Fermented Delicacies from Across China: Come and Taste This National Day
A Word from Foodthink
Recently, Foodthink’s “Eat Well” initiative invited readers to share their home fermentation methods and experiences. We’ve summarised three secret tips and identified one category that is particularly prone to failure! We also collected a list of fermented delicacies from our readers’ hometowns. Since fermentation is essentially a process of interaction between microorganisms and their specific surrounding environment, guided by human hand, it is perhaps the culinary craft that most vividly reveals a region’s unique terroir and culture.
So, wherever you find yourself, be sure to try the local fermented specialties!
Fermentation is more than just a culinary technique; it’s a way of life. For students studying abroad, Northeastern sauerkraut might be a taste of home; sharing a kombucha SCOBY is a continuation of friendship; the art of making pickles can be passed down through generations, and so can the brine itself.
In the text below, you’ll discover Guizhou’s *jiuqu* starter and sour soup, Northeastern pine nut maltose candy, Kunming’s salted eggplant, Shanxi’s *tounao*, Jiangxi’s *qigao* steamed cakes, Hunan’s chopped chillies… If you are lucky enough to taste these delicacies, please remember to share your experience in the comments! If there are other fermented foods you’d like to recommend, feel free to leave a message so we can all work together to refine this “Guide to Fermented Delicacies Across China”.
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Get to know a friend who knows their fermentation
Xiao Fang (Female, born in the 90s, Beijing)
When I was making pickles, there were nights when I could hear a “clink” every few minutes. I imagine the pickle jar was breathing; it was quite lovely—earnest yet a bit mischievous.
However, I’ve had “flowers” grow on the rim of my pickle jar, and there was a time when I was so busy with work that I neglected my kombucha, leading to an extended fermentation time and an overly sour taste. I don’t consider either of these to be failures. I just cleaned the brine at the rim, added a bit of salt, and it was as good as new. Overly sour kombucha can serve as a starter for a new batch. It can also be used as a substitute for vinegar in salad dressings or for pickling radishes.
I used to be a complete novice when it comes to fermentation, and I even had some stereotypes—for instance, thinking that homemade fermented foods were unhygienic, or worrying that there would be too many bacteria to eat safely. The Beijing Organic Farmers’ Market has organised many fermentation workshops, and I was lucky enough to cross paths with several farmer-friends and producers skilled in the craft. I bought a bottle of kombucha from shuyu, which gave me the starter I needed to begin my own experiments. I learned how to make Sichuan pickles from Wan Lin. Then there are things I’ve “learned” just by watching but haven’t put into practice yet—like *laozao* and rice wine from Qingcao Shanren, or miso from Xiucai Doufang.
My most memorable fermented treat was the pine nut maltose candy made fresh by Jin Peng, a friend from the Beijing Organic Farmers’ Market, using pine nuts from the Greater Khingan Mountains and maltose syrup from Qingcao Shanren. It was absolutely delicious. As the pine nuts were sautéed, the aroma began to drift through the air. Once the syrup had reached the perfect consistency, the pine nuts were poured in, intensifying the sweet fragrance and making my mouth water. Cut into blocks while still hot, the pine nuts were evenly distributed. With one bite, the mild, clear sweetness of the maltose hit first, followed immediately by the “snap” of the crisp pine nuts and their rich, nutty aroma. If I hadn’t been worried about the calories—and the fact that eating too much of it isn’t very graceful—I truly wouldn’t have been able to stop 😅.
When I put preserved vegetables brought from my husband’s hometown (Yunnan) into the pickle jars at our home in Beijing, they would always go bad—by which I mean they grew mould. I suspected the jars weren’t clean or weren’t sealing properly, but cleaning them and using a water seal didn’t solve the problem. Eventually, I accepted it: it turns out that preserved vegetables can also suffer from not being acclimated to the local environment.
However, online shares are often based on personal experience, and it’s easy to overlook certain environmental factors in the narrative: for instance, whether the local tap water is chlorinated; the local temperature and humidity, and whether there is a large diurnal temperature variation; where the ingredients come from; whether there are significant pesticide residues; or if the ingredients have undergone long transport and storage and are therefore less fresh, requiring more complex processing; or how different regional cultivars affect the final result… and so on.
Information in books is often more detailed. Reading page by page can be a bit tedious, but they are excellent as a reference during practice. After experimenting with various fermented foods, I find the common threads, connect the dots, and thereby gain a comprehensive understanding.
For those just starting to learn about fermentation, I believe the best route is still to learn in person from an experienced mentor. Fermentation is an instinctive activity; it requires engaging the senses—smelling, touching, exchanging microflora with the food, tasting, and feeling the changes as time passes. Unless one is using industrially purified cultures in an environment with strictly controlled temperature and humidity, I generally resist following a rigid recipe ratio. After all, different regions have their own climates and even different aesthetic preferences in taste. If we simply apply a formula to every fermentation process, what is the point of making fermented foods at home?
My hometown is in Sichuan, a place famous for all kinds of pickles and fermented bean paste. After leaving Neijiang, I tried making my own pickles. I don’t have a secret recipe; I mainly rely on remote guidance from my aunt, following exactly how she and my mother tell me to do it.
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Sharing, letting fermentation flow
After moving to Hangzhou, the culture and I began adapting to a new climate. From early spring to the height of summer, we endured late spring chills, the Plum Rain season, torrential storms, and a record-breaking streak of over 60 days of extreme heat. There were times when I felt unsettled—whether due to work or personal reasons—and I neglected my responsibilities in caring for it. But we adapted. Both humans and microbes have resilience; after weathering the damp cold, mould, and low pressure, a few jars of kombucha began producing consistently, bubbling slowly. Our new life has finally fermented to a stage where it can be shared with others.
Besides drinking it, I’ve been collecting the leftover pellicles. Some are thin, some thick; some soft, some hard; some dark, some light. They metabolise climate, time, and emotion into a physical texture. I then tried to deconstruct these microbial cellulose structures into fibres for textiles, using a different medium to record life and express a microscopic climate. After posting the kombucha-created fabrics on Xiaohongshu, the owner of an independent chocolate shop in Chengdu (chocolate is a fermented food too!) messaged me. She was touched by the zero-waste and reuse of the pellicles and offered to provide some of her own. I once spent my time giving away cultures; I never imagined that one day I would be collecting pellicles from all over. Fermentation always brings new surprises and possibilities.
There is also a little story about transporting this liquid: when I first took my friend’s mother culture onto the plane, security questioned me about the ‘unidentified liquid’ and insisted on inspecting the case. I made up an excuse, saying it was a beauty fermentation serum I’d made myself, similar to SK-II. I even demonstrated how to apply it to my hand and told them it was edible and harmless. Of course, the straight-laced security officer couldn’t make head or tail of my explanation and told me to throw it away. I insisted that I couldn’t, as it was my treasure, so we reached a deadlock at the security checkpoint. Eventually, he had to call his supervisor. In the end, the liquid wasn’t thrown away; the supervisor found a small dispensing bottle and let me take about 20ml home. I suspect the liquid was contaminated during this transfer, which is why my kombucha failed to ferment.
Because my mother loves them, we almost always have fermented foods at home; there’s something fermented with every meal. Eating them consistently makes your gut feel really comfortable. Plus, they add so much flavour to every meal—honestly.
As the friend began baking, he shared this starter with other bakers in Berlin, and I was fortunate enough to receive 100g of the liquid culture.
Over the past two years, I have been baking bread and continuously sharing the starter within my own circle of friends, who in turn have spread it further. It has reached the point where, while visiting different homes, I occasionally encounter the surprised face of a complete stranger who exclaims: “Wait, you’re one of the starter owners!!”
I feel as though I’ve unwittingly founded some vast organisation.
Several years ago, I tried making yoghurt and became fascinated by Finnish viili. Coincidentally, a friend was travelling in Finland and bought some viili from a supermarket to bring back to me as a gift. However, at airport customs, they discovered that dairy products were restricted and could not be taken across the border.
At the time, I was captivated by the idea of drying yoghurt onto a handkerchief for travel, then using that dried yoghurt as a seed culture to grow new yoghurt at the destination. Inspired by this, my friend had a flash of inspiration: they dabbed a bit of yoghurt onto a tissue and tucked it into a small jar. That’s how it cleared customs, allowing me to re-culture and grow the “smuggled” starter in Berlin using fresh milk.
Living in Germany, tempeh is highly popular among vegetarians as an alternative protein. However, my experience buying tempeh from supermarkets had left me with a very negative impression—they are usually freeze-dried and sealed in vacuum plastic bags. Once sliced and stir-fried, they struggle to absorb any flavour; they are, quite literally, as tasteless as cardboard.
Then, last year, while visiting Singapore for an exhibition, two fellow designers showed me their work: a tempeh necklace. The wearer mixes soaked beans with tempeh spores and hangs it around their neck, using body heat to provide the ideal temperature range for fermentation. Of course, the use of tempeh spores originates in Southeast Asia, and they perform best in the humid, tropical climate of Singapore.
After wearing the tempeh necklace for over a day, I tasted fresh tempeh (incubated by my own body heat) for the first time. Only then did I realise that the texture itself has the gentleness of mycelium, and the fungal colony breaks down the soybeans to produce a rich umami flavour. I could immediately imagine it absorbing flavours during cooking just like tofu. But eaten plain, it is incredibly mild and savoury, making it a perfect tea snack or a light accompaniment that doesn’t overpower the palate. In short, it is nothing like the tempeh sold in German supermarkets!!
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Constant Temperature, Sterilisation, and Contamination Control
It’s heartbreaking when kombucha develops the wrong kind of mycelium and can’t be saved. I also had a beautiful blueberry starter that failed to expand. But if a fermentation fails initially and can be rescued in time, it’s still a joy when it finally turns out well.
Fortunately, the mulberry and rock sugar batch was a success—sweet and sour, and when mixed with water, it’s no worse than a lemon drink. Since succeeding on my own, I’ve reduced how many industrially manufactured drinks I buy.
Fermented foods can extend the shelf life of ingredients and are very convenient; when I’m feeling lazy, a single fermented dish can be an entire meal—a godsend for the lazy. Something like kombucha is quite healthy since it doesn’t require too much sugar, making it guilt-free. I’ve actually quit milk tea, haha 🤣
I recently had two bottles of kombucha fail—the surface of the SCOBY grew mould. It was probably because I was too lazy to change the jar and sterilise it. I fished out the SCOBY, poured some out, and added fresh sweetened tea in the hope of saving it, but it didn’t work. I had to throw it all away and sterilise the jar again. Luckily, I still have a “starter culture” in another jar.
Since I only make enzymes and kombucha, I feel that many people can’t quite accept or understand it, so I don’t really know how to share it. The enzymes I make are for cleaning, and they work brilliantly. One year, I had a very strict landlord when it came to the deposit, so I used the enzymes to scrub away all the old grease stains. It worked wonders, and I even got a compliment from the landlord’s manager.
I actually really love fermented salty side dishes. There are so many I enjoy: pickled greens, sour beans, pickled shallots, pickled radish strips, and pickled chillies. The most unforgettable fermented delicacy I’ve had in Kunming has to be Qiezi Zha (fermented eggplant); with a side of Qiezi Zha, I could eat two extra bowls of rice 🍚
During my pregnancy last year, I had a massive craving for Kunming’s Qiezi Zha, so I decided to recreate it at home. I looked up recipes online and consulted a former colleague from Kunming who loves to cook. With great ambition, I attempted the whole process: picking eggplants from the garden 🍆, slicing them and drying them in the sun, mixing them with rice flour, steaming them, and then jarring them for fermentation. The first attempt failed; it just became steamed eggplant with rice flour. I still wanted that taste, and I thought about asking a friend in Kunming to buy some and mail it to me, but it was summer, and it would likely have spoiled by the time it reached Jiangxi. So I tried a second time, but failed again. My mother had plenty of eggplants in her garden, so I tried a third time. Although I still couldn’t perfectly replicate the taste of Kunming’s Qiezi Zha, the flavour improved and it was almost there. Back then, the baby in my belly just really wanted that specific taste—it’s a fond and funny memory from my pregnancy.
After various experiments, I’ve found that once you acknowledge the existence of microorganisms and understand which bacterial colonies dominate different stages of various fermented foods—treating them like pets and providing the right living conditions: anaerobic? oxygen-free? what temperature and humidity range? using fresh organic ingredients and chlorine-free water—and finally, stopping the activity of the colonies at the right moment, failure becomes very difficult.
In my view, a total failure is when fermented food is contaminated by stray bacteria to the point of decay or mould, which must be decisively discarded. But if it’s just a matter of missing the window to stop the fermentation, and the taste isn’t quite as expected, I usually decide based on personal preference whether it’s acceptable or can be turned into something else.
My secret recipe is, of course, rice bran apples. I’ll extract a note I wrote elsewhere previously:
My first two attempts both ended in failure. I didn’t know what the optimal flavour of rice bran in food should be; lacking that taste memory, my feel for the fermentation timing was vague. Every time I dug food out of the bran bed and popped it into my mouth, my first instinct was to spit it out immediately: a salty, strange taste (the scent of bran) had heavily permeated the food. Who could actually like this?
Untasty food leaves one with no motivation to care for it, and the poor rice bran bed naturally met its end, mouldering in a corner.”
Returning to Berlin, I tidied up the remaining rice bran bed starter from a Japanese supermarket and decided to give myself another chance.
As I live in Germany, which isn’t a major rice-producing region, you can’t find rice bran in supermarkets, though wheat and oat bran are plentiful. After seeing the Nordic Food Lab showcase on their website how they use oat bran mixed with beer to create a bran bed, my doubts about using wheat bran vanished. My experiences over the last few years have taught me not to obsess over replicating the ‘original’ taste of distant regions, but rather to learn the logic of pairing, source materials locally, and rewrite local flavours using new formulas. Thus, Sichuan pepper and pomelo were replaced by the more accessible black pepper and lemon.
This time, I allowed myself to be a bit lazy and kept the bran bed in the cold store. At the same time, I started cultivating *Sakadane* (sake starter); on days when I wasn’t making toast, the *Sakadane* discard became nourishment for the bran bed.
With these adjustments, the daily ritual of turning the bran bed—releasing the scents of lemon, pepper, and rice and wheat bran—became a healing moment in my day. It also led me to the accidental discovery that the best pairing for bran-pickling is actually apples!
The aroma of malt and rice bran gently envelops the apple, complemented by the refreshing zing of pepper, while the apple’s natural flavour remains intact. If fermented slightly longer (around a day and a half), you can feel the lactic acid bacteria at work, giving the apple’s texture a slight effervescence. I suddenly understood why people say ‘eat bran pickles in summer and miso in winter’!
This year, I visited a friend’s farm in Liangzhu, Hangzhou. Rice bran from rice grown using natural farming methods—without a single drop of pesticide—is naturally the best nourishment for a rice bran bed. We both became obsessed with rice bran pickles at the same time, sharing and exchanging tips every few days. While I was focused on my ‘one apple a day’ practice with a single bran bed, she was full of energy, expanding her microbial ‘staff’ to three, each with its own flavour and personality.
I can’t wait for us to meet again in late autumn or early winter to exchange tastes cultivated from different regions and different types of bran!
Making fermented foods has provided anchors for my life cycle: tending to yeast and bran beds on a daily basis, refreshing kombucha weekly, and the maturation of vinegar and miso on a monthly or even yearly scale… Between these rhythmic cycles, I’ve found a pace that suits me, allowing the microorganisms and the steps of my life to gradually fall into sync.
Moreover, in selecting ingredients and providing environments for microorganisms, I’ve become more aware that fermentation should follow the seasons and adapt to the local environment. This perspective has made me more attentive to the changes in seasonal produce, more sensitive to temperature shifts, and more respectful of the land.
Similarly, understanding how similar fermentation techniques develop different paths and aesthetic flavours across various regions and cultures is a unique joy of cross-cultural fermentation practice.
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Sourdough Bread is So Hard
We make a lot of Northeastern Chinese dishes at home. After moving abroad, I missed the big vats of Northeastern sauerkraut. At first, I couldn’t find any in Chinese supermarkets—only the soured mustard greens from the south. I once saw a video by Xiao Gao Jie and wanted to try making it myself, but I couldn’t find a large stone to weigh down the cabbage, so I just gave up. I used Eastern European sauerkraut instead; it’s roughly the same thing.
Although I haven’t stuck with fermentation myself, the emergence of fermented foods is definitely one of the primary reasons any culinary system takes shape. I believe that time is what gives food its flavour.
I’ve tried sourdough too, but my technique isn’t great, so let’s just say it’s edible 😉
Making sourdough is quite difficult; it’s either over-proofed or under-proofed. But it’s still edible, and if it’s really over-proofed, it’s great as a pancake.
When you first start fermenting, success is always exciting, but after doing it often, it just becomes part of the daily routine.
If you want to get into fermentation, there are so many resources available now: online articles, videos, and I’ve read a book called *Nourishing Traditions*, which has plenty of methods for making fermented foods. Most are quite easy to replicate, except for bread, which is more complex and sensitive to temperature and starter activity, making it harder to get right.
The most memorable fermented food for me has to be douzhi (fermented mung bean milk). The first time I drank it, it reminded me of the brine from the pickles my grandmother used to make when I was a child, and I actually quite liked it. When I was little, my family often used pickled vegetables to braise pork or fish; it was incredibly savoury. I still occasionally make braised pork with pickled mustard greens, though I buy the greens now. I do make spicy kimchi pork belly and sautéed beef with sauerkraut quite often, which are also delicious.
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A Fermentation Map of China
In some places, it’s called ‘suancai’ (sour vegetables) or ‘soucai’ (spoiled vegetables). When I was a child, I thought it was like slop, but I later realised that once you get used to it, you can tell this vegetable broth is packed with probiotics—the gut loves it!
Besides that, Yunnan has all sorts of ‘zhi’ (salted/fermented foods), which come in vegetable and meat varieties, as well as various soy-pickled vegetables, salted vegetables, and preserves—the list goes on.
Of course, the most prestigious of all is the stinky tofu (the black variety). When I am thousands of miles from home, I often find myself ambitiously wanting to recreate stinky tofu in my own kitchen. However, this ambition always collapses the moment I realise how complex it is to prepare the brine… Sometimes, one must simply accept that every land has its own flavour; the taste of home can only be found at home. Sadly, fewer and fewer vendors now take the time to properly prepare the brine and use fermentation to turn the tofu black, which is perhaps why the black stinky tofu of Changsha is gradually fading from the streets.
My grandmother often made chopped chillies. Technically, oil-preserved chopped chillies are pickled rather than fermented. However, salt-tolerant lactic acid bacteria can still survive and work within the natural moisture of the fresh chillies, fermenting silently in the fridge. Every time the jar is opened, there is a distinct “pop” as the gas escapes. This is likely why chopped chillies only get better with time.
In Germany, because of the higher latitude, it is difficult to buy fresh chillies in large quantities all at once. Making just one small jar of chopped chillies at a time feels far too restrictive. Moreover, different varieties of chilli always seem to taste slightly different, so I usually take the opportunity to carry large jars of chopped chillies from home back to Germany whenever I visit.
However, during my trip home this year, I received a bottle of starter brine from a friend of my grandmother’s—a culture she had maintained for over 20 years. As soon as I returned to Germany, I poured it into my own pickling jar; it felt as though my jar grew from an infant to an adult overnight. This scoop of starter brine has become a bond connecting my conversations with my grandmother. Amidst our daily exchanges of care and concern, I always find myself updating her on the state of the jar. I feel as though I have been entrusted with a precious living thing, a piece of affection, and a specific taste.
All the herbs used to make the starter are gathered by me from the mountains. Starting from the sixth day of the sixth lunar month, the deep forests are breathtakingly beautiful. Each herb has its own specific growing location and season. It takes over a month to collect the 120-odd types of herbs required. For instance, there is a type of blood vine—ancient vines hundreds of years old that exist in pairs of male and female. Our tradition is to respect nature; we only take a small amount of bark so as not to disrupt their healthy growth.
Furthermore, after foraging for herbs on the mountain, I often have a little wine; it makes me feel better the next day. I could even drink it during my postpartum recovery period—boiling it and cooking eggs in it, which is both delicious and nourishing for the body.
I am from Anshun, where the sourness is expressed in the pickles. When I was a child, every household made pickles, with different types for different seasons. In winter, for example, we would ferment mustard greens, which were then sliced and stir-fried with cured meat and sausage. I think the fermentation of Kaili’s white sour soup is the closest to beer fermentation, as it uses the starch in rice for natural inoculation. In the ethnic minority groups of Southeast Guizhou, especially the Miao, every family has a jar for cultivating a white sour soup starter. These cultures are kept for decades or even centuries, with starch and sugar added monthly to maintain the vitality of the yeast. When it’s time to eat, the yeast is expanded and mixed with fresh rice soup to create a hotpot.
