西方人热衷的北京餐馆

Beijing is a city of gastronomic contradictions. The traditional everyday diet of local people is a simple affair: noodles, breads and dumplings, with pork and mutton, beancurd and vegetables.Typical Beijing dishes and snacks can be delicious, but they are less varied than those of the South, with its rich biodiversity. And yet Beijing has also long been a melting pot of Chinese, and more recently international, culinary influences, and a centre of Chinese haute cuisine. In the past, bureaucrats from all over the empire lived here: restaurants specialising in regional cuisines sprang up to feed them, and many mandarins kept their own private chefs.Beijing was also, of course, the home of Chinese imperial cuisine, and Fangshan restaurant claims to be the true custodian of palace cooking skills. Fangshan lies on the shores of the lake in Beihai Park; dragons curl across its ceilings and the dining rooms shimmer with gold and imperial yellow. It was founded in 1925 by five chefs who had served in the imperial kitchens, soon after the last emperor, Pu Yi, was evicted by from the Forbidden City. “For many years after the Cultural Revolution we were closed to the public,” Fangshan's manager, Wang Tao, told me as he sipped from a jar of green tea. “But we continued to cater for important state guests until we reopened in 1989. And although the original chefs are long gone, we have an unbroken chain of culinary teaching.” China's last dynasty, the Qing, were of nomadic descent: they were Manchus from the northeast, with a penchant for grand meat dishes, pastries and sweetmeats, but over time they adopted many of the culinary predilections of the Han, the native Chinese. Imperial cuisine became a hybrid of both cultures which is said to have found its most perfect expression in the “Man-Han banquet” – a legendary three-day extravaganza of feasting. Outside the spectacular setting of Beihai Park, other restaurants combine modern design with a magical evocation of old Beijing. Foremost among them is Tian Di Yi Jia, which occupies a grand old courtyard house in a lane just east of the Forbidden City. Arrive at dusk, having walked through the nearby hutongs, and you can forget the maelstrom of development that has swallowed up most of the old city. The menu here is a thrilling mix of tradition and innovation. Starters include voguish foie gras steeped in sake; bamboo shoots with dried mussels; and slithery-crisp jellyfish bathed in dark, rich Shanxi vinegar. Afterwards, you might try the divine smoked duck, served with a spicy bean relish and cornbread buns speckled with the dark green of wild vegetables.Banquet cookery is normally far removed from everyday food, but one imperial delicacy in particular made the leap from the Forbidden City into the mainstream: Peking Duck. It was popularised by Quanjude, a restaurant that opened in 1864 with the help of some former palace chefs. These days, the best place to eat Peking Duck is at the new branch of the Beijing Da Dong Roast Duck Restaurant, which stands amid the former imperial granaries. The restaurant also serves a fine rendition of that old Shandong speciality, sea cucumber braised with white leek, and fusion dishes that reflect head chef Da Dong's interest in cutting-edge European cuisine: cubes of cooked venison and Sichuanese pickled radish, for example, served in glasses of chilli oil with a sprig of rosemary. Some restaurants have made a point of reviving old-fashioned street snacks and home-style dishes,such as the family-run Hai Wan Ju (the name means “Great Bowl Restaurant”). Here, cheerful young waiters usher you to a wooden table in a clamorous dining room. “Our aim is to serve Beijing folk food,” says manager Guan Yue. “Little dishes and the kind of snacks they used to sell at temple fairs. Our cooking methods are very traditional – elderly customers say we've got the flavours right, and younger people come here to taste the food their grandparents used to make.”“In the past, poor people used to eat dou jiang at the New Year,” says Guan. “They made it from dried pig skin that they boiled up with whatever scraps of food they had in the house.” In a different way, Made in China in the Grand Hyatt in Beijing is helping to reinvigorate the city's culinary traditions, under the stewardship of executive chef Jack Aw Yong and his chefs du cuisine Nick Du and Kent Jin. The restaurant specialises in refined versions of old-fashioned Beijing dishes, augmented by some from other regions. Think, for example, of an utterly seductive starter of aubergines steeped in aged Shanxi vinegar, stir-fried goose breast with Chinese yam and wolfberries, and fast-fried lamb with white leek.For more intimate dining, Guo Yao Xiao Ju is a tiny hutong restaurant that specialises in Tan Jia Cai – the household cuisine of Tan Zongjun, a late Qing Dynasty official whose kitchen was renowned for its brilliant fusion of Cantonese and Beijing cookery. The place has a direct connection with the famous Tan Jia Cai restaurant in the Beijing Hotel – the owner's brother-in-law once cooked there, and now acts as his consultant. Guo Yao Xiao Ju's menu is rooted in Shandong cooking. Some of the dishes here aresublime, like a melt-in-the-mouth claypot stew of beef and sea cucumber. Another idiosyncratic restaurant is the Red Capital Club , a courtyard house decked out with Mao memorabilia. The food is not exceptional but it is a delightful place to spend an evening. Most real Beijingers, of course, are more likely to go out for a bowl of noodles or dumplings than a ten-course feast of Shandong delicacies. One of the most typical casual eats is the simple jiao zi – a crescent-shaped boiled dumpling that might be stuffed with minced pork and fennel; scrambled egg and Chinese chives. Freshly-made jiao zi can be found at many ordinary snack shops, such as the Shun Yi Fu, a small, clean and delightful establishment in an alley that runs off Wangfujing in central Beijing. Don't expect to pay more than a few dollars per head for a slap-up lunch of dumplings and side dishes.