From Xiangxi “Shefan” to Snowflake Wagyu - My Life in Pursuit of Food
Translator: Lara Lee
Written in Guangzhou, May 8, 2026, Published by All Dimensions Press™ on May 9, 2026.
I grew up in Xiangxi, in a work-unit compound where most of our daily meals were taken in the communal canteen. It was the 1970s, supplies were scarce and life was austere. Day after day, we had white rice with simple, appetite-stimulating sides like shredded pickled radish. Only on Saturdays would the canteen serve chili-fried pork, just a few thin slices of pork belly in the bowl, and that already counted as a rare treat.
But every year around Qingming, the canteen would serve something special: shefan. Originally part of Qingming sacrificial rituals, it gradually evolved into a seasonal folk dish unique to Xiangxi. The main ingredient was newly harvested glutinous rice, mixed with finely diced cured pork, along with tender wild mugwort that only grows in the hills during that brief window around early spring.
The soft chewiness of the glutinous rice, the rich, savory oiliness of the cured pork, and the wild, aromatic fragrance of the mugwort intertwined into a flavor that belonged to Xiangxi alone. On the day shefan was served, the whole compound felt like it was celebrating a festival. Children were especially excited. I could always finish two heaping bowls, and if I was lucky enough to get a piece of crispy, golden rice crust from the bottom of the pot, the happiness it brought easily surpassed that of the New Year.
Winters in Xiangxi were damp and piercingly cold, with temperatures often dropping to minus four or five degrees Celsius. Every year, my hands, feet, and ears would develop chilblains. My fingers swelled like carrots, splitting into painful cracks. Even so, I still had to grip my pen and grit my teeth to finish my homework.
The old houses there had almost no insulation. In deep winter, every household would build a small fire pit in the main room. The whole family gathered around it, warming themselves, chatting idly. It was one of the few moments of ease after a long day.
Around the Spring Festival, every family would pound glutinous rice into ciba. While sitting by the fire, we would often place raw ciba over the coals to roast. As it slowly softened, puffed up, and split open, we would sprinkle a small spoonful of white sugar into the cracks. The heat would melt the sugar into syrup, which seeped into the rice cake. One bite, soft, sticky, and sweet, became one of the rare comforts in the bleakness of winter.
In the early 1980s, my family relocated to Guangzhou.
Compared to the rugged, resource-scarce hills of Xiangxi, Guangzhou felt abundant. For the first time, I saw prawns thicker than my thumb, crabs larger than my fist, and grass carp as thick as a human thigh. For a mountain child who had only ever seen tiny fish and shrimp, it was a revelation.
Guangzhou has long been known as a city of gastronomy, “Eat in Guangzhou,” as the saying goes. Yet what left the deepest impression on me was the late-night food of my high school years.
Back then, academic pressure was intense. Every evening we stayed at school for study sessions, and classes ended at 9:30 p.m. On my ride home, I would pass the intersection of Xihua Road and Renmin Road, where the streets were lined with late-night food stalls. Among them was my favorite: pork blood soup with chives.
Pork blood, once coagulated and cooked, would be sprinkled with a bit of pepper to suppress any gaminess. Its texture was silky like tofu, yet firmer, with a gentle bite. Paired with fresh chives and served in a clear broth, it was light yet deeply warming. After a full day of study, the fatigue would slowly dissolve in that single bowl of hot soup.
University life brought me my first real sense of freedom. And the greatest pleasure of all was going out on weekends to roadside stalls for stir-fried beef rice noodles.
At a Guangzhou da pai dang (roadside stall), dry-fried beef ho fun (rice noodles) was almost a ritual performance. The cooks used high-pressure diesel stoves, once ignited, flames could leap over a meter high. A thin iron wok was set over the roaring fire, peanut oil poured in, followed by rice noodles, beef, bean sprouts, and chives. Everything was tossed rapidly over fierce heat, seasoned, and plated, all in under a minute.
I loved standing by and watching. The wok would glow red, almost white, under the flames. Ingredients tumbled and flipped in the heat. The air filled with smoke, oil, meat, and the fragrance of rice. Firelight flickered across the cook’s figure, while around us rose the lively clatter of dishes and conversation. It felt like a vivid, almost theatrical expression of everyday life.
I was eighteen or nineteen then, with a healthy appetite. I could easily finish two full plates in one sitting. That intense wok hei, the breath of the fire, and the warmth of that bustling, grounded atmosphere became one of the deepest culinary imprints of my university years.
In the early 1990s, I graduated and entered the workforce. My first boss was a true Cantonese gourmand. He often said to me, in dialect: “Work hard to earn, eat at ease.” He meant that one should work diligently, but never forget to enjoy good food and life. For someone raised to believe only in endurance and sacrifice, this was a refreshing perspective.
He practiced what he preached. He took us young employees to countless banquets, large and small. Delicacies I had previously encountered only in books appeared one after another on the table. Years of such business meals saw my weight rise from 140 pounds at graduation to over 170, but strangely, my energy for work only grew stronger.
Among those years of indulgence, one experience remains unforgettable: the eve of the Mid-Autumn Festival in 1998.
Just before leaving work that day, my boss called us over mysteriously and said he would take us somewhere for something special. We got into a van and drove from Guangzhou onto the highway, eventually arriving in Zhuhai. After exiting, a local contact was already waiting to guide us. We followed their car from national roads to provincial roads, then to county roads, and finally onto a secluded country path, stopping in front of an unmarked farmhouse at the very end.
The owner stood waiting at the door, his expression stern. Only after greeting our Zhuhai host did he relax slightly and head straight into the kitchen. Not long after we sat down, he brought out a large clay pot. Lifting the lid, he revealed a dish of braised hehuaniao, prepared in classic Cantonese style.
Only then did I understand why everything had been so discreet.
Hehuaniao is a migratory bird. Each year it flies south from Siberia, passing through Guangdong, where it rests for several days in reed marshes before continuing on to Australia for the winter.
At the time, people would set up tall, nearly invisible fishing-line nets on one side of the marsh. At dawn, others would drive the birds from the opposite side. Startled, the birds would take flight toward the morning light, straight into the nets.
There was a local saying: “Better four ounces of flying meat than a whole pound of land-bound meat.” The bird was even called “ginseng of the sky.” But wildlife protection laws were already tightening, and in most places it was banned. Only in loosely regulated rural border areas like those between Zhuhai and Zhongshan could one still find it, quietly.
The bird was small. I picked one up and bit into half of it in a single mouthful, and was instantly struck. The bones were remarkably soft, easily chewed together with the meat. The flavor was rich and concentrated, while the cartilage added a unique, slightly crisp resilience. The layers of texture were extraordinary.
That night, we went through several large pots. I alone ate more than twenty birds, to the point where I even felt a faint ringing in my ears. The sheer sensory satisfaction, combined with the thrill of secrecy, made it an experience like no other.
In later years, wildlife regulations became stricter, and the number of these birds declined sharply. They disappeared from the table. With the added concerns of avian flu, I gradually came to realize the health risks of consuming wild animals, and gave up the habit entirely.
After 2002, as my financial situation improved, I bought a car, and my range of movement expanded dramatically. Whenever time allowed, I would take my family on drives around Guangzhou, searching for authentic local food.
Through a friend, I discovered a farmhouse by a reservoir at the foot of Phoenix Mountain, in the northeastern outskirts of the city. What stood out there was not the usual free-range chicken, but the reservoir-raised grass carp. Once the fish reached about one and a half pounds, it would be caught, cleaned, and steamed to order. The flesh was delicate yet firm, with none of the muddy aftertaste common in freshwater fish. Paired with fragrant eel claypot rice and seasonal vegetables, the meal was immensely satisfying.
Even though the round trip took nearly three hours, I never tired of it. For a while, I made the journey almost every month.
Over the years, my culinary map kept expanding. I explored Sichuan, Shandong, Cantonese, and Huaiyang cuisines, tasting widely, studying flavors, tracing the origins and cultural meanings behind each dish. At one point, I even considered pursuing food seriously, perhaps becoming something of a connoisseur.
A few years ago, my son graduated from college and began working. He, too, joined the pursuit of good food. With a broader horizon, he introduced me to an all-you-can-eat hotpot restaurant specializing in Australian Wagyu, a concept originally from Japan.
The restaurant offered unlimited servings of Australian Wagyu, paired with simple vegetables. The selection was not extensive, but the overall style was refined.
The Wagyu itself was unlike any beef I had eaten before. Domestic beef tends to be lean and firm; American-style fatty beef has more fat than lean; but Australian Wagyu features fine, even marbling, delicate white streaks running through the red meat.
My son laughed and teased me for being out of date. This wasn’t ordinary fat, he said, it was “snowflake marbling.” Australian Wagyu is a cross between Japanese Wagyu and Australian Angus cattle, raised on grain such as corn and soy. In contrast, the beef I had grown up eating was mostly grass-fed, leaner, tougher, and more fibrous. Grain-fed Wagyu, however, is tender and delicate, belonging to an entirely different realm of texture.
Following his instructions, I placed a few slices into the clear broth, cooked them briefly, then dipped them into soy sauce with minced garlic. The meat was soft, almost effortless to chew. A rich, mellow flavor spread across the tongue, bringing an immediate sense of satisfaction, almost euphoric.
That day, we simply let go and indulged. Plate after plate of beef kept coming; the server never stopped refilling. The stacks of plates on our table rose higher than our heads. Each of us ate nearly thirty plates. Even now, I can still imagine the owner’s pained expression.
Only after tasting top-grade Wagyu did I begin to understand something more deeply: the elaborate techniques and heavy seasoning of the eight great Chinese cuisines often serve, at their core, to elevate and compensate for the limitations of ordinary ingredients.
But in the presence of truly exceptional ingredients like snowflake Wagyu, all complexity becomes unnecessary. A light broth, a simple dip of soy sauce and garlic, that alone becomes the ultimate delicacy. As the well-known line from A Bite of China goes: “The finest ingredients require only the simplest cooking.”
Life, in its own way, follows a similar path. When we are young, we chase novelty, comparison, stimulation, and excitement. But with time, as material needs are met and the mind settles, we begin to prefer simplicity, purity, and the quiet joy of being together as a family.
Since then, I have made it a weekly ritual to bring my family to enjoy Australian Wagyu. Sitting together around the hotpot, eating heartily until our foreheads bead with sweat, it has become our family’s tradition, our own way of gathering.
Looking back on half a lifetime, from coarse mountain fare to premium Wagyu, what I have tasted is not only flavor, but the result of years of effort and striving.
Now, as we sit together under warm light, eating in peace, I finally understand what my old boss meant:
Work hard to earn, so you may eat at ease.
About the Author
Eddy Lee traces his lineage to Yashan, site of the last battle of the Southern Song dynasty in 1279. A member of the Third Front generation, families relocated during China’s industrial campaign of the 1960s and 70s, he now lives in Guangzhou, China.
© Eddy Lee 2026 Copyright
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Article Information
Category: Non Fiction / Essay
Tags: Foodie / History / Culture
