Staying connected with one’s cultural roots can be difficult for an immigrant, especially if said immigrant lives across an ocean from their birthplace. Although I used to go back to Shanghai every summer to visit family, I haven’t gone back since 2019. The after-effects of the pandemic included inflated air travel prices, an economic slowdown in China, and, of course, China’s zero-COVID policy, an asphyxiating protocol that the government refused to abandon long after most other countries had done away with it. Furthermore, my grandma, who was my last remaining direct relative in Shanghai, passed during the same time period. In the six years since, I’ve begun to miss my birthplace more and more. Simple things, such as scents or noises, reminded me of Shanghai, such as petrichor (Shanghai has incredibly humid and wet summers), or the beeping of cars in the morning. I had taken the everyday aspects of Shanghainese life for granted, and suddenly, I had no easy way of accessing them. To bridge the gap between my two homes, I spent time learning about my culture, or revisiting aspects of it that I hadn’t paid attention to in the past.
There’s a reason that every time someone presents about their culture, there is inevitably a section on food. Food is one of the most important aspects of any culture, reflecting both the geography and history of the culture that it came from, and can even embody the beliefs and values of said culture. China, both geographically diverse and boasting a long history, is home to a kaleidoscope of regional cuisines of various tastes. Within China, there are four regional cuisines that have achieved particular renown: Cantonese cuisine, Shandong cuisine, Sichuan cuisine, and Jiangsu cuisine. Jiangsu cuisine is the broader umbrella under which Shanghainese cuisine sits. Characterized by a focus on the natural flavors of fresh ingredients, it leads to a taste profile that is mild, umami-rich, and delicately sweet or salty.
Throughout the U.S., Cantonese cuisine is by far the most commonly found in restaurants. Dim sum, char siu, and chow mein, just to give a few examples, are Cantonese dishes. The reason why most Chinese restaurants serve Cantonese food (besides it tasting good) is due to the history of China and the Cold War. While immigration out of the People’s Republic of China was very limited due to government policy, from 1949 until the 1980s, Hong Kong (a Cantonese city under British jurisdiction) was open to the West. As such, for a period of 40 years, the vast majority of Chinese restaurant owners were Cantonese or imitated the Cantonese. Today, the Chinese food scene in the U.S. is diversifying, but Shanghainese food remains elusive. There’s no truly authentic Shanghainese restaurant in Chicago. As such, with no restaurants to turn to, the only option I had was at home.
Shanghainese cuisine’s major influence is Jiangsu cuisine, but due to its unique location on the Yangtze delta and its history as a concession city, it also incorporates influences from other cuisines, including Western ones. Sugar, soy sauce, Shaoxing wine, and oil are foundational ingredients, and the use of these ingredients often lends Shanghainese dishes a characteristic reddish-brown color. Dishes made in such a manner are usually called “hong shao”, or red-cooked. Thankfully, I already had all these ingredients at home.
Starting small, I learned (with my mom’s tutelage) how to make something universal to almost every Chinese household: dumplings. Making dumplings, wontons, and jiaozi is also a great family activity, where the different members of the family can form a sort of assembly line. In the end, I grasped the simpler folds of the fan-shaped jiaozi much better than the more typically Shanghainese wontons, but I still loved the experience. Afterward, I moved on to hong-shao rou, also known as red braised pork belly. This dish is heavenly: sticky, sweet, and salty, it’s perfect over a warm bed of rice. It’s also a super simple dish, needing just six to seven ingredients. Out of the dishes I made, this was my favorite. Finally, my dad taught me how to make borscht. Borscht is typically thought of as a Slavic dish (which it is), but in Shanghai, there’s a local version called luosong tang, which is especially popular in wintertime. A reminder of when Shanghai was a foreign concession, Borscht was introduced by Russian traders and businessmen before it became a Shanghai classic made with local ingredients. This soup is one of my dad’s family’s favorite dishes. Not so much my cup of tea, but it still felt like a familiar comfort food. As the scent of soy and sugar filled the kitchen, I could almost hear the city outside my grandmother’s apartment again: the hum of traffic, the rhythm of rain, the shouting of family members in the living room. Cooking Shanghainese food may not have brought me back to Shanghai, but it kept a part of Shanghai here with me.
