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From: S Finch <msfinch@leipzigger.de>Date: May 19, 2012 8:50:09 AM CESTTo: Peter Meehan; Chris YingRE: A pitch

P e t e r -

Thanks for your interest. 1 think this will turn outfantastically! I'm very excited to finally chase this ghoststory down.

Chris, to catch you up, here's what I sent Peter:

I just received confirmation of a grant to travel fromGermany to Dali in Yunnan Province early next yearto do some fieldwork for my postdoctoral studies inwhat I like to call "forgotten Chinese history."

The seed of this idea was planted when 1 wastraveling the Silk Road, completing my master's. Ispent six months in northwestern India working fora French archaeologist, Claude R. Rone. I was late tothe scene, and most of his work was already done,so I spent a little time as liaison to some Chineselaborers (I speak Cantonese and Mandarin). The restof the time, I was poking around in local markets androadside tent sales and generally whiling away the

days before I could get out of the heat and back toLeipzig. (I was at the University for a while; now I'mat the Leipzig Institute of Education.) One afternoonI came across a t rader w i th a cache o f handsome

hone china that I expertly recognized as quite old. Itwas affordable to me even on the pittance I was earn

ing at the time, so I bought what he had—an oddlyshaped tureen and some small bowls—and broughtthem hack to camp.

Claude went crazy for the stuff: he said it waslate-Ming material, and that the designs made himthink it was from what's now the city of Dali, and heinsisted I direct him to the man I'd bought it from.I tried in earnest, but we couldn't track down themerchant again. Later, when I told him that one ofthe bowls had broken on the way home, he was apoplectic—how could I have been so careless, etc.—butthen he se ized on the shards and sa id he 'd send one

to a research scientist he has some ambiguous connection to at UCLA who'd be able to date the pot

tery exactly. He started referring to my score as "ourchina." (His dig had been a bust, and I think he wasangling to cash in on a sale of my pottery.)

After a couple weeks, the LA woman. Amy Rowat,wrote us back: yes, the pottery was Ming era—noyounger than 1640. But the girl who ran the tests forPro fessor Rowat had la tched on to a fa r more in te res t

ing discovery—she had found traces of lysine, gluta-mate, and glutenin in the porous glaze on the pottery.These were chemical markers of a pretty distinctcombination: tomatoes, possibly soy sauce, and probably wheat noodles. It took me a moment to grasp herimplication. The markers were raising a whole newquestion: Were Yunnanese people cooking noodles withtomatoes before Italians?

Unfortunately, I did end up selling the potterybefore I left India—or Claude did, but I took my partof the cash, so I feel complicit. We may still he ableto retrieve some fragments from Professor Rowat tophotograph for the story. She seemed open to theidea that they were evidence of an undocumentedfoodway from the New World through southernChina. I put it on the backburner and returned toschool to finish my degree.

In my free time, I came up with a rough timeline:the tomato arrived in Europe from the New World inthe 16th century, and was growing in Italy by the endof it or certainly by the I7th. It wasn't until the lateISth century—1773, by most accounts—that tomatosauce first appears in Italian cookbooks. But following the demise of the Silk Road, Europeans wereseeking a way to maintain trade with China. So asearly as the I6th Century—half a century or so afterC o l u m b u s r e t u r n e d f r o m t h e N e w W o r l d w i t h t o m a

toes—Portuguese explorers and Italian missionarieslike Matteo Ricci had settled in China. My belief isthat the Chinese were exposed to New World ingredients as early as anybody in Europe, created disheswith them, and that those dishes—dishes we'vecome to know as distinctly European—traveled backto Europe by the same routes the ingredients hadtaken to China. In short, spaghetti with tomato sauceis Chinese. (Isn't everything?)

128 I Lucky Peach

r s E ^ r ^ s i n = i F = n r ^ E

My Italian boyfriend, Elario, bemusedly indulged myclaims about the Chinese provenance of certain Italiandishes. Every time I brought it up, he'd intimate to methat the superior quality of his grandmother's tomatosauce would dispel any question as to whether thestuff is intrinsically and historically Italian. I hadn'ttasted good enough red sauce, was the problem.

So this spring I was near Modena, visitingElario's family. Varying iterations and generationsof his family had lived and cooked in that villa forthe better part of two centuries. His grandmotherwas now the lone full-time resident, but a cast ofdaughters, sons, in-laws, grandchildren, and threegreat-grandchildren kept the household perpetuallyteeming. (There were six other people there duringour visit, which qualified as "deserted.")

Unaffected by the crippling heat, Nonna—that'swhat her family calls her—always had at least threepots on the stove. Her food was fantastic, but itdidn't put me off my hypothesis. We were in thekitchen the morning after our arrival when I hadElario help me ask her some questions: Who taughther to cook? How long had she been cooking? Does sheever cook anything that isn't Italian? Elario translatedher terse replies as "My mother-in-law, when Ibecame married; a very long time; no."

Then I put my theory to her, thinking that Elariohad briefed her ahead of time. To say she bristled atthe idea that tomato cookery and tomato sauce inparticular had come from China would be an understatement; she did not speak to me for the remainderof the weekend, and regarded me with such disdainthat I'd have recanted and begged for forgiveness hadI thought it would have made an ounce of difference.

A couple days later, Elario was feeling guilty forhow his mean old grandmother was treating me,and in some ways him (whenever I left the room, Iheard him objecting to nonna while she called mesomething awful-sounding in a dusty old Modenesedialect). So the last night we were in town he tookme out for the only truly expensive and out-of-this-world dinner we've ever eaten together, at OsteriaFrancescana, where the chef Massimo Bottura cooks.(Googling leads me to believe he and Chang knoweach other.)

I was happy enough just to escape the cripplinga w k w a r d n e s s o f t h e v i l l a f o r a f e w h o u r s . T h e m i n d -

boggling dinner was a welcome bonus. Nonna, however, still managed to impose her presence on theevening, albeit in quite an unexpected and pleasantway. Massimo, it turned out, in addition to being oneof the great pioneers of modern cuisine, is also theworld's foremost champion of the Italian matriarch.He's rolled tortellini, it seems, at the feet of nearlyevery Modenese grandmother within 50 km, Elario'snonna included. After dinner we ended up getting atour of the place and meeting the chef. He was handsome and charming and asked us questions. I felt atease, and despite Elario's palpable discomfort andtelltale feet-shuffling, I steered the conversation inthe direction of my Chinese-origin theory.

He listened intently as I once again brashlycharged at the proud heart of Italian cooking. Iwalked him through the timeline, talked aboutClaude in India and the broken vase, and mentionedmy pending trip to Dali. Not until I reached the endof my tale, breathless, did I realize how voluble thewine pairings had made me, and how horribly silentthe hallway we were speaking in had grown.

"I guess I've been cooking Chinese food all along,"Massimo said with a grin. We laughed at this, buthis smile quickly faded. He looked at Elario and saidsomething quickly in Modenese (My guess: "Is thisnutjob for real?"), to which Elario nodded. Elario thentranslated as Massimo continued.

The chef had employed a stagiaire years ago by thename of Yun Ye Su. He was from Dali and was, according to Massimo, one of the best cooks he'd ever seen,met, or stood near. In fact, one of the dishes we'd eatenthat night was apparently a variation on somethingthat Yun had made for Massimo late one evening."He brought it to me like a gift," Massimo said. "He'dcooked it alone. It was masterful." Yun had also madeclaims about the Chinese provenance of classic Italiandishes, calmly insisting that tomato sauce had beenin his family's repertory since long before Italians hadeven gotten over their fear of nightshades.

In spite of these claims (or maybe because ofthem). Chef Massimo tried for two months to hireYun, offered him a full-salaried position, everything.

L u c k y P e a c h I 1 2 9

= ] L = i l l E = J E i r = ] L = i l l i = ] S 1

But the kid was hellbent on working elsewhere andexploring the gastronomic scene in Europe. The cheflost touch with Yun Ye Su, but knew he'd turned upat El Bulli at some point, because Ferran Adria hadshared a nearly identical tale with him—a mysterious Chinese stage with brilliant potential who cameand wen t l i ke the seasons .

I pressed Bottura for more answers, but he had tor e t u r n t h e k i t c h e n . H e t o l d m e t h a t h e ' d i n t r o d u c e

me to Ferran if I could make it to Copenhagen forMAD Food Camp in July. I thanked him profusely,and we headed out . I

spent the rest of mytime in Italy planningmy trip to CPH.

Back in Leipzig,I went through thestacks, looking for anyd o c u m e n t a t i o n t h a t

would have supportedw h a t C h e f M a s s i m o

t o l d m e a b o u t Yu n Ye

Su. Nothing. I taket h a t t o m e a n t h a t t h i s

is a genuine chance todiscover something.

So I'm off to Copenha

gen in a couple weeks.(Will I see either of youthere?) Massimo told meit was pretty informal,t h a t h e c o u l d i n t r o d u c e

me around, and that hewouldn't be surprised ifYu n Ye S u h a d w o r k e d f o r s o m e o f t h e o t h e r c h e f s w h o

w i l l b e i n a t t e n d a n c e .

Gentlemen, there's a Chinese cook passing throughthe best kitchens in the world, and I think he can lend

support to a totally unconsidered rewrite of the wayfood traveled from the New World to the Old. I'm goingt o fi n d h i m .

F r o s t !

Syd.

Date: July 2, 2012 8:50:09 AM CESTTo: Peter Meehan; Chris YingSubject: Made it to Copenhagen

Hi guys.

FYI, I emailed Amy Rowat in LA to see if she still hasthe pottery fragments.

I get the feeling that Chef Bottura thinks I'm acrazy celebrity-chef stalker, as he hadn't answered

any of my emails until wegot to CPH. Anyway, heagreed to meet with meagain here in Copenhagen and introduce me toAdria, very early, beforeh e a n d F e r r a n w e n t t o t h e

presentations.Adria doesn't speak

much English, so I'd beenrevving up my French toask him questions. I pickedup from his body languagethat he was surprised notonly that Chef Massimohad arranged our meeting,but particularly that wewere talking about Yun YeSu. He shared a few hurr ied

Spanish-Italian-ish wordsw i t h M a s s i m o w h i l e I w a s

ordering coffee. Massimopatted him on the shoulder.

Then, out of nowhere,Ferran blurted out something about how Yun Ye Su'srestaurant is one of the most amazing places to eat inthe world and he can't imagine what I did to find outa b o u t i t .

I played it as cool as possible, but, truly, I was losingit. A restaurant? I acted like I knew what he was talkingabout, not losing a second, and started in with, "Yes, Itried for months to get a reservation at the restaurant.I'd heard it was nearly impossible, but I..."

A d r i a w e n t o n l o c k d o w n t h e s e c o n d h e r e a l i z e d h i s

G E N T L E M E N , T H E R E ' SA C H I N E S E C O O K

P A S S I N G T H R O U G H

T H E B E S T K I T C H E N S

I N T H E W O R L D , A N D IT H I N K H E C A N L E N D

S U P P O R T T O A T O T A L L Y

U N C O N S I D E R E D

R E W R I T E O F T H E W A Y

F O O D T R A V E L E D F R O M

T H E N E W W O R L D T O

T H E O L D .

130 1 Lucky Peach

E i B i r ^ E ^ n = i F = n r ^ B

mistake. I was no insider, and worse, I was a liar. He saidhe had to go and prepare for a demo later in the day andmaybe we could talk again after MAD was over.

Massimo, sweet angel that he is, stepped in to saveme again. "I told her that Yun was an incredible cook, apure creative genius, and that he had wild ideas ahoutChinese food and history," he said.

Adria concurred. "A fantastic talent, a brilliantworker. I wish he would have stayed longer. He is thefuture of cooking." And then he begged off and the twoof them le f t and I fe l t l i ke an id io t .

Thankfully I got a text from Massimo this afternoon(after I'd had a few self-pitying glasses of wine thinkingI'd blown my chance):

"Got into trouble with the guys for talking Yun.Were ok now. Come to F iskebar at 11. see what e lse

you can get."

I'll check in with you guys again tomorrow after thismystery meeting. I'm nervous as hell.

— S

From: S Finch < msfinch@leipzigger.de >Date: July 4, 2012 6:12:22 AM CESTTo: Peter Meehan; Chris YingRE: Made it to Copenhagen

Hey guys—I'm taking off for the airport in an hour. Anyway, last

night at the har—wow.Ferran was sitting at a big table with just one other

patron, who turned out to be none other than ReneRedzepi. My prompt 11 p.m. arrival meant I was thereearly. Ferran motioned me over and introduced me as"Sydney who doesn't speak Spanish."

Ferran spoke at length. Redzepi translated for me.Here's the gist:

Yun Ye Su is a secret. Nohody talks ahout him. Thisis partly in accordance with his wishes, partly outof ignorance. He's worked for many of the top chefsaround the world. "Our friends" was how Ferran referredto them. (I get the sense that not a few of "our friends"could credit a little inspiration to YYS. Take what

you will from this, but it was intimated that a certainDavid Chang's signature Brussels sprouts should have acosigner.) But Yun had never taken a paying job from—or so much as a photo with—any of them. He professedhis lowliness and his desire to work and learn, but hewas the most brilliant cook anyone had ever seen.

Redzepi chimed in that Yun Ye Su had worked forhim in the early days at Noma, back before his namehad become "synonymous with foraging," before he hadreally even begun scampering around the forest hims e l f . Yu n m a d e R e n e a f e w m e a l s w h e n t h e t w o o f t h e m

were working late, closing the kitchen. He said thatYun had gone out on his day off and gathered lichensand mosses and green strawberries from the forestsand beaches around Copenhagen, and had cooked themost beguiling version of "Chinese" food he had evertasted, all with ingredients from the wild.

I was curious if it might just be that the Europeans were unfamiliar with classic Yunnanese cooking.I n a m e d a f e w o f t h e e m b l e m a t i c d i s h e s o f Yu n n a n

province—Crossing the bridge noodlesS t e a m p o t c h i c k e n M i l k f a n s f o u r w a y sHlfl^)—and asked if those were the dishes they'd tried.

Ferran (who was far more familiar with regionalChinese food than I assumed) shook his head. Yun YeSu doesn't just cook "Chinese" or "Yunananese" food, hesaid. Then he and Redzepi took turns filling in the gapsof a pretty consistent, alheit barebones, biography:

Yun is the descendent of some sort of exceptionalfamily. Not royalty, exactly; the family are either theoriginators or preservationists of a great trove ofculinary knowledge and secrets. (Adria, who seemeda little bit tired all night, was really animated talking about this.) Yun's childhood was spent in culinaryapprenticeship—Rene chipped in that Ye Su had toldhim that he had learned to tell edible plants fromdangerous ones before he learned to speak. When heshowed up in these European kitchens sometime in hislate teens or early twenties—no one knew his exactage; he'd always worked without papers on a handshakeagreement—he was lightyears ahead of his peers. Ofthe chefs, too, probably.

A little crowd had gathered at our table at thispoint. Seeing Adria and Redzepi freely discussingYYS, they all seemed eager to add their own two cents.

Lucky Peach I 131

Massimo was there, praising the kid's skills withpasta ("He hends dough to his will.") Wylie Dufresne,the New York chef, joined us, too, and said, "He has anatural intuition for the scientific." I guess Yun's beenStateside, too.

As the night rolled on, everybody was drinking withenthusiasm. Massimo told me (maybe drunkenly) that,yes, he believed tomato sauce had come from China.He said that at one point Yun had even convinced himt h a t t h e r e w a s a C h i n e s e a n t e c e d e n t t o b a l s a m i c v i n

egar. (This seemed almost heretical coming from a manwhose blood, you'd think, runs black with balsamic.)The tales of Yun's kitchen prowess were all fine and

good, and will perhaps resonate with your cook readers, but here was something that caught my attention.Balsamic vinegar as a Chinese export? I tried to pinMassimo down on an explanation, hut he escaped intothe crowd (which at that point included your friendMr. Chang).

As exciting as this evening was, it all just seems toreafhrm the necessity that I find Yun if I'm to get anyr e a l a n s w e r s .

On that note, one other thing Ferran told me wast h a t Yu n h a d r e t u r n e d t o C h i n a . B u t w h e n I a s k e d h i m

about the restaurant, he told me "It's not there. It's nota res tau ran t . "

From: S Finch <msiinch@Ieipzigger.de>Date: August 1, 2012 11:52:01 PM CSTTo: Peter Meehan; Chris YingSubject: China, at last

H e l l o f r o m Y u n n a n !

I've landed in Kunming for a quick stopover beforeheading out for Dali. Kunming is not my favorite cityon Earth. It's not terrible, but you can tell it used to bemore beautiful. New commerce has grown around themore ancient parts of the city like hair around a scar.

Anyway, I'm in a queer little travelers' hotel, mostlyempty, except for a few businessmen whose businessesaren't worth the effort to describe here. (East Asiandistributor of nonessential component of commercialequipment produced by Midwestern conglomerate, etc.)The curtains are a color of orange that I thought wentout of style with 1960s Brutalist architecture; the sheetsare a particularly unhreathable blend of polyester.

Needless to say, I'll be glad to make it to Dali andsta r t t h i s sea rch i n ea rnes t .

From an envelope addressed to Yun that Rene saved,I l ea rned t ha t t he Ch inese cha rac te r s f o r Yun ' s name a re

—not what I had expected, as this translates to"Movement Jesus." Something lost in the translation,I'm sure, hut at least it's a place to start.

From: S Finch <msfinch@leipzigger.de >Date: July 4, 2012 6:33:03 AM CESTTo: Peter Meehan; Chris YingSubject: One other thing

Nearly forgot this juicy little exchange from last night.I was looking for my jacket to leave the bar when a well-to-do-looking gentleman with an ascot asked me in aQueens accent, "Did you ever hear the story of how hegot his scar?" And started laughing.

"He has a scar?"

The man drew his finger like a knife directly acrossthe bridge of his nose.

"How did he get it?"He laughed. "You're going to China, right? Ask him!"

Syd

Yours dutifully,Syd

From: S Finch < msfinch@leipzigger.de >Date: August 3, 2012 1:33:41 PM CSTTo: Peter Meehan; Chris YingRE: China, at last

Reached Dali. They make cheese here! It is truly a lot likesouthern Italian mozzarella—fresh cheese, pulled curd,the whole deal. There's a British food writer. Fuchsia

Dunlop, who's covered it on her blog, here http://Vww.fuchsiadunlop.com/tag/cheese/. I've also seen tomatoes,basil, mint, and all kinds of stuff that I think could shutElario's grandmother up. Hard to imagine the Chinesewouldn't have thought to combine cheese with basil andtomatoes. Not exactly brain surgery.

132 1 Lucky Peach

[ S E i r s L = i i i i — i F = n f s

Some of the older Chinese ladies, who come in fromthe surrounding mountainsides to sell leeks and chrysanthemum greens and whathaveyou, are pretty keento chat and drink tea with a friendly foreigner who'sinterested in their story. From talking to them aboutthe pottery, and their own food traditions, I'm cautiously optimistic about our theory regarding tomatoesand other New World vegetables arriving in this area ofthe country far earlier than people assume. It certainlyseems like these ladies know their way with a tomato,a t leas t . One o f the women sa id she had some k ind o f

agricultural family history and she'd bring somethingfor me to look at la ter in the week.

M o r e s o o n .— Syd

From: S Finch <mshnch@leipzigger.de>

Date: August 5, 2012 1:23:44 AM GSTTo: Peter Meehan; Chris YingRE: China, at last

From: S Finch < msfinch@leipzigger.de >Date: August 10, 2012 3:14:08 AM CSTTo: Peter Meehan; Chris YingSubject: Apologies

Apologies for the radio silence. 1 am embarrassed thatI've got nothing to report. Still no leads on the elusiveMr. Yun. I've got three weeks here for this (and a fewother odds and ends I'm looking into for the school), butI'm starting to worry that this may be a fool's errand.

In my more sullen moments, 1 consider that thismight all be a hoax, a practical joke played on theunsuspecting academic trying to get in with the cool-chef clique. But then I remember that there are very realpieces of pottery at the beginning of this chase.

1 a lso remember tha t two ed i to rs o f a new food

magazine wouldn't send a writer halfway across theworld for shits and giggles.:)

You guys are still believers, right?— Syd

H i -

Got ahold of the text the farm lady mentioned. Hard todecipher, older than dirt, but it seems to be a record ofcrops grown in the surrounding area. No idea how old itis, or if it'll support my idea, but 1 did make out what 1think said HIT. It'll take real analysis to see if this is rele v a n t t o u s .

No sign of Yun Ye Su or his restaurant, unfortunately. He's still the lynchpin, and while the agriculturalevidence has been encouraging, his absence is disheartening. Don't quite know where to start looking.

From: S Finch <msfinch@leipzigger.de >Date: August 5, 2012 1:24:04 AM CSTTo : P e t e r M e e h a n

RE: China, at last

Sorry, Peter, that's 2/3rds of the phrase meaningtomato. Nothing conclusive, but curious to find onsomething so old.

From: S Finch <msfinch@leipzigger.de >Date: August 13, 2012 3:15:28 PM CSTTo: Peter Meehan; Chris YingSubject: Something

I'm sorry (again) for the delay. It's been an altogetheruseless search until today. Resorted to stopping in att h e f a n c i e r h o t e l s f o r r e s t a u r a n t r e c o m m e n d a t i o n s . B u t

every restaurant I've been sent to has ended up being agarish, overpriced, and overlit cavern that caters to theb u s i n e s s - t r a v e l e r s e t .

A friendly bellhop kid at one of the hotelsapproached me this morning after he overheard theconcierge giving me the same useless leads I'd gotteneverywhere else. 1 think the bellhop was eager to tryhis English on me, which gave out after half a minute,but once we were speaking in Mandarin, he was veryhelpful. He told me that real Yunnanese cooking isn'tdone in restaurants. Serious diners (his uncle is one,

apparently) eat at "gourmet clubs" that are private, orinvitation only. He'd never been to one himself, ashe's a vegetarian, but he told me that he'd seen his

Lucky Peach I 133

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father and his uncle loudly stumbling back into thehouse just before sunrise on numerous occasions,both with their pants opened and stains of all manner(i.e.. not just food) on their shirts. When theirrespective wives asked where they'd been, they onlyever replied, "Eating."

He said it sounded like I was looking for was one ofthose places. But that they're closed off—money can'topen the door (as it almost always does everywhereelse in China). It's not likely an outsider would ever bew e l c o m e .

This was the closest I'd been to a "lead." So I pouredmy heart out to the bellhop in the middle of the hotellobby. I told him about the pottery, and Yun Ye Su, andabout the fancy chefs, and my theory, and how despera t e I a m t o k n o w t h e t r u t h .

I don't know how much of it got through. ModernChinese can be impervious to sentiment. He told mehe'd talk to his uncle, and that I should come back intwo days.

Feels like a longshot, but maybe at least I'll get to goto one of the supper clubs.

Syd

From: S Finch < msfinch@leipzigger.de >Date: August 14, 2012 12:40:12 PM CSTTo: Peter Meehan; Chris Ying(No subject)

He 's rea l .

He found me. At the market this morning.I looked up and there he was: a bald guy, maybe in his

thirties, huge scar right across his face.Said he'd heard 1 was asking about him. Asked who

sent me. Seemed suspicious but reacted warmly toc h e f s ' n a m e s . O w e M a s s i m o a f r u i t b a s k e t .

1 A M G O I N G T O D I N N E R AT H I S H O M E . N o i d e a

what to expect. Told him I had to stop here to drop mybag. He's waiting out front. (I keep looking out the window to make sure he's still there.)

Syd

From: S Finch <msfinch@leipzigger.de >Date: August 15, 2012 2:30:09 AM CSTTo: Peter Meehan; Chris YingSubject: Menu from tonight

H i -

Much more later, but I've just had the most incrediblemeal of my life. A journey through history and philosophy. Recapped here before 1 forget anything. Yunpreferred that I didn't take pictures during our timetogether.

First: Not a restaurant at all. (There was a restaurant

downstairs, and Yun has some association with it—1think as owner/overlord type.) His place, my god—itwas kind of like a painter's studio, but for food. The

building was perfectly placed in the city, with an unobstructed view of the mountains. A view you couldn'tpossibly predict from street level. The room was messy-ish. There was a pottery wheel in an alcove around thecorner, and some wet-clay footprints here and there.Yun throws all his own plates and bowls and teacupsand the like. Exquisite.

Then there's this: on the huge slab dining table at thecenter of his studio he had a vase full of palm fronds—avase in EXACTLY the style of the one I bought in India.When I spotted it, it was like the air was sucked fromthe room, like my hearing shut down. All 1 could seewas that vase. He told me, "I put it out this morningbefore I came to find you. I thought you might like it."He told me all would be explained later, after we'd eaten.Who the hell is this guy?

Meal happened in two parts: "Family Recipes" and" P e r s o n a l I n v e n t i o n s . "

Part one, course one: he slid open a wall panel toreveal a marvelous fish tank, deep and tall. There weretwo monster crabs at the bottom of it, a couple lobsters, and a few varieties of fish I couldn't identify.Yun stuck his hand in and a prawn swam to the top,almost as if it wanted to be fetched out. (I'm callingit a "prawn" but it might have been a langoustine—itwas a GIANT shrimp with a purple tinge to the colorof its shell.) The prawn sat languidly in Yun's hand ashe closed the tank and laid it on the table a couple feetfrom me. It just sat, docile.

134 I Lucky Peach

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Meanwhile, Yun took a towel off a barrel in the cornerof the room and stuck a long pipette in. He came overand dispensed the the contents into a small dish infront of me. It looked like black vinegar. I asked after itsprovenance, mentioning Chinkiang. He told me, "This isa product my family created. It is from a method that isolder than your country. We call it all-vinegar."

Then, in one motion, he took the head and shell offof the shrimp, and left them on the table, wiggling. Hehanded me the still-a-little-alive shrimp—it was frigidand sweet and pristine—and I dipped it in the vinegar. The combination waselectrifying. The vinegar,at first, tasted like black

vinegar, with and an almoststinky fermented flavor.But as I sat, the flavors

changed: vanilla overtonesthat evoked sherry, thena bu rs t o f ca rame l i zed -

b u t - n o t - s w e e t fl a v o r t h a t

r e m i n d e d m e o f b a l s a m i c

vinegar. But not.Then i t came. He sa id

something to the effectof "Let's dispense withformalities." He produceda serving dish with a lid,wh ich he l i f t ed to revea l

what looked like spaghettiin tomato sauce. I reallycan't wait for/hope you geta chance to eat this food.

I got it out of him that there was a bit of pork and somekind of fermented fava bean underpinning to the sauce,but really it was just an ideal bowl of spaghetti in simplicity and richness, in its tomato-ness, in every aspect.

When he brought the third dish, he told me, "This isdry noodles cooked with a five-spice beef broth, chilies,and ginger." The noodles were still the tiniest bit crisp,still had some structure to them, the sauce was unctuousand rich and it sparkled with ginger and star anise. Thiswas a "family recipe," he told me, something passed downfor generations—take from that what you will, but when

I looked down at my chopsticks, I was looking at fideos. Irecognized them from my student days in Madrid.

Fourth course—four little packages of brown paper,elaborately folded—I blurted out "papillotes.""That'swhat the French call them, isn't it?" he said, in perfectEnglish. A very generous smile on his face. Inside thepackets: one with mushrooms-six tiny, beautiful varieties. Another, exquisite fillets of the smallest fish. Plus,the envelopes were freaking edible! Each incredibly aromatic, melted in my mouth.

Other highlights:- "Orange-roast duck

wi th sumac" - I t was a

perfectly cooked duck,with skin on the veryd a r k e s t s i d e o f t h e b r o w n

a n d fl e s h t h a t w a s t e n d e r

and succulent and perfumed with a citrusy flavor. The orange sauce waspale orange, translucent,and beyond compare.

- A chicken cooked,

then "juiced" through somesort of vice, served on rice.

- Pota toes cooked in

a claypot with fermentedbroadbeans and a verycreamy sauce that screamedbechamel but I guess mighthave been tofu?

Enough food to kill me.And this was just the first set of dishes. No idea howhe cooked it all by himself, plus I think I saw himdarting downstairs with platters, possibly for patronsat the "restaurant"? Speaking of which, in my fairlywell-informed opinion, that downstairs restaurant (orwhatever you want to call it) must be the finest in thew o r l d . B a r n o n e . Yo u r r e a d e r s c a n t h a n k m e l a t e r.

A lull. I thanked him for the meal, at that point, butit turned out I was terribly mistaken. He told me thosewere only some of the dishes that his family had created—"a part of his history," he told me, and he thought

I N M Y F A I R L Y W E L L -

I N F O R M E D O P I N I O N ,T H A T D O W N S T A I R S

R E S T A U R A N T ( O RW H A T E V E R Y O U W A N T

T O C A L L I T ) M U S T B ET H E F I N E S T I N T H E

W O R L D . B A R N O N E .

Y O U R R E A D E R S C A N

T H A N K M E L A T E R .

Lucky Peach [ 135

^ L = i i i i — i E i n = i F = n F = i r = n

that I should know them before he cooked his own foodf o r m e .

I expressed my shock, and my fear that I couldn't eatanother bite. He went to the kitchen and brought backa small black teapot and a cup. He told me it was a veryspecial tea that would restore my appetite. (Not marijuana, in case you're wondering.) I sipped. My body feltnot only hunger, but health. I felt rejuvenated, heightened. Like, floating.

I was ecstatic, truly. And ready to eat again.The second half of the meal was more like the food at

Massimo's, or (from whatI've read) Noma. The opening salvo was as good asany food I'd ever encountered. Each dish, I realize now, was either a playon (or—if his claims panout—the progenitor of) a"European" classic.

(Yun noted that hecreated all of these dishes,a n d m e n t i o n e d c h e f s h e ' d

taught them to.)Rice-paper packages

filled with ginger-and-sca l l i on sauce

M i n i a t u r e v e r s i o n o f

claypot potatoes with tofubearnaise (the whole thing,including the pot, is edible)

Rice-paper ravioli w/chicken oysters in coconutmilk, hearts of palm, andchicken broth with a gingers a f f r o n e m u l s i o n

A tiny, playful wrap(?), or taco, I guess, for lack of abetter word. The crisp exterior, he said, was derived/inspired by these really popular Chinese rice crackers.The filling was crazy—minced goose, with an otherworldly texture.

A rose made of jellied something, flavored like lycheesI lost track. There was pasta, meat, rice, some kind of

whole songbird, desserts. Pure, so perfect, so exquisite. Ifelt a blanket of fog passing over my eyes, but it wasn't

exhaustion. If anything, I was hyperaware. But I lost anyinterest in my paper and pen—I just wanted to fullyexperience his food.

Another thing: His kitchen transforms. It started as awell-furnished but traditional Chinese kitchen. But thenhe started pressing panels and tugging at handles. Everytime I looked, I swear it was like the Batmobile—thingswere just changing. Weathered built-ins reversed toreveal scientific equipment. It was in constant flux. Bythe t ime the meal was over i t was more or less back to

what i t had been when I 'd a r r i ved .

From: S Finch

< msfinch@leipzigger.de >Date: August 15, 20125 : 3 0 : 0 9 A M C S T

To: Peter Meehan;Chris YingSubject: More from tonight

Sorry, had to sleep a bit.I'm wondering about

t h e n a m e " M o v e m e n t

Jesus." It does seem likeYun can just be placestha t he wasn ' t t he second

b e f o r e .

A f t e r d i n n e r w e h a d o u r

c o n v e r s a t i o n .

Like I said, half the meal

tonight were dishes fromYYS's family. But "his family" doesn't really belong tohim. He belongs to them.

He was an adopted orphan. Not adopted as a child,exactly, more as a disciple or maybe a servant. He wasraised to serve a family that controls a triangle of mountains whose inner faces have not been visited by anyoneother than that family, its servants, and very few guestsfor millennia. He was an apprentice in the kitchen, whichwas considered a much lowlier appointment than thelibrary—some kind of "fortress" of the world's accumulated culinary knowledge, dating back an unbelievablea m o u n t o f t i m e .

T H E C H I N E S E

P U T T O M A T O E S

A N D P A S T A

T O G E T H E R —

T H E R E ' S N O

Q U E S T I O N .

136 I Lucky Peach

r F = i F = n r s c ^ r s E ^ n s [ =

He saw the cutlery of the Pharaohs. (One day one ofthe other boys taunted him that it was that hoy's privilege to look after treasures, and Yun's responsibility towash the dishes the animals ate from.) He saw a room of

Mayan artifacts that had arrived in China centuries beforeC o l u m b u s ' s a r r i v a l i n t h e N e w W o r l d .

(I figure the bellhop—who I also suspect was not justa bellhop—relayed my story to Yun, because he seemedprepared to answer every question I had before I asked it.)

The Chinese put tomatoes and pasta together—there'sno question. Moreover, the cheese traditions of Yunnanwere a spillover from Yun's family's work; they perfectedcheese-aging, he told me, and sold the method to Italianbankers in Emilia-Romagna sometime during the reignof Genghis Khan. They're like culinary Knights Templar.Yun's adoptive family are the keepers of a culinary herit

age completely forgotten by the Western world. Theyhold tightly to their secrets and leave no trace of theirinvolvement, no path that could be followed hack to theirstronghold outside of Dali.

I know what you're thinking. Why would he be telling me all of this? Why would he let a random journalistchasing after pottery shards in on millennia of secrets?If the fortress is so intensely secretive, why is he on theoutside of it, sharing?

That 's what I asked h im. And he sa id that the ar r iva l

of a Westerner looking for him in China signaled that"my time of exile must come to an end."

W h a t e x i l e ?

He was young—eleven or twelve. He was stupid, in theway kids can be. He was playing around at the carp pond.The family raised something he called "Kobe carp"—helaughed a little at this—monstrous beasts, overfed, bredto have particularly giant and supple jaws; one was killedeach winter for a fish-head feast for the family. Therewas a keeper of the pond, a sort of human cormorant,who caught the fish with his bare hands to great fanfare.At some point Yun and another boy made a wager aboutwhether or not they could catch one for themselves.

They knew the cormorant's schedule, and rushed tothe pond after breakfast one morning, before the manwould have a chance to return. Yun's friend went first,

and, astonishingly, hoisted one of the fish above his head.He shouted out triumphantly as the fish wriggled andgasped and then—Yun stopped talking for several sec

onds here—as Yun was clapping and cheering him on, thepondkeeper appeared behind the boy and slit his throat.

The man helped the fish back into the pond, strokingits cheeks and whispering to it. And then he called Yunover to him, beckoning with one finger.

"That is how I got this," Yun said, pointing to the scaracross his face.

He was sent to the lowest rung of employment—cleaning bathrooms and stables, that sort of thing—so he fled.He snuck out under cover of night, and spent the next twodecades on the lam, traveling the world, looking for a placeto train and learn, and for something he could call a family.

But, in his opinion, Europe is bereft of exciting culinary ideas, and America is worse. His life is dedicated tothe pursuit of cooking—he knows nothing else. Withoutsome sort of inspiration, he has no purpose. He told methat tomorrow he will return to the fortress, and askthem to let him join them again.

He's offered to let me go with him.He warns me that these people live outside society

and outside the law, and that there is a certain amountof danger to he considered. But the secrets of the worldare too great a temptation to pass by. I said I would go,and I meant it. He sent me home to sleep, and told mehe would pick me up before the sun comes up. It's a longtrip up the mountain, I gather.

I have no idea what I've gotten myself into here, hut Ithink we're on to something huge. I know we have a thousand questions, and I'm sure David will, too. I will do mybest to get as much as I can. Send through any queries.

syd

From: S Finch < msfinch@leipzigger.de >Date: August 15, 2012 5:42:29 AM CSTTo: Peter Meehan; Chris Ying(No Subject)

Shit, I almost forgot. Can you guys find a photographerwho could meet me here? If what Yun tells me is true,we've got to document it.

I think we did it, guys. Everything we know to beEuropean is Chinese. More later.

I wonder if they have wi-fi on magic mountain. ©

Lucky Peach \ 137

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