苏东坡:诗人和吃货
Su Dongpo, poet and cook: the story behind Dongpo pork
Name: ________________ Date: ________
Key words
| Word | Pinyin | Meaning |
|---|---|---|
| 红 | hóng | red |
| 诗人 | shīrén | poet |
| 诗 | shī | poem; poetry; verse |
| 书法 | shūfǎ | calligraphy |
| 出色 | chūsè | outstanding; remarkable |
| 看作 | kànzuò | to regard as; to look upon as |
| 难得 | nándé | rare; hard to come by; seldom |
| 好运 | hǎoyùn | good luck |
| 命 | mìng | life (as in 生命) |
| 据说 | jùshuō | it is said; reportedly |
| 如 | rú | such as; for example |
| 学者 | xuézhě | scholar; academic |
English (for the teacher)
In Hangzhou restaurants you’ll often see one dish: neat square chunks of pork belly, glossy red, melting in the mouth, rich but never greasy. It’s called Dongpo pork. But did you know? “Dongpo” isn’t a place name; it’s a person’s name. He is one of the most famous poets in Chinese history, and a famous foodie too.
His real name was Su Shi, but later generations got used to calling him Su Dongpo. He was born in 1037 in Meishan, Sichuan, and grew up studying alongside his younger brother Su Zhe. While still very young, the two brothers passed the highest imperial exam in the same year, and all at once they were famous in the capital. Su Dongpo excelled at everything, poetry, song lyrics, prose and calligraphy, and is seen as one of the rare all-rounders of Chinese culture.
But talent didn’t bring him good luck. He spoke bluntly and liked to mock the new policies of the day in his poems, and in 1079 someone seized on a few of them, claiming they showed discontent with the court. He was locked up in prison for more than a hundred days and nearly lost his life. When he came out he was demoted to Huangzhou in Hubei, to a minor post with no real power.
In Huangzhou, life was hard for Su Dongpo. To feed his family he cleared a piece of sloping land east of the town and farmed it, and so he took the name “Layman of the East Slope”, which is where “Su Dongpo” comes from. A little poem said to be his begins: “Huangzhou has fine pork, as cheap as dirt.” The poem goes on: the rich won’t eat such good pork, and the poor don’t know how to cook it. The method is simple: a little water, a low fire, slow stewing, and when the heat has done its work the flavour comes by itself. Scholars, though, have long doubted whether he really wrote that poem.
Later Su Dongpo went to Hangzhou as an official. He led the clearing of West Lake and used the mud dug out of it to build a long causeway, today’s Su Causeway. Legend has it that the people of Hangzhou, to thank him, sent him pork from all sides, and he had his family cook it his way and share it out among the workers on the lake. Everyone who ate it praised it, and so the dish came to be called Dongpo pork.
Su Dongpo’s life was full of ups and downs, and each place he was banished to lay further away. Nearly sixty, he was sent to Huizhou in Guangdong, and later on to Hainan Island, which at the time was almost the ends of the earth. But wherever he went, he ate well. In Huizhou he wrote a line people still quote today: “Three hundred lychees a day, and I’d gladly stay in the south for good.” It means: if I could eat three hundred lychees every day, I’d be happy to stay in Lingnan for the rest of my life.
So next time you eat Dongpo pork, think about this: behind the dish is a man whom fate knocked down again and again, yet who always found something to savour in life.