds – the scenes where he is gradually hounded from the town by the neighbours felt a bit flat) and the gradual take-over of their house by the priest’s sister and brother-in-law. This thread was much more interesting than the first, but Christ did it take its time.
The ending of the novel, where (spoilers!) the now genuinely insane Mouret escapes from the asylum and burns down the house with everyone inside (except Marthe, who is dying from tuberculosis at her mother’s house) is the only part where the book really comes alive, and it’s no real shame for these characters I don’t really care that much about to be written out of the sequels.
Speaking of which, the next book leads off where this one ends, with Mouret’s son now joining the priesthood himself. Will this one be better? I really hope so.
Naturalism
We’re getting heavier with the Naturalism here, as Marthe has supposedly inherited her tendency to develop nervous mania from her grandmother, Tante Dide – the matriarch of the Rougon-Macquarts. In a way she is a similar character – dull on her own, but easily led into obsession by others who don’t have her best interest at heart – but her descent into madness is much easier and with much less cause.
Film
No film, of course – and it would be a task and a half to put one together.
I found my first proper hat when I was “working” in Northam Books in Southampton. It was a gloomy old second-hand place which averaged around three or four customers per day. The pay was £10 per day, less than you’d get signing on, and the job was only really worth doing for the odd curios you could find in a pile in the attic. One day I came across a hat, quite similar to the one my granddad used to wear – an old-style stitched fedora with a fabric lining. I tried it on, showed it to a few people and it quickly became part of my everyday clothing. It covered my rapidly thinning bald patch from the sun, rain and wind – and from public view, of course – and nobody else seemed to be wearing one at the time. Not a real hat at least.
Most of the following decade has been spent in the Czech republic and in China. Almost everything about my life has changed, but there’s still a hat hanging up on the peg by the door. It’s just become one of those things that I do. Meanwhile, in the UK, the fedora has gone from being an unusual item of clothing to something you can find in every clothes shop, and walking around the streets on my odd visits I see them being worn by teenagers, at ‘jaunty’ angles, paired with hoodies and novelty t-shirts. This, in and of itself, makes me feel like losing the hat – ignoring fashion is good, being at the arse-end of it is not so good – but it wasn’t really until today that I realised how dire the situation has become. From Boingboing:
The fedora draws increasing controversy in internet circles. In just one hour I found no less than three Tumblrs related to shaming people who wear the creased, curve-brimmed hat—formal with a touch of classic dandy—and the censure is interestingly specific.
The targets are usually men. Nerdy men.
The stereotype I’d been expecting was more along the lines of social network poseur. You know the kind of thing – self-taken photos from supposedly flattering angles, ridiculous pouts, those ‘jaunty’ angled hats. The internet is awash with tumblrs making fun of these kind of people, and while I’ve never really got the appeal it all seems like the usual background-noise hipster-hate people seem to churn out.
But this seems to be quite a different kind of hate-blogging. The photos are taken from dating profiles, the wearers generally less fashion-conscious, more geeky men.
It’s such specific nerd-bullying that one starts to wonder: Is there some kind of correlation between earnest, romantic-if-awkward geeks and a blind faith in the appeal of classical hats?
The author then veers off into pretty tangential territory, equating fedora-wearing with the “nice guy” complex – in short, the delusion that women like men who act like pricks, and by being the ‘nice guy’ they “feel entitled to appreciation and attention because they’ve met a basic standard of human decency” (more detail to be found here, here and here.) This is a decent enough topic on its own, and no time to really cover it here, but again in short (1) yes, of course it’s crap (2) but lots of us have been there at some point because, well, figuring out how to do dating / relationships when you’re young and shy isn’t easy so (3) it would be nice (and of positive benefit to everyone) to help guys figure it out rather than humiliating them and making the problem worse.
Anyway, to get back to the hats…
The problem is that the fedora has become a go-to accessory for a peculiar subculture of love-entitled male nerds whose social inexperience and awkwardness manifests in a world rocked by a gender revolution—a tectonic shift in the makeup of formerly cloistered, rule-bound clubs. They aren’t bad people – they simply need a place from which to draw a sense of manhood, if not from women. When deciding how to represent themselves in a dating profile, why wouldn’t they cling to a fashion emblem from a bygone age, a time when guy was just a guy and a doll was just a doll? A fashion which recalls Frank Sinatra and Al Capone, a conventional masculinity marked by elegant detachment and an appeal to women that remains decidedly independent of their approval?
A number of different assumptions are made here, most of them about people I’ve never met on a website I’ll never use* – but the problem for me isn’t that they’re being made, more that they are most likely shared by a fair number of people. I’m not sure if it’s a particularly 2012 thing, or an internet thing, or something which has always been around but I’ve failed to notice, but it seems like right now the done thing is to try and look as ‘normal’ as possible and publicly ridicule anyone who doesn’t. We seem to have lost appreciation for eccentricity – perhaps equating it to affectation and pretension, which may be fair in many cases, but the baby seems to have been thrown out with the bathwater.
It takes more than a cheap trilby to create your own look, and it doesn’t go with jeans and a T-shirt, that should be obvious to anyone these days. Perhaps for some it’s the start of something, though – a first attempt to do something different. I swear there was a time when people would intentionally look strange, even ugly, not in a misguided attempt to attract the opposite sex, but because they enjoyed playing around with how they looked. Have these people gone, or is it just attitudes towards them that have hardened? I really don’t know. But I’ll probably still wear my hat, at least when it’s cold outside. Nobody will be impressed, and I don’t care.
*That the tumblrs use photos from dating websites seems a little cruel. On a personal level users of the websites can choose or reject whoever they like, but when people have taken a risk and exposed their flaws and vulnerabilities it isn’t really cool to ridicule them in public, whatever they look like.
You would think they could at least maintain the charade of pretending to be balanced and having some shred of journalistic distance, but no – straight out cultural-revolution-style incitement seems to be the plan today. Yes, everyone knows it’s a state-run newspaper, but if they can’t even be bothered to make their case then things look a fraction more worrying than they did yesterday.
Please don’t have a war, China and Japan. It’s just a bunch of rocks in the sea.
It’s Autumn in Beijing now. Proper two-week-summer-winter-fluctuations-Autumn that is. Official Autumn began at the peak of the summer on August 7th, for reasons best skipped here. It was a proper, scorching hot summer with the occasional storm, but poor V still managed to pick up a cold from the changing climate which has endured for the best part of a month, though she seems to have finally cured it today by buying a load of ephedra.
Apart from a couple of job changes, life has been pretty stable since M was born. I’ve been going to work, V and her parents have been staying at home with the baby, while V’s sister has been living just around the corner, in a flat, with her boyfriend and the (apparently baby-incompatible) dog. We’d planned on just doing it for a single year, but when the rental contract rolled around this time last year we decided to renew – just one more time.
V’s dad has just retired, and was making plans to move down to Hainan, the “Chinese Hawaii” – but then a few things came along at once. V’s sister suddenly and unexpectedly got married, and apparently she’s ‘due’ at the start of next year. She’s not the only one having a baby – just off the top of my head I can think of another ten friends and relatives who have either had one this year or have one on the way, and the dog seems to have been keen to get in on the act. Dog pregnancies are short, however, and we soon had four very energetic tiny Bedlington terrier / Maltese poodle cross-breeds which probably need to find a home within the next couple of months.
Plans have been changed, then. Instead of finding our own place in the centre of Beijing we’ve simply swapped with V’s sister. The dogs have been put in a nearby pet-shop, ready for sale, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to let go of a little white one. Just look at him. We’ve yet to decide on a name, but he’ll definitely have a better one than his mother.
Last week V’s mother, father and sister went down to their home province for the wedding ceremony, which is not the same as marriage registration in China. They took M down with them, so we had a week to get the new flat ready, though it still looks a bit of a mess. We’ve got an amazing view, though – at least when the smog clears a bit. We might just be here for a few months, but it’s the first proper house for our new little family, so it should be something special.
The other activity in the house has been car-related. V is learning to drive, since I’m unable to take the test in China due to colour-blindness. To be perfectly honest, I don’t have much enthusiasm about driving on Chinese roads, and this ridiculous law works as a convenient excuse. V’s teacher is a pretty abhorrent human being – a sex pest and a xenophobe (if he knew she was married to a foreigner…!) but she didn’t want to lose the money we’d paid for the classes and he was very cheap. He came on the recommendation of her sister, who passed her test last month. She celebrated by hiring a car and taking us on a couple of unforgettable trips into the centre of Beijing. Fortunately we all survived and there were no serious crashes to speak of, just three or four minor bumps, but I might think twice about joining her next time after the bit where she did a full stop-and-turn in the middle of a motorway junction.
I ought to put some conclusion here, but I seem to have said it all already at the start. Oh well.