hen I first arrived in Beijing in 2004, lemons and limes were only obtainable in the froofiest foreign-oriented supermarkets, at astronomical prices. No, when the average Chinese chef wishes to add a splash of sourness to a well-balanced dish, they reach for a bottle of vinegar.
There is vinegar, and then there is vinegar. From red wine to cider, from rice to coconut – substitute at your peril. China is no different, with countless varieties and grades of vinegar used in a multitude of ways. But as China has its “Four Great Beauties,” the country has “Four Great Vinegars.” Here’s a handy guide.
Zhenjiang vinegar is perhaps China’s most venerable variety, with its own museum dedicated to it in the eponymous town in Jiangsu Province that claims a connection to the Xia Dynasty (2070 – 1600 BC) scholar Du Kang, and his forgetful son Hei Ta, said to be the originator of all China’s ancient liquors and vinegars. Robust, zingy and richly sweet when reduced down by cooking, this dark, rich condiment is made from high-grade glutinous rice and appears in a wealth of dishes from Jiangsu and its neighboring provinces (it’s killer with steamed chicken or pork belly).
Shanghainese and Hong Kongers, meanwhile, adore it with potstickers.
Baoning vinegar hails from a town in the culinary paradise of Sichuan, and, like the region’s world-famous cuisine, is both complex and accessible. Distilled from a range of grains, Baoning vinegar is infused with aromatics like cassia bark and apricot kernels, which perhaps explains its supplementary reputation as a medicinal tonic. Tracing its origins to 1078 AD, this sharp-tasting brew underpins many of the region’s most popular dishes and marries well with oily, spicy chili pastes and, of course, Sichuan pepper, giving rise to the phrase, “without Baoning vinegar, Sichuan cuisine would have no customers.”
Way out east in the coastal province of Fujian, Yongchun aged vinegar is a very different beast. Prepared from glutinous rice, fermented or “red yeast” rice and sesame (which gives it a uniquely mouth-watering aroma), Yongchun is slightly sweet, acidic and a gorgeous deep burgundy color.
Prized for its refreshing, delicate mouthfeel and longevity (it reportedly loses none of its character over time), Yongchun is an excellent accompaniment to steamed shellfish, particularly when mixed with shredded ginger or minced scallion.
But now genuflect, dear reader, before the emperor of Chinese vinegars – a moniker undisputed even by those who have likely never tried the real thing. Aged Shanxi vinegar, or lao chen cu – China’s answer to balsamico. Its most authentic form, allegedly produced in its home province for 3,000 years yet, inexplicably, still almost unobtainable outside of specialty stores elsewhere, is worth slurping direct from a spoon. Lao chen cu’s deep, sensual character combines molasses with the aromas of black beer, cassia bark and pepper, with premium varieties almost syrupy. It is routine for Shanxi locals to down a neat, test-tube sized shot prior to a meal to sharpen the appetite (and ward off indigestion). If you ever see a person ask for a separate bowl of vinegar in a restaurant in China, the chances are they’re from Shanxi – a meal seems incomplete without it.
Personally, I always have some on hand to accompany oily fried breads, cold cuts, braised pork dishes and, of course, dumplings – but, in truth, there are few edibles I wouldn’t gladly dunk in this veritable Armagnac of vinegars. There may be four “great beauties” among China’s vinegars, but, placed side by side, Shanxi lao chen cu, in my view, puts her sisters in the shade.