0:12
STAT+: AI scientist company Edison Scientific tapped by team behind Metsera to create new biotechs
FutureHouse, a startup that builds AI agents to help scientists reason through experiments, spun off a new company called Edison Scientific in late 2025. The spin‑off was prompted by repeated outreach from major pharmaceutical firms that wanted to license the technology rather than build their own tools from scratch.
Edison Scientific launched with $70 million in venture capital, and it already has a $30 million offer on the table from a top‑10 drugmaker that wants to use its AI agents for drug discovery. The same firm’s AI head told the founders the platform feels like “the Ferrari of agents,” making a custom solution unnecessary.
The founders—Sam Rodriques, formerly of the Francis Crick Institute, and Andrew White, a former chemical‑engineering professor—see the venture as a way to scale scientific discovery by giving every researcher an autonomous AI partner, now packaged as a commercial product for pharma.
1:23
#398 ‒ AMA #86: GLP-1 RAs and muscle loss: new data, better questions, and how to preserve muscle during weight loss
“When patients are counseled thoroughly on how to consume protein [in the right amount] and how to properly engage in resistance training, we're seeing very little lean mass lost.” —Peter Attia
The post #398 ‒ AMA #86: GLP-1 RAs and muscle loss: new data, better questions, and how to preserve muscle during weight loss appeared first on Peter Attia MD.
1:58
A Taste of Ecuador
When the invitation for a trip to Ecuador arrived a few months ago, I was intrigued. Having recently returned from a trip to Lima, Peru, I’d already fallen hard for the gastronomy of one Latin American country. Could Ecuador be the next?
I immediately began searching for information about this country, or more specifically the capital city of Quito, home of the restaurant behind the invitation: Nuema.
A quick Google search turned up this overview:
“Quito, the capital of Ecuador, is the world’s second highest capital city (after La Paz, Bolivia), sitting at 2,850 meters (9,350 feet) in the Andes. Famous for its UNESCO listed Historic Old Town, stunning volcanic backdrop, and proximity to the equator, it serves as a vibrant cultural hub and the perfect gateway to the Galápagos.”
As for ingredients, corn, roots, herbs, seafood, fruit and plantains dominated most lists, which, though true, barely scratch the surface of what this region has to offer. But what really convinced me to go was Nuema. The co-chefs, real life couple Alejandro Chamorro and Pía Salazar, have in the dozen years since their restaurant opened in 2014 made Ecuador a gastronomic destination. More on the restaurant in my next post.
I was fortunate enough to visit the market with Chamorro to see firsthand the ingredients Ecuadorian chefs have access to.
Fruits known as “exotic” around here are mainstays of Quito’s kitchens, though it’s not the mangoes, passion fruit and bananas you’ll see on menus so much as taxo (banana passion fruit), guanábana (soursop), babaco (from the papaya family) and the especially odd pacay (ice cream bean), a long, pod like fruit filled with a fluffy, cotton-like white pulp with a taste similar to vanilla ice cream.
And let’s not forget the theobromas, the most popular being cocoa and macambo. Cocoa you know (and if not, see the real deal above), but macambo is surely unknown to most and can easily identified by its hard, white patterned shell. The yellow pulp inside the seeds is sweet, with notes of mango, banana and soursop. Unlike cacao beans, toasted macambo seeds can be eaten as a crunchy, nut-like snack with a flavour similar to pecans.
At the market we found several stands selling dried herbs, from chamomile to cinnamon leaves and flowers, plus mounds of tubers ranging from stem tubers (potatoes, melloco and oca) to root tubers like yuca and camote (sweet potato).
Ecuador is the world’s leading exporter of farmed shrimp, having recently surpassed crude oil as the country’s top export commodity. Small scale, domestic artisanal fisheries along the coast catch wild shrimp for local consumption, but wild caught shrimp isn’t exported in any significant volume. The industry’s massive scale is built entirely on advanced aquaculture of Pacific whiteleg shrimp, reaching around $8 billion USD in exports. That’s a lot of shrimp.
Funnily enough, I didn’t eat shrimp all that often in Quito, but when I did, the crustaceans were large, meaty and barely cooked. My mother was a great shrimp lover, and I thought of her often eating dishes like the one served at Pez Bela restaurant in Quito.
Ceviche also featured at every restaurant I visited: Nuema, Pez Bela and the wonderful Clara.
Though hugely popular in restaurants the world over, ceviche dates back over 2,000 years to pre-Columbian times, when natives used acidic local fruit to cure raw fish before the Spanish introduced citrus and red onion in the 16th century. Both Peru and Ecuador claim to be its birthplace, and I happily ate my fill in both Lima and Quito. My favourites feature a leche de tigre sauce made with lime juice, cilantro, chili peppers and fish sauce, with onion, garlic or ginger (or all three) added to round out the flavour.
Because the area around Quito is so mountainous, I’m told the local beef tends to be tough, since the cattle climb hills their whole lives, so meat is a minor player on Quito menus, though we did enjoy some Andean lamb and duck.
Fish and seafood are the real main event in Ecuador, especially local albacore tuna, rainbow trout, mahi mahi, sea bass, red snapper and grouper. I’d forgotten how meaty and delicious grouper is, since we see so little of it here in Quebec.
Oysters and scallops are popular in Canada too, and we ate plenty, but not paiche, a meaty white fish native to the Amazon basin that I first tasted in Lima. One of the world’s largest scaled freshwater fish, it can grow up to 10 feet long and weigh over 400 pounds.
Paiche is often compared to halibut, sea bass or cod, though I find it more delicate in texture. A a big fish, yes, and a gorgeous fish too.
Now let’s not forget about the chocolate…
Ecuador is also a global cocoa superpower, supplying over 60% of the world's premium "Fine Aroma" cocoa. The Ecuadorian Amazon is the oldest known site of human cacao use and has long been celebrated as the cradle of cocoa cultivation. Recently, Ecuador has been riding an unprecedented economic boom thanks to its cocoa crops.
7:37
Hot Dry Noodles (Re Gan Mian)
Hi! While I’m still (slowly) working on the rest of the travel content, I’m back with another recipe from my regional Chinese noodle series from last year. I’ve written about five regional noodle dishes (more can be found in my recipe index), including Beijing’s fried sauce noodles, Yunnan’s small pot rice noodles, and Cantonese wonton noodles.
My newfound obsession with sesame paste began after I researched it intensively, and was recently sparked by a bowl of sesame noodles I had in Shanghai. I feel compelled to work on one of China’s most famous sesame noodle dishes: re gan mian (热干面), or “hot dry noodles,” the beloved breakfast staple of Wuhan and the Hubei province. As its name suggests, it’s a bowl of springy, dry-tossed alkaline noodles, topped with crunchy pickles, fresh scallions, and a generous swirl of silky sesame paste.
The port city on the Yangtze River is famous for its breakfast culture, known locally as guo zao (过早), which translates to “spend the morning”, a vivid phrase that captures the lively ritual of grabbing a quick bite from a street stall before disappearing into the crowd. The lineup includes everything from mian wo 面窝 (fried donut-shaped pastry) and dou pi 豆皮 (savory mung bean and soy bean crepes) to mi baba 米粑粑 (sticky rice cakes). Many locals pair a bowl of hot dry noodles with hot soy milk or dan jiu 蛋酒, an egg drop sweet soup with fermented rice, made by pouring boiling water over a freshly cracked egg.
I’d even argue that re gan mian is one of the easiest Chinese noodle dishes to make at home. It’s naturally meatless (and fully vegan if you skip the beef stock), and doesn’t call for anything fancy. Hearty and satisfying, it mirrors my impression of Wuhan itself: generous, bustling, and full of warmth.
I was only in Wuhan once more than two decades ago, when the Three Gorges Dam hadn’t yet been built, and my family took a cruise from Chongqing to Wuhan along the Yangtze River and visited scenic river towns on the route that sadly no longer existed. So my recollection of eating re gan mian there was faint at best. Luckily, I have two friends in Berlin who are from Wuhan and Hubei province, and helped me test this recipe (big thanks to Buyan, who came by for a taste test, and Junshun, who is a talented food creative behind famous for my dinner parties, for many tips!).
Serves: 1
80g dry (or 120g fresh) alkaline noodles
1 tbsp spicy preserved daikon radish (luobogan) or zhacai
1 tbsp preserved long beans (suandoujiao)
2 tsp Chinese sesame paste
2 tsp sesame oil
1 clove garlic, crushed
1 tsp water
1 tsp light soy sauce
½ tsp Chinese black vinegar (preferably Chinkiang)
1 tsp scallion green, finely sliced
⅛ tsp chicken bouillon powder
⅛ tsp MSG
½ tsp chili oil (optional)
lushui braising liquid (optional, see note)
Prepare sesame sauce: In a small bowl, combine sesame paste with an equal amount of oil from the jar (or extra sesame oil). Whisk until smooth and thin, like runny yogurt. Stir in soy sauce, vinegar, and chili oil.
Prep toppings: Chop preserved daikon radish and long beans into small pieces. Combine crushed garlic with 1 tsp water. Slice scallions into fine rings.
Cook noodles (first time): Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Cook noodles until about 70% done (1-2 minutes before the suggested cooking time). Drain, reserving cooking water. Toss noodles with ½ tsp sesame oil and spread them out on a big plate. Toss with chopsticks to cool and dry (use a fan for quicker cooling).
Cook noodles (second time): Briefly blanch noodles in boiling water (about 20 seconds). Drain and transfer to a bowl.
Add chicken powder, MSG, soy sauce, garlic water, and vinegar to the noodles. Drizzle with sesame sauce. Top with scallions, preserved radish, long beans, crushed peanuts, and optional lushui or chili oil. Mix and eat while hot.
According to my friend Junshun from Wuhan, adding lushui (卤水), a fragrant braising liquid with soy sauce and spices, is a relatively recent evolution. Around the early 2000s, breakfast shops began expanding their menus to include braised tofu, beef, and other items, and some started drizzling lushui over the noodles to enhance the flavor. However, purists often divide the dish into “wet”(湿派) and “dry” styles (干派) , with some firmly preferring their noodles without any added broth. Pickled long beans are also a more recent addition. If you have leftover braising liquid from making beef or ribs, a spoonful or two is perfect. Otherwise, you can make a simple version in under 20 minutes.
Simple Braising Liquid:
Heat 1 tsp oil in a small pot. Add 1 chopped scallion and 3 slices of ginger. Toss in 1 star anise, 1 small piece of Chinese cinnmaon stick, ½ tsp Sichuan peppercorns, ½ tsp fennel seeds, 1 bay leaf, and 1 dried chili. Fry briefly until aromatic. Pour in 1 cup water and ½ cup store-bought beef or vegetable stock, then stir in 1 tbsp soy sauce, 1 tsp dark soy sauce, and 1 tsp sugar. Bring to a boil, then simmer 15–20 minutes. Strain before using.
13:18
Shaoxing, a City That Ferments
This is the third part of my travels through China (read Shanghai and Hangzhou), and perhaps the most fragrant.
Just 20 minutes by high-speed train from Hangzhou East, Shaoxing is best known in China as the hometown of literary giant Lu Xun and the birthplace of Shaoxing wine. Locals speak of its tradition of “three great vats” (三大缸): wine, soy sauce, and dye. Internationally, Shaoxing is one of the few places whose name lives on in the Chinese pantry, alongside Sichuan pepper and Chinkiang vinegar.
The region has been producing huangjiu (黄酒), yellow rice wine, for thousands of years. Its mild, humid climate and proximity to high-quality glutinous rice and the waters of Jianhu Lake make it an ideal brewing ground.
But Shaoxing is more than just yellow wine. Even a single day spent under the sweltering summer heat gave me some amazing culinary revelations. Most of them are rooted in fermentation, an ancient technique that remains very much alive.
We began on the northern outskirts, in Anchang (安昌古镇), an ancient water town where arched stone bridges span quiet canals. In the off-season, it was pleasantly tranquil. Anchang is famed for its soy-sauce-cured meats (酱货) and is home to a small soy sauce brewery. Along the canals, strings of sausages, fish, and poultry hang to dry. Stalls sell preserved vegetables in various hues, from dried preserved mustard, bamboo shoots, to daikon radish.
Just past the entrance, we found a modest courtyard marked by four hand-painted characters: Ren Chang Jiang Yuan (仁昌酱园). The Renchang Brewery has been crafting soy-based condiments here since 1892 using traditional fermentation techniques.
Inside, rows of jars, some of which are from the Qing Dynasty, dot the 3,000-square-meter yard. Most of them hold soy sauce, others are filled with sweet flour sauce (甜面酱), and soybean paste (黄豆酱).
Their specialty is a double-fermented soy sauce known as “mother-and-son soy sauce” (母子酱油), which also serves as the foundation for the town’s cured meats. The process begins with cooked soybeans and wheat flour, left to develop mold (qu). This mixture is transferred to clay jars with salted water and left to ferment and sun-dry for six months—the resulting liquid is the “mother.” For the second fermentation, steamed wheat flour cakes (also inoculated with qu)1 are added—these are the “sons”. The two are fermented and sun-dried together for another six months, producing a soy sauce that is richer, deeper, slightly sweeter, and more mellow than the other supermarket varieties.
In the gift shop, I sampled two soy sauces and three types of furu (fermented tofu curd)—and was immediately hooked by the one infused with xiang zao (香糟), a liquid seasoning made from the lees of Shaoxing yellow wine (I will get to this amazing liquid soon!). This particular furu might be hard to find outside the region, though I’ve seen a Shaoxing brand called Xianheng (咸亨) that’s exported to Europe.
At the exit, we found a self-service fridge of soy sauce–flavored ice cream and a stall selling pastries filled with soy sauce and sweet flour paste. I skipped the ice cream, regrettably, but the pastries were superb: flaky, crisp, and perfectly balanced between sweet and savory. Naturally, a bottle of mother-and-son soy sauce and a jar of xiang zao furu came home with me to Berlin.
A short walk led me to Xiao Dian Wang (孝店王), a family-run business known for its jiuniang (sweet fermented rice with grains) and mantou (steamed buns).
Inside the spacious courtyard, dozens of giant bamboo steaming baskets stood like installation art. However, it’s for practical reasons – I later read that drying the baskets thoroughly improves the buns’ texture, as the dry bamboo absorbs excess steam. On one side, a window sold fresh and vacuum-sealed goods; on the other, a team of women wrapped and cooked zongzi from scratch. The lively and indecipherable local dialect and the steam from the high-pressure cooker cooking zongzi rang through the air.
Mantou is a breakfast staple across China, but here, it comes with a twist: the dough is made using sweet fermented rice wine as the starter2. Instead of water and yeast, the lightly alcoholic brew is kneaded into the flour, along with some salt and sugar, giving the buns a naturally airy rise and subtle sweetness.
It was exceptional, probably one of the most memorable mantous I’ve had. The bun itself was feather-light, fluffy, tender, and slightly sweet, like biting into a warm cloud. The filling melted on the tongue: slow-braised pork belly infused with the deep, earthy aroma of preserved mustard and bamboo shoots (sungancai, 笋干菜).
I went back for a zongzi—sticky rice wrapped in bamboo leaves and filled with the same pork filling. Then, one final trip to the counter for a bag of meigancai to take home, hoping to preserve just a little of that flavor magic.
In Shaoxing, Jiuniang is especially popular.
18:52
Sichuan Stuffed Pancakes with Strawberries & Cream
Cravings have a way of sneaking up on you. One weekend, while waiting in line at the red, strawberry-shaped hut—Karl’s Erdbeerhof, our local berry producer here in Berlin—I found myself daydreaming about pairing those sweet, juicy strawberries with Sichuan stuffed pancakes.
By Sichuan stuffed pancakes, I mean Dan Hong Gao (蛋烘糕), which translates to “egg-baked cake,” a palm-sized pancake cooked in a small copper pan, then folded into a half-moon and stuffed with sweet or savory fillings. My friend Ruby told me it’s similar to the Malaysian and Singaporean dessert Apam Balik.
The batter is traditionally made with dark brown sugar, flour, egg, water, and a natural starter. Classic fillings include lard, sesame paste, crushed nuts, candied fruits, stir-fried ground pork with pickled mustard greens (yacai), shredded potatoes, or my personal favorite: whipped cream and pork floss. This street snack is said to have originated in Chengdu, either at the end of the Qing dynasty near today’s Shishi High School (石室中学), or around the 1950s in the Haxiba (华西坝) neighborhood.
You won’t find these everywhere, but they occasionally pop up at food trucks run by aunties and uncles near schools or in neighborhoods like Yulin or around Wenshu Monastery. Whenever I catch a whiff of that eggy, caramelized scent, I make sure to grab one and eat it while it’s still hot.
(Dan Hong Gao truck I came across in Leshan, Sichuan, in 2023)
I’ve always wanted to make dan hong gao at home. I even bought a special small copper pan from China, which has been collecting dust in my tiny Berlin Altbau kitchen for four years.
Now that I’ve decided it’s time and discovered that the cookware shop on Taobao still exists, they kindly sent me a recipe along with two instructional videos. Instead of the traditional dough starter, modern recipes use active dry yeast. I tweaked the recipe slightly and tested it several times (it also works in a regular non-stick frying pan!), with boxes of strawberries in the process. No complaints.
Dan Hong Gao isn’t typically eaten for breakfast or served with strawberries, but adding seasonal fruit is a fun twist (of course, other berries and even peaches!). Even better, you can make a variety of fillings and stuff them however you like.
21:31
Zaolu: The Ancient Chinese Secret to the Cold Summer Snack Platter
If your mind jumps to charcuterie boards, crudités, cheese, and dips when you see “snack platter,” I have to break it to you: Chinese snacking culture plays by different rules. Instead of a Pinterest-worthy grazing table, we nibble on spice-braised, cold marinated meats (often poultry parts), boiled peanuts, and crack sunflower seeds one by one.
My first taste of homemade zaolu came during a movie night last summer. Our host, Jasmine, a native of Nanjing who had lived in Shanghai before moving to Germany, served a bowl of edamame and chicken feet steeped in a chilled, spiced brine. We snacked on the refreshing, flavorful, and keep-your-hands-and-mouth-busy treats while watching "Perfect Days" by Wim Wenders (great film, too).
Early this summer, while traveling through Shanghai and Shaoxing, I fell for this wine lees brine all over again. I tried beautifully marinated cold dishes in a Ningbo restaurant and brought back a fermented tofu infused with spiced zao. I couldn’t get enough of the flavor or the story behind it.
Back in Berlin, just as the first heatwave hit in late June, I started thinking about re-making this dish at home. The method is wonderfully simple: cook your ingredients, cool them down, and let them soak in zaolu brine for a few hours. That’s it.
Zāolǔ (糟卤) is a brine made from the lees left over from rice wine production, known as zao (糟) or zao ni (糟泥). These fermented solids are mixed with rice wine, spices, and aromatics, seasoned with salt and sugar, and then strained into a thin, amber-colored liquid packed with umami, used to cold-brine cooked or raw ingredients. In some regions, the lees go through a second fermentation. While many restaurants and home cooks still make it from lees (like in the Chinese Cooking Demystified video), bottled versions are widely available.
Zaolu holds a special place in Jiangnan cuisine. This cold-brine cooking technique, also known simply as zao (糟), is often compared to zui (醉, “drunken”) style dishes, which use Shaoxing wine or grain liquor, like the famous drunken chicken or drunken crab. While drunken dishes are more widely recognized, zao preparations appear earlier historically1 and are equally refined, making them particularly well-suited for the hot, humid summers of the region.
The lees used in zaolu are typically aged for years, allowing them to develop deep, mellow flavor and incredible fragrance over time. Zao dishes are savory and aromatic, offering a subtle complexity that’s never overpowering. Some describe zaolu flavors as “richer than wine, subtler than sauce,” embodying a quiet elegance that gently lingers on the palate. 2
Known as wù jǐn qí yòng (物尽其用), or “making full use of everything,” the practice runs throughout Chinese culinary philosophy. Zao has been used to preserve and flavor for centuries, first documented in the 6th-century Qimin Yaoshu 3(《齐民要术》, Essential Skills for Common People). By the Song dynasty, shops in Lin’an (modern-day Hangzhou) were selling a variety of zaolu goods, including crab, lamb trotter, and goose. It even made its way into the imperial kitchens of the Qing Dynasty, in a dish called zao si yang (糟四样, “four preserved items”) made from duck egg, bamboo shoots, celtuce, and radish.4
Even the word zao, which can also mean “bad” or “waste,” is given new life to describe a magical food transformation.
You can marinate just about anything in zaolu: meat, seafood, vegetables, even tofu products. Edamame, chicken feet, tongues, and trotters are among the most popular. Think of it as a chilled version of lu cai (卤菜), the warm, spice-braised dishes, but lighter, more refreshing, and perfect for a summer potluck. At a recent barbecue, a bowl of zaolu edamame vanished in seconds.
Serves: 4 for snacking
1 bottle zaolu liquid (500ml)
500ml water (use less for a stronger flavor or shorter brining time)
2 tbsp sugar
Spices: 1 bay leaf, ½ tsp whole Sichuan peppercorns, 1 star anise (optional)
½ lemon, thinly sliced
(approximately 1.2 kg, 2.5 lb in total)
450g (1 lb) frozen chicken feet
200g (1/2 lb) chicken wing flats
100g (3.5 oz) lotus root, sliced
200g (7 oz) edamame
150g (5 oz) black tiger shrimp (about 6 large)
50g (1.75 oz) dried tofu skin (fuzhu), soaked
6 quail eggs
Prep the chicken: Defrost, clean thoroughly, and trim the nails. Place the chicken feet and wing flats in a pot of cold water and bring to a boil. Skim off any foam that rises to the surface, then add ginger, scallions, bay leaf, and Shaoxing wine. Reduce to a simmer and cook for 20-25 minutes. Transfer the chicken feet to an ice bath to cool. Reserve the chicken broth for another use.
Cook the vegetables and tofu skin: In a separate pot of boiling water, blanch the lotus root for 3 minutes. Cook the edamame according to package instructions (usually 3–5 minutes). Simmer the rehydrated tofu skin for 7–10 minutes.
27:05
Grilled Cumin Lamb Skewers (Yang Rou Chuan)
A little announcement before we start grilling…
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On a warm summer afternoon in Berlin, if there’s a picnic, a grill, and a gathering of Chinese friends, odds are someone, usually the most seasoned cook in the group, will arrive with lamb skewers in tow. No matter which province you grew up in, or whether you take your zongzi sweet or your tofu pudding savory, cumin-laced lamb skewers are a shared taste memory for many Chinese millennials.
Known as yáng ròu chuàn (羊肉串), these lamb skewers originated with the Muslim Uyghur and Hui communities of northwestern China, influenced by culinary traditions from Central Asia and the Middle East. They are generously seasoned with cumin, a spice whose name is strikingly similar in Mandarin (zǐ rán, 孜然) and Persian (zireh). A linguistic echo of the Silk Road’s influence, which carried the spice into regions such as Xinjiang and Gansu.
Across China, grilled skewers, shaokao (烧烤) or kaochuan (烤串), take countless regional forms: the Korean-influenced grills of the Northeast, the chili-loaded skewers of Sichuan, the seafood-centric barbecues of Guangdong. This fascination even inspired a multi-season documentary series devoted to regional barbecue traditions. Yet over the past few decades, lamb skewers have remained one of the country’s most beloved and recognizable grill styles.
When I was growing up, my hometown, a small city in northeastern Sichuan, had a few Xinjiang vendors selling these skewers in the street where people went out for a night snack. They’d man a long charcoal grill, waving a large bamboo fan in one hand while turning the skewers swiftly with the other. When the meat was almost done, they’d pinch a handful of spices from a plastic bag and sprinkle them over the sizzling meat. The fat hit the coal, and the smoky aroma would quickly drift through the air, drawing a crowd of eager diners to gather nearby.
By the 1980s, these skewers had already made their way to Beijing and had become a popular street food, as documented in Cui Daiyuan’s food memoir of the capital (《京味儿食足》). One proof is that they even appeared on the 1986 Spring Festival Gala, the most mainstream TV show on New Year’s Eve (probably the Chinese equivalent of the Super Bowl halftime show?), in a comedy sketch titled “Yangrou Chuan.” My parents remember them arriving in Sichuan in the 1990s. Today, they’re woven into countless local grilling styles. Recently, in Ya’an, a city in western Sichuan, I’ve seen them skewered over hongliu (salt cedar) branches in the true Xinjiang fashion.
Recreating yang rou chuan is surprisingly doable. Thanks to the abundance of Turkish grocery stores, my Chinese diaspora friends quickly discovered that fresh, affordable lamb is readily available. Soon enough, they were grilling lamb skewers or roasting lamb chops in their ovens. One friend even went all out, importing a large hibachi-style electric grill to ensure year-round skewers on her balcony.
In Berlin, grilling rules have tightened over the years, and grilling is only permitted in designated areas at a select few parks. Most of us don’t have a backyard. Still, we take the effort to skewer ingredients, carry them and small grills, chasing that elusive essence the Chinese call yānhuǒ qì (烟火气). A phrase that literally means “smoke and fire air” and perfectly captures the warmth and vitality of bustling street life.
Makes: 10–12 skewers
Ingredients
450 g (1 lb) lamb shoulder or leg, with fat
1 medium-sized yellow or red onion
½ tsp ground white pepper
½ tsp salt
½ tsp baking powder
1 tbsp water
1–2 tsp red chili flakes or powder
2 tsp cumin seeds, lightly crushed (with a mortar or rolling pin)
1 tsp ground cumin
1 medium-sized egg
1 tbsp vegetable oil
To finish:
ground cumin
chili flakes (or seasoned chili flakes, see notes)
salt
Garnish with white sesame seeds (optional)
Equipment:
Metal skewers
Grill (preferably charcoal)
Grill brush
1. Prepare the lamb: Thinly slice the onion. Cut the lamb into approximately 1.5 cm - 2 cm (0.5 inch- 1 inch) cubes, separating fat from lean pieces. Place in a bowl with the onion, white pepper, salt, baking powder, water, chili flakes, cumin seeds, and ground cumin. Use your hands to mix well until the water is absorbed. Then add egg and oil, mix again. Refrigerate for at least 1 hour, or overnight for a deeper flavor.
2.
32:42
Sweet Fermented Oats (Tian Pei)
Hi! I turned on paid subscriptions last week and was so grateful to see this newsletter briefly hit #8 in Substack’s Food & Drink category (only for a day, but still a pinch-me moment!).
If you’ve been enjoying these posts, becoming a paid subscriber is the best way to support this work and keep it sustainable. Paid subscribers also get full access to the recipe archive and exclusive content. This newsletter, though, is free for everyone. —Xueci
Earlier this year in Berlin, I made it to the Instagram-hyped noodle shop in Wedding. After waiting in the chilly spring air, I sat down to steaming bowls of Lanzhou hand-pulled noodles and grilled lamb skewers (just published a recipe last week!). All of the rather hearty meal was balanced by a bowl of cold dessert soup made with fermented oats, called tian peizi.
It was my first taste: light, boozy, sweet, and mildly tart, with the plump chew of oats. My friend, remembering I had been experimenting with sweet fermented rice last year, asked, “Can you make this at home? Oats are easy to find in Germany.” I made a mental note and waited until August, when the weather was warm enough to get the fermentation going.
When I started researching, I realized that even in China, this dessert isn’t well known outside its region. I texted my mom, who attended college in Tianshui, Gansu Province, in the 1980s. She only faintly remembered it. Written records beyond mentions on the Red Note were also scarce. Among the old cookbooks I collected, I found a mention in The Dictionary of China’s Special Snacks (《中国名特小吃辞典》), published in 1990, which described a barley version from Qinghai.
Tian pei (甜胚子 or 甜醅) is a traditional dessert from northwestern China, especially Gansu, Qinghai, and Ningxia. It’s made by fermenting naked oats or highland barley with rice-based wine yeast (tian jiuqu). The technique is nearly identical to making jiuniang, sweet fermented rice.
What I love is how the same technique takes root in different regions, using local grains: glutinous rice in the south, oats and barley in the north. This mirrors the classic agricultural divide described as “北黍麦，南水稻” (millet, wheat, oat, and barley in the north, rice in the south).
Naked oats (youmai, 莜麦) may sound unfamiliar, but their flour is essential for northern staples like youmian wowo (莜面窝窝)—steamed noodle rolls I discovered through the northwestern restaurant chain Xibei Youmiancun in the 2010s. Highland barley (qingke, 青稞), widely grown on the Tibetan plateau, is used in Qinghai province and also to make liquor and the staple tsampa. Some regions use whole oat groats or barley instead.
Traditionally, families in northwestern Chinese villages make tian pei at home around the Dragon Boat Festival. It can be eaten plain, diluted with water, or topped with goji berries and nuts. More recently, to attract younger customers, drink shops, starting in Lanzhou, have been using it as a topping in bubble tea, coffee, and other drinks.
While working on this project, I came across Sowens, a Scottish oat ferment I read about in The Black Butter Newsletter. Made from oat husks mixed with water and left to ferment into a tangy liquid, it’s used to leaven bread. The resemblance to steamed buns made with sweet fermented rice struck me immediately.
At home, I’ve been enjoying tian pei over yogurt with fruit, or stirred into my matcha latte for natural sweetness and a playful twist.
250g whole oat groats or naked oats
1–2g Chinese wine yeast, according to package instructions
150g room-temperature water (filtered or cooled boiled water)
steamer, kitchen thermometer, sterilized containers
Soak the oats in water for 2–3 hours, or overnight.
Steam in a bamboo steamer lined with a clean cloth over boiling water for 40 minutes. (Alternatively, simmer in a pot with 2cm of water above the oats for 20–25 minutes, until cooked through)
Transfer cooked oats to sterilized containers. Let cool to 30–35ºC, then mix in the yeast until evenly coated. Press down, make a small hole in the center, cover, and let ferment in a warm, shady place for 24–72 hours (ideally above 20ºC). If the temperature is low, you can wrap it with a blanket and place it near the heating.
Check daily. When pressed, the oats should release clear liquid, taste sweet and faintly sour, and smell lightly boozy. Serve it with some cold filtered water, milk of your choice with some goji berries, or add to the yogurt bowl or matcha latte. Refrigerate, optionally with some water, and enjoy within a week.
Where to find Chinese wine yeast:
Look for 甜酒曲 (tian jiuqu), the rice-based yeast used for sweet fermented rice, sometimes translated as rice wine yeast, Chinese rice wine starter or rice leaven. It’s sold in large Chinese grocery stores or online, either in yeast balls (often labeled “Shanghai wine yeast ball”) or powdered packets (popular brands include Anqi Jiuqu, 安琪酒曲), which I used this year.
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Guizhou Mango Sticky Rice Bing Jiang
Hi! This is my second newsletter this week, as waking up to a chilly 13 °C morning in Berlin reminded me that summer is slipping away. My first thought was: I still have a frozen dessert recipe to share! I hope where you are, there’s still a bit of summer left to enjoy frozen treats, swim outdoors, and soak up the last warm days. Before the season finally comes to a close, here’s one more frozen specialty from Guizhou.
I visited Guiyang, the capital of Guizhou, in 2023 with my mom and had a blast trying foods I wasn’t familiar with, even growing up just a few hundred miles from there. Guizhou cuisine is full of bold, unexpected flavors: fermented thick rice noodles, sour tomato broth infused with litsea cubeba seeds (a spice called mujiangzi 木姜子), molten lava tofu, scorched chili dips, dishes bright with local herbs and stems of fish mint. It’s one of China’s most underrated food regions, though Guizhou-style restaurants are now quickly spreading nationwide.
One shop in Guiyang had a line out the door for bīng jiāng (冰浆), a frozen dessert made with sticky rice and fruit. Its texture falls somewhere between a slushy(smoothie) and a sorbet (closer to sorbet). Popular flavors include cucumber, watermelon, and mango, or you can swap white rice for purple sticky rice. It’s blended until thick and creamy, then topped with brown sugar syrup and toasted peanuts or dried fruit. Normally, I don’t like queuing, but we were instantly won over. It was refreshing and fruity. And the sticky rice gives it a smoother, silkier, more layered texture. With every bite, you can taste the chewy broken rice like a surprise.
Some say the dessert was invented in the 1980s by workers from a popsicle factory in Guiyang, but most shops trace it back to Anshun, another city in Guizhou. This year, this once hyper-local treat has gone national. When I visited Sichuan, Bingjiang was a popular item on delivery apps, often sold out by dinnertime. People even started upcycling leftover zongzi (sticky rice dumplings) into bing jiang.
I’ve been trying to recreate it at home. My main challenge has been texture: mine often turned out too watery. In the Guiyang shop, they had industrial freezers and a crusher to crush the ice, so blending it with fruits took only seconds. With home blenders, the longer blending time means more melting. Through a handful of more smoothie-like bing jiang (not bad, either!), here are a few tips I’ve learned:
Use a powerful blender
Pre-crush your ice (some blenders have a function, or you can smash cubes with a rolling pin and a freezer bag).
Don’t add extra liquid. Some recipes call for milk, but that makes it more of a mango milkshake. I found milk powder and sugar worked best.Add the rice in two stages: the first half helps create a smooth base, while the second half adds a bit of chewy texture.
If your blender isn’t strong enough, freeze the blended mixture in an ice cube tray and re-blend once solid.
Serves 1–2 (quite filling for one)
250g (8 oz.) ice, preferably crushed
75g (2.5 oz) cooked sticky rice
100g (3.5 oz) ripe mango (about half a medium mango)
1 tbsp milk powder
1 tbsp sugar
Toppings
Dark brown sugar syrup (or maple/agave as a substitute)
Roasted unsalted peanuts, chopped
Soak sticky rice for 1–2 hours until you can break the grains easily, then steam over a bamboo steamer until soft and plump (about 35–40 minutes). Let cool completely. (100g dried rice yields ~200g cooked rice.)
Peel and cut the mango into small chunks. Blend mango, ice, sugar, and milk powder until thick and smooth.
Add half the sticky rice and blend for 15–20 seconds, until smooth.
Add the remaining rice and blend briefly (5–10 seconds) so some grains remain. Serve immediately with brown sugar syrup and peanuts. If the mixture turns watery, freeze it in an ice cube tray, then blend again.
Variations
Try watermelon, melon, banana, or any other fruit. For fruits with higher water content, increase the amount of ice.
If you don’t have milk powder, use 1-2 tsp sweetened condensed milk instead of the milk powder and sugar.
In a small pan, add 40g dark brown sugar, 10g rock sugar, and 50g water. Heat on medium-low, stirring occasionally, until the sugar melts and the syrup turns sticky (about 10 minutes) and the liquid. Pour into a container with two lemon peels and 1 tsp lemon juice. Let cool completely. (Same syrup used for the Sichuan ice jelly dessert)
Read about the history of chili crisp and how it’s tied to Guizhou:
