New Chef on the Block
Wednesday, October 1, 2008; Page F01
Smart cookie, that Jen Lin-Liu. The 31-year-old knows the world loves a good cook, especially one who feeds a hunger for Chinese culture.
Eight years ago, the American-born Fulbright scholar moved to Beijing to write about travel and food. She earned a culinary certificate and apprenticed in restaurant kitchens. Stern teachers became friends and colleagues, sharing their histories and helping Lin-Liu open a cozy cooking school for foreigners.
Today she's giving the likes of 30-something Fuchsia Dunlop, Britain's It Girl of Sichuan cuisine, a run for her money. Lin-Liu's credits include a new memoir with winning recipes and her first gig as jet-setting restaurant consultant. One can see her following a path like Faith Heller Willinger's in Italy, learning regional cuisines from master cooks and sharing lessons with expats.
"It's crazy what's happening now," she said last week during a brief book tour stop in Washington. "It's not where my parents thought I would be," making a life in the country they fled long ago. The sentiment is expressed with respectfulness, not regret, by someone who looks young enough to pass for a recent college graduate.
It's clear that Beijing suits Lin-Liu. Her memoir, "Serve the People: A Stir-Fried Journey Through China" (Harcourt), chronicles her year of culinary training in the north and south, ending with the promise of a happy future with Craig Simons, the Asia bureau chief for Cox newspapers. (The couple plan to marry in San Diego next month.)
The book was published shortly before the Summer Olympics, as tens of thousands of internationals poured into Beijing. Lin-Liu was distressed that her city failed to show some of its true character, as she described in an Aug. 4 op-ed in the New York Times. But she tried to do her part: Good timing and good publicity landed her three cooking spots on the "Today" show during the Games. She says it was "exhausting and stressful," but she was poised and photogenic.
Her Black Sesame Kitchen was booked for weeks over the summer and will start up again in November. It is one of a handful of cooking schools that cater to foreigners in Beijing, Lin-Liu says. She and her fellow chefs teach small groups of students on Saturdays in a hutong dwelling that also houses six families, and they hold communal dinners on alternate Friday evenings. It's a one-block commute for Lin-Liu, which is a welcome upgrade from the crosstown bus and taxi rides she had to take during her cooking internships.
She has renovated a two-room space as one large room with a double sink, two burners, a refrigerator and a freezer. The latter two appliances were not typically found in Chinese kitchens before the mid-1980s, but the free-standing work space she installed drew the most comments from Beijingers: The concept of an island in a home kitchen is nonexistent there, she says.
Her classes cost a reasonable $40, but the airfare to Beijing is steep. Lin-Liu agreed to a private lesson at The Post instead. Out came the compact Chinese cleaver that took her several months to wield masterfully. "I've found that it's much easier to balance" than a chef's knife, she says. "There are no Cuisinarts in China."
With her knuckles positioned against the wide blade, Lin-Liu began by shredding the classic triumvirate of Chinese cooking: garlic, leek and ginger root. She didn't strike and chop at quite the warp speed of veteran chef Martin Yan (whom Lin-Liu has met and describes as a sharp businessman). But her prep for three dishes featured in her book was efficient and organized. By holding the cleaver horizontally, she conveyed food to a hot oiled wok without a single spill.
It can take years for a cooking teacher to acquire the skill of working and talking simultaneously. Lin-Liu seemed to have it down pat.
The knife work prompted tales of sharpening tradesmen who roam Beijing neighborhoods on bicycles, clinking to announce their presence. The cabbage she prepped for Dongbei Salad elicited stories, included in her book, of the staple vegetable sold in massive stacks on street corners, then stored through the winter outside private homes.