Qinghefang Ancient Street: A Feast for the Senses

We emerged from the narrow street where our little guest house sat nestled into a row of white washed buildings. It was quiet, and the essence of another era lingered between the walls and the cobbles. Then, as we rounded the corner and stood at the opening of Qinghefang Ancient Street we saw it: a throng of humans stretching as far as the eye could see. I am not going to lie- at first glance it was slightly horrific. A massive, snaking crowd undulating into the distance- seemingly infinite- like some hideous mythical serpent of lore. I let my eyes go soft, trying not to focus on what lay ahead, choosing to concentrate on the historical aspects of the street instead.

 

The transition was not difficult once I shifted my gaze away from the hordes, and up toward the sky- to the rooftops and second storeys of the bustling shops. There, embedded in the dark hues of carved wood, dangling lanterns, and windows with their delicate panes of old glass swinging out into the day, just like they had 100… 200 years before, time seemed frozen. It was as if the history of Qinghefang Street was a dense fog, hanging low, keeping modernization at bay just a few feet above our heads. I waited for a wizened face (or maybe a ghost) to emerge from one of the dimly lit interiors, head circled in thin blue smoke. My imagination ran wild…

We stepped into the fray and let ourselves get swept along with the crowd, passing one shop after another- tourists and souvenirs everywhere we looked. Usually, this was the type of neighbourhood that we avoided- instead choosing to seek out those hidden gems and little adventures that are often found when you veer off and into.

We wandered through a doorway hoping for a promise of food and found ourselves in a cafeteria of sorts. At least a dozen different vendors happily coexisting under white florescent light. I saw squid on sticks, whole deep fried crab… on sticks. There was a bowl filled with faintly smiling duck heads, glossy and brown with seasoning, noodles with mysterious sauces, rice packed tightly into lengths of bamboo, dumplings of all shapes stacked into steaming baskets. It looked like my kind of heaven. We started with an order of purse-shaped dumplings stuffed with brown rice. They were warm and nutty, and disappeared almost immediately. We tried large wedges of potato dusted with turmeric and chili powder, lightly fried packets filled with savoury greens, and bite sized cake-like rounds topped with quail eggs and miniature shrimp, still warm from the griddle.

The whole time, I had been eyeing one specific noodle stand, and finally we found ourselves standing in front pointing to a picture on the wall. The kindly lady running the booth guided us through the process of building the dish with a series of gestures, nods, and smiles. Beginning with a generous serving of noodles and steaming broth, she moved down the line of possible add ins. We opted for ground meat instead of the cubed tofu and congealed blood medley, then pretty much said yes to everything else: chili paste, peanuts, scallions and cilantro topped off with a few heaping spoonfuls of finely chopped mixed vegetables. The result was spicy, slurpy, and thoroughly addicting. We had only been given chopsticks which I considered to be borderline criminally negligent behaviour. The broth was divine, and it was insane to even consider leaving any of it behind. Ah, here, in this little food hall, sitting elbow to elbow at a table in the center of it all: food and people, everyone happy and eating… I wanted more.

We were back outside on Qinghefang Street, just as the day was turning to dusk.  Everything seemed changed. I am not sure if things had actually changed, or if it was only our perception- but it was different. There was a distinct rhythm all about us now: the sound of hammering- a pounding filled the air. Chaos had given way: the street had a beat. We began a leisurely stroll. Artisans were out en masse demonstrating their crafts. With every step, with every loop we made, we saw something new. 15 minutes for a miniature clay likeness while you wait, zoos of tiny animals formed from a single glass rod made soft under the white hot flame of a blowtorch. Liquid heat against the night. We watched intently as a man etched an intricate landscape into the surface of a plate with a miniature hammer and chisel. Nearby, a woman squatted on the street, shucking oysters to harvest the pearls within- only to grind them up into a fine powder for uses unknown. Handfuls of green tea whispered as they roasted slowly in large metal bowls, fingers swirling and sifting the delicate leaves, coaxing them toward perfection. Silversmiths sat at small benches hammering and twisting choice pieces of metal into jewelry. Young men pounded sesame seeds with wooden mallets. Thump… thump… thump, the alternating blows resulted in thin sheets of still warm confection that got cut into small squares, just the right size for melting away on the tongue. We fell into step with the rhythms that surrounded us, marching along to the beat like entranced children floating from one action to the next.

 

There was one thing that kept breaking the spell: stinky tofu. The smell plagued us as we made our rounds. It was like a discordant note in the middle of an enchanting melody. Imagine happily walking along without a care in the world, then colliding nose first into a brick wall of the most overwhelming, pungent stench. These pockets of death scent were all over the city, each time catching us by surprise, like a swift punch to the stomach. Stinky tofu! Chant the words like you are singing a heavy metal song. Stinky tofu! Use your best gravelly demon voice accompanied by loud distorted guitars and some bad cymbal crashing. That is what it smells like.

Hammering, pounding, stinky tofu. Hammering, pounding, stinky tofu. It was the mantra that now filled our heads as we plodded along delighting in the cacophony and borderline sensory overload. We had almost reached the food court again, and were toying with the idea of popping in for another snack, when a different food alley appeared. Somehow, it had gone unnoticed for the first loop or two. We stood at the entrance and took in the scene. It was narrow, dark, and wilder than the florescent-lit cafeteria we had visited earlier. Two rows of tiny food stands flanked an alley of postage stamp sized tables. They were crammed with food, eaters, and the remnants of recent feasts that spilled off and onto the ground. People were shoulder to shoulder, and there was a steady stream of stick wielding hungry. Beware the jiggly tentacles of squid protruding in the mix! Make way for those brave enough to manoeuvre through the crowd expertly balancing 4 sticks to a hand. It was a miracle that nobody was impaled. Of course we decided to throw ourselves into the mix. It was too exciting to pass up.

 

Immediately something caught our attention: it was a shelf  piled high with small pods. They looked like artifacts that had been recently excavated from some long forgotten tomb, and I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see faded hieroglyphs tattooed onto their surfaces. Rough, ovoid, muddy. They didn’t just look foreign- they looked alien. We had to have one. There was a sign in English that read ‘beggar’s chicken’, a nice hint to what we would be getting into. I found out later that this was one of the food specialties of the Hangzhou region, and that the pods were baked on coals in large clay urns. The woman running the booth took a pair of scissors and cut a slit down the side of one of the cocoons before putting our prize into a bag to be carried away. We zig zagged back and forth through the alley waiting for a seat to open up so that we could dig into the dish. It wasn’t too long before we got lucky- wedging ourselves into a tight spot across from a smiling young couple. We wasted no time in tearing the paper bag into a sort of makeshift placemat. Then, slipping our fingers into the plastic gloves that were included with the meal, we gently pried open our entombed dinner. Peeling back a layer of baked clay, to reveal a leaf, peeling back the leaf to reveal a whole chicken- head and feet still attached. The meat glistened brown and fell off the bone with little help from our plastic wrapped hands. The oily juices were infused with a flavour reminiscent of tea. It was hedonistic: huddled over our food in a dark, crowded, dirty alley. Beer hawkers calling out though the jostling crowd as we tore at the meat with both hands at once, picking bones clean and smacking lips- careful not to let a single drop of the rich juices escape.
I might have cackled out loud.
Victory!

From the entrance to Qinghefang Ancient Street (click here for a map) it is about a 30 minute walk to the main gate of the West Lake… A lovely full day stroll that I highly recommend.

Planning a visit to Hangzhou?  Click here for more information

 

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