From lion’s mane to porcinis: The wild flavours of China’s mushrooms

(Photos courtesy of Shen Jialu, unless otherwise stated.)

For most people, the difference between jun (菌) and gu (菇) can be confusing. Simply put, “gu” usually means mushrooms that are grown or cultivated, while “jun” refers to the fruiting bodies of wild, edible fungi. For many Shanghainese from our generation, the first mushrooms we knew came in just two types: fresh mushrooms, called mogu (蘑菇), and dried mushrooms, called xianggu (香菇) — which are shiitake mushrooms.

Fresh mushrooms were a staple in small vegetable markets — stir-fried with greens, tossed with assorted vegetarian dishes, or cooked into soup with tofu and shepherd’s purse, one could never get bored of it; slowly rendered in oil, then a spoonful added to vegetable noodle soup, it rivals the flavours from an immortal chef.

Meanwhile, shiitakes were only bought before the Lunar New Year, being of the same circle of friends as black wood ear fungus, golden needles (金针, dried daylily buds), longan and red dates.

Braised wheat gluten with “four delights” (四喜烤麸, Sixi Kaofu, the “four delights” referring to ingredients such as shiitakes, black wood ear fungus, dried long yellow day lily buds, peanuts or bamboo shoots) was a chance for shiitakes to shine, while steamed young chicken with shiitakes wouldn’t make an appearance until a decade or so later.

One year, a relative sent us a bag of zhenmo (榛蘑, honey/hazel mushrooms). This species was a stray soldier: a mo 蘑, not a gu 菇. Their long, thin stems seemed barely able to hold up their broad caps, and with their dark, wrinkled “complexion”, they looked wretchedly poor and pitiful. My father grabbed our tattered copy of the cihai dictionary and pored over it for ages, but was unable to establish whether or not they were toxic.

My mother, upon hearing they needed to be “fed” or basted with meat broth, reacted as if humiliated by some wealthy household, and pushed them to the very back of the food cabinet. Two years later, they resurfaced; when the bag was opened, countless little bugs scurried out, and the hairs on my arms stood up. My mother used them to fire up the coal stove, and as the sparks danced wildly, that fragrance from deep in the forest reminded me of the novels of Tolstoy and Turgenev.

In the early days of reform and opening up, the menu of the common people expanded, as oyster mushrooms, straw mushrooms, enoki mushrooms, king oyster mushrooms, bamboo fungus, shaggy ink cap, cauliflower mushrooms, lion’s mane and morels appeared on the dining table. Straw mushrooms had to be stir-fried with oyster sauce; bamboo fungus and cauliflower mushrooms called for a stock cooked with ham and a mature hen.

As for lion’s mane, translator Cao Jinghua once gave several heads of it to Lu Xun. This is a real delicacy that most chefs cannot handle, so who knows how Lu’s partner — writer and politician Xu Guangping — prepared them for the great writer.

A friend once gave me six; from a master of Beijing cuisine, I learned the secret of preparation, but despite the huge effort and fuss I made, my wife and children did not appreciate it at all. A couple of days later, I redeemed my reputation with a dish of “vegetarian beef”, made from king oyster mushrooms simmered in Pu’er tea broth, oyster sauce, rock sugar, cloves and other seasonings.

Ten years ago, at Wangyue Lou (望岳楼) restaurant at the foot of Xingfu Temple, Changshu city, I tasted the legendary mushroom oil noodles, where the freshness of the pine mushroom lay in its wild, unrestrained character.

My friend Gong Du, who introduced me to the dish, said that the outskirts of Suzhou and Yu Mountain in Changshu had long produced wild mushrooms prized by gourmets through the ages — thunder mushrooms, plum tree mushrooms, cauliflower mushrooms, tea tree mushrooms, mulberry mushrooms, goose mushrooms — of which pine mushrooms were the finest. Writer Zheng Yimei also mentioned the pine mushrooms of Guangfu, Suzhou province, in Eighteen Delicacies of the Mountain Home (《谈山家十八熟》): “Wild mushrooms can be picked anywhere, cooked in soup to extraordinary freshness and charm; sold in the cities, they also make a modest profit.”

Wangyue Lou’s mushroom oil noodles came in two varieties: Yushan wild mushroom noodles and pine mushroom noodles. Foraging season for wild mushrooms runs for about two weeks after the yellow plum rains, into July and August. The owner would buy them directly from the farmers, and once she had a certain amount, she cooked mushroom oil.

The wild mushrooms — a mix of several species — were soaked in warm salted water, then cleaned. In a cast-iron wok, first-pressed rapeseed oil was heated, and the mushrooms were stir-fried until fragrant, then cooked with soy sauce, star anise, fennel and other seasonings until ready, before being stored in the refrigerator, where it can be stored for months.

In fact, it is an old practice. In Supplement to the Suiyuan Food List (《随园食单补证》), writer Xia Cengzhuan once recorded: “Use fresh mushrooms, either with fragrant oil or with soy sauce — both are fine. The people of Guangfu and Mudu excel at this. I once tasted it at Wuyin Hermitage on Tianping Mountain, and my elder cousin also once made it and sent me some, but the flavour still fell short.”

Over 20 years ago, when Yunnan mushrooms were brought down from the mountains, they strode proudly into metropolitan Shanghai. One day in early summer, a friend and I chanced upon a restaurant near Jing’an Temple. A wild mushroom festival was in progress — on a round table in the centre of the dining hall were mushrooms of every hue, proudly displayed atop heaps of pine needles. The restaurant manager picked up a porcini mushroom and told us that once human fingers touched this mushroom, it would turn blue, green or red, showing its self-defence mechanism.

The mushrooms then transformed in blazing oil — the pine mushroom’s fragrance, the porcini’s succulence, the ganba mushroom’s sharp aroma, the termite mushroom’s fresh brightness — they all intoxicated me.

I first learned of termite mushrooms from an essay by Chinese writer Ah Cheng. His vivid description drew in the reader to meander along with his words: on the way to work, you spot a clump of mushrooms just waking, fresh as newly shelled eggs; quickly gather some small twigs to surround them, and return after work to pick them. Those coming after would see they were claimed and would never steal them. The killer line: “Making soup with this mushroom is actually very dangerous — because you’ll be so greedy for its freshness that you’ll drink until you burst.”

Recently, at a restaurant along the Xuhui waterfront in Shanghai, I tasted Yunnan mushrooms. Old Hu, a field explorer who has travelled across Yunnan, told me that there are about 20 species of termite mushrooms in Yunnan, half of the world’s total. Termite mushrooms can be classified into types such as black-cap, white-skin, green-skin, grass-skin, and torch; they can also be divided into solitary and clustered varieties. A single termite mushroom can grow up to a foot tall, thick as a child’s arm, crisp and sweet; once dug up and brushed free of soil, it can be eaten raw — fragrant, sweet and crunchy, like a fruit.

And wherever there are termite mushrooms, below it will be an underground palace of an ant nest. It is a symbiotic relationship, with the ants unknowingly carrying the spores far and wide. The cap is the crispest, most tender part of the upper stalk; the rest has a slight fibrous texture. After blanching, chefs tear it into fine strips, which can be stir-fried hot or served cold. We had a dish of termite mushroom and crab meat tartare — a stylishly presented combination of mountain and sea, Chinese ingredients served Western style.

I was reminded of many years ago, when I travelled with Brother Weiping to Yunnan to report on the border troops. Our last stop was Kunming, where we went early in the morning to the market to buy mushrooms. Most stalls were piled high with brilliantly coloured porcini, but in a corner I spotted my target. The vendor’s face was lined with anxiety; at his feet were termite mushrooms with caps still tightly closed, slender and elegant, while nearby lay seven or eight with caps already open, disheveled and weary in appearance. 

The young man said earnestly, “Don’t think that just because they’re lying flat, they’re dead! After eight o’clock, all the caps open, and their appearance and flavour change completely — so I have no choice but to sell them cheap.”

In recent years, pine mushrooms have been making rounds at high-end restaurants, its price starting high and climbing higher, vying to steal the spotlight from Italian white truffles. Lijiang, Dali, Chuxiong and Kunming produce pine mushrooms, but those from Shangri-La are considered the best — their longer growth period infuses the delicate threads of the mycelium with a subtle fragrance of the mountains and wilderness.

Thinly sliced and briefly blanched in clear chicken broth, the result is an elegant soup, pure and mellow. The only pity is that restaurants are often crowded and noisy; if one could instead savour it slowly under twisted pines, beside a clear spring and a charcoal stove, it would be like being in paradise.

Porcini is a major category of Yunnan’s wild mushrooms, being the most abundant type with over 300 species. Among them, yellow, black and white porcini, as well as the various bolete mushroom (见手青, jianshouqing, blue-staining boletes) species are the absolute mainstays. The dish we ordered — bolete stir-fried with Qiubei chilli — was cooked twice to ensure it was non-toxic, a traditional Kunming way of eating it.

As writer Wang Zengqi noted long ago in The Food of Kunming (《昆明的吃食》): “Kunming is the home of mushrooms. Apart from termite mushrooms, ganba mushrooms, porcini and cracking-green russulas are all delicious.” 

But as Old Hu said, “Every year in Yunnan, less than half the mushrooms are eaten. Most are not collected in time and end up rotting in the mountains!”

Related: Of spring and wild vegetables in Jiangsu | Jiangnan cuisine: How the ancient literati wrote about it [Eye on JiangZheHu series] | In search of Taiwan’s perfect youtiao and soy milk breakfast