The Subtle Depths of Chilli, Concealed in a Fermented Dish

Foodthink’s Take

Fermented sour chillies are a traditional Chinese delicacy, particularly cherished in the southern provinces. While regional variations each boast their own distinct character and the accompanying ingredients may differ slightly, the method and underlying fermentation principle remain broadly the same: salt is used to create a favourable environment for lactic acid bacteria to break down the sugars within the chillies. Quite right—the tartness in these fermented chillies actually stems from the salt, not the vinegar that many assume is responsible. In modern food manufacturing, pickled products are typically unfermented; they simply involve preserving vegetables in highly acidic vinegar. High-temperature sterilisation is usually employed to extend shelf life by eliminating microbes rather than cultivating them.

In truth, lactic acid fermentation is equally effective and safe for preserving food. In this edition of *The Alchemy of Food*, Foodthink will guide you through fermenting chillies—a refreshing, appetite-stimulating staple. A video and a detailed illustrated guide await at the end of the article. We have also invited the author, Liuyi, to recount her experiences growing up as a spice-loving native of Hunan province and her enduring connection to her hometown’s chopped chilli peppers.

With the recent drop in temperature, why not try making your own fermented chillies to soothe and warm your stomach?

One

Having lived in Hangzhou for eight years as a native of Hunan, whenever I look back on my hometown, I invariably first recall its many virtues. Only gradually, upon further reflection, do the drawbacks I once perceived begin to take on a certain charm. Looking toward my homeland across the vast skies, every detail blooms anew in memory. Let us begin with the town itself.

I grew up in Hengshan, Hunan—home to Mount Heng (Nanyue), one of China’s Five Great Mountains. It is a small county town built along the Xiang River, and my family home was just a quarter-hour’s walk from its banks.

Before I was born, the cross-river bridge had not yet been completed, so everyone relied on ferries at the wharf to cross between the two banks. Today, the bustling ferries are a thing of the past. All that remains at the old crossing is a simple archway known as the White Horse Pavilion. Its pillars bear the couplet: “The sacred raft arrives from the west, urging white horses onward; the great river flows east, washing the yellow dragons.” Above it stands the inscription: “A single reed spans east and west.”

Heading inland from the riverbank towards the county town’s main street, one passes sequentially a T-junction and a crossroads, historically referred to as the Three Archways and the Four Archways. As a child, I most often went to eat breakfast near the Four Archways. There was a wide variety to choose from: street vendors selling fried dough cakes and stir-fried rice noodles, alongside a dazzling array of shops offering bread and milk, traditional Chinese buns, and various styles of rice noodles with savoury toppings. The Juncheng Hotel also served morning tea to the public.

●The farmers’ market back home.

Next, let us turn to the local scene.

In the county town, along Kaiyun North Road and the narrow lane opposite Baishi Alley, a bustling market fair takes place every fifth day, beginning from the fifth of each lunar month. It draws a throng of traders and shoppers moving between town and country. I used to steer clear of this street. It struck me as too loud and chaotic, and I found myself constantly jostled forward by the restless crowds.

The county government once moved to ban the fair, aiming to clear the street’s chaos and congestion in a bid to build a model city. Yet the decree proved impossible to enforce. The locals were long accustomed to the fair, and everyone depended on it. What a monotonous, colourless world it would be, seeing only the uniform, mass-produced goods on supermarket shelves instead of the distinctive local produce each family brings.

Farmers from the villages would bring dried fish and shrimp, home-pickled radish skins, earth-peas, Jerusalem artichokes, and sword beans, along with many other unexpected ingredients and spices. Between buyers and sellers, eyebrows flew and voices rose amid a blend of jests and sharp retorts. This lively, zestful culture of haggling kept the street in a constant, vibrant stir.

●Shopping for local farm produce at the market fair.
I spent my entire student years in Hunan. After living in my hometown for so long, whenever it came time to leave, I found the local surroundings dreary and cluttered, the air heavy and stifling, and life almost at a standstill. The moment I stepped out the door, however, a sense of relief would wash over me, as though a fresh new life were opening its arms to welcome me. Yet barely a month away, thoughts of home would drift back, and a quiet ache of homesickness would begin to take hold. Such an experience is familiar to anyone who has left home, but for me, it often became so deeply troubling that I could barely eat.Perhaps the root of it lay in the food. In Hunan, meals rarely went without chilli. My palate, long conditioned by the heat, suddenly found that without it, dining simply lost its savour.

There is scarcely an unlovable thing about my hometown. It was only after breaking free from my own habitual craving for heat that I realised the chilli of my homeland—so often dreaded by those accustomed to milder fare—was never a blunt or forced stimulation. Rather, it was a natural, ingrained character that wove itself into the cooking, a distinctive flavour you would struggle to find elsewhere. From the start of autumn onwards, housewives would bustle through the markets, buying chillies to prepare an array of pickles and preserved stores. The chillies spread across the stalls were a vivid mix of reds and greens, glossy and radiant, each one lush and brimming with vitality; long and short, varied in shape, yet uniformly plump and fresh.

Not every variety is suited to pickling, of course. Take the screw chilli, for instance: its skin is wavy and crinkled, its colour a fresh green. With a moderate heat and thick flesh, it is ideally suited to fresh stir-frying, offering a crisp, juicy bite. It is the small, slender chillies with thin skins—neatly proportioned like fingers—that prove to be the superior choice for preserving.

●Ginger and garlic make the perfect pairing with chopped chilli.
●Liquor is equally essential. Omit it, and the fermentation yields sour chilli instead.

Chopped chilli is a staple seasoning in Hunan cuisine, known to virtually every local. The basic method involves mixing coarsely chopped chillies with salt in a jar, then submerging and sealing them with Chinese white liquor.

Households often tailor the blend to their taste, adding ginger slices, sword beans, or fermented black beans for extra depth. Though technically a preserved food, chopped chilli lacks any sourness, carrying instead a distinct savoury, umami-rich character. Without the liquor, it ferments into sour chilli.

I still remember the corner where Kaiyun North Road meets Qingyun East Road, where a red tarpaulin stood pitched against the night sky. Winter winds carried a damp chill that seeped through our coats as our family of three huddled together, making our way to the tent glowing crimson under the energy-saving lamps. A quiet nod to the owner, who was deftly tossing the wok outside, was all it took before we pulled back the canvas flap and stepped straight into this warmly inviting late-night haven.

The tent was compact, barely large enough to fit six small folding tables. We sat on standard, stackable red plastic stools. Yet the thick, windproof tarpaulin did wonders, shielding us from the damp cold that had left us shivering.

From outside came a crisp, resonant clatter of metal against metal. Then the proprietor emerged, carrying a steaming plate of chopped-chilli egg fried rice, and served it to us with a warm smile.

●How could egg fried rice in Hunan possibly go without chopped chilli?
Back home, minced chilli is an indispensable companion to dry, fluffy egg fried rice. Cooked with it, the dish gains both colour and fragrance, while lending a pleasant, crisp crunch to rice that would otherwise be soft. As more people step inside, take their seats, and enjoy their hot food and drinks, the modest shelter fills with a light, hazy steam, and bodies gradually warm.

Three

When the time comes to journey far from home, the depth and richness of chillies quietly find their way into the traveller’s luggage. Dad often recalls his high school days away studying, when he relied on a particular meal that suited his palate perfectly. A spoonful of creamy-white lard stirred into hot rice, topped with a generous drizzle of bright red minced chilli. The exquisite aroma was so captivating it made your eyes light up and mouth water. Sliding a mouthful into your mouth along the rim of the bowl, the chilli warms and soothes both body and soul. Cradling the bowl, you’d share smoky cured delicacies from each other’s homes with a handful of friends. After finishing one bowl, you’d casually wipe the sweat from your brow and call for another.

A jar of lard, a bottle of minced chilli, and a pot of cured pork fried with dry chillies and chilli oil—these were the ‘usual three’ Grandma packed for Dad. This family tradition, much like the family line itself, naturally passed down to my mother and me. Whenever I travel far and stay for an extended period, Mum always prepares a selection of mixed cured meats and fermented bean curd that suits my taste to take from home.

● A mix of cured fish, cured pork, and dried chillies.

Alas, in my youthful ignorance, how many flavours did I simply gulp down without truly savouring. There was so much to discover in my hometown—its people, its places, its everyday objects—and yet, despite having grown up there, I realise now how little I actually knew. Take the local landmarks: I’ve only climbed Zhurong Peak once, and I’ve never once set foot on Guanxiang Islet, despite it being right on my doorstep. It’s rather laughable, really.

By the same token, all I truly know of my hometown represents but a fraction of what it really is.

Yet I love her. How? I can hardly put it into words.

It is she who gave me my earliest understanding of the world, and the fleeting glimpses held in my memory seem woven into the very fabric of who I am. She is present in every passing moment of my life, just as I am present in every memory I hold of her. I long to be a kind of messenger, absorbing all its captivating history and charm into my very soul, and, like wild geese journeying through cold and warmth, sing out the elegant grace of Mount Heng.

To make fermented sour chilies, you will need:

Begin by washing the chilies, young yellow ginger, and garlic thoroughly, then leave them to air-dry. The soybeans should be soaked in advance and cooked until tender.

Next, finely chop the dried chilies, crush the garlic, and slice or mince the ginger.

Once all the ingredients are ready, transfer them to a clean container. Add salt to taste (typically 3–6% of the total weight) along with a pinch of sugar (maintaining a salt-to-sugar ratio of roughly 3:1), and mix thoroughly.

Q Why is salt essential when fermenting sour chilies?

Salt promotes vegetable fermentation in the following ways: 1. Through osmosis, it draws moisture out of the vegetables, allowing them to sit in their own brine.

2. It firms up “pectin,” a compound in plant cell walls, making the vegetables crunchier. It also slows the enzymatic breakdown of pectin, preserving a crisp texture and preventing the vegetables from turning too soft.

3. It creates a selective environment that reduces the types of bacteria capable of thriving, using natural selection to give salt-tolerant lactic acid bacteria a competitive edge. (Adapted from Sandor Katz’s *The Art of Fermentation*)

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Pack all the ingredients into a fermentation crock, press them down firmly, and seal the container. After fermenting at roughly 30°C for about 20 days, you’ll be ready to enjoy delicious sour chilies.

Once fermented, the sour chilies are best stored in the fridge. This slows down the fermentation process and extends their shelf life.

Stir-fried sour chilies go wonderfully with rice, and pickling daikon radish in sour chili brine is another lovely option. Give it a go!

Foodthink Author
Liu Yi
is a naturally curious soul who frequently dives headfirst into food, farming, and the natural world, constantly asking how and why things work. Whenever they discover something novel or fun to play with, they can’t wait to share it with you! WeChat Official Account: glekiliuii 

 

 

About the “Fermentation Awakening Festival”
Launched by Foodthink in October 2023, the “Fermentation Awakening Festival” brings together dozens of co-creators across China, including farmers’ markets, farms, fermentation artisans, restaurants, publishers, and non-profit organisations. Centring on the theme of fermented foods, the festival runs a series of online and offline events over more than two months across numerous cities and communities. These include screenings from the *Alchemy of Food* video series, fermentation-themed markets, book clubs, film viewings, talk sessions, workshops, and tastings. Follow Foodthink’s WeChat Official Account and the social channels of our co-creating partners to stay updated on the latest videos, articles, podcasts, and events. Discover local fermentation activities, connect with fellow fermentation enthusiasts, and embrace a fermentation-awakened lifestyle!

Fermentation Awakening Festival 

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Foodthink  Beijing Organic Farmers Market

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湖岸文化  布乐奶酪  易简面包  秀才豆坊

快乐lab  九吋精酿  葺菜园 大小咖啡

巧立可 牛啤堂 白老虎屯 丰年庆

成都生活市集 南宁都市农墟

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Edited by: Foodthink Editor