Congee, An Old Buddhist Remedy

When you find yourself tired or ailing, let this 皮蛋瘦肉粥 (pídàn shòuròu zhōu), century-egg and lean-pork congee, restore you. A thick suspension of pearl rice made creamy by time and preserved egg yolk, pidan shourou zhou is the most lavish of peasant (and monk) fare. The benefits are manifold for those who consume and proffer zhou—in ancient 10th-century Buddhist texts, the monk 義楚 Yichu describes the blessings of both eating and giving the gift of congee¹.

Although my parents both grew up eating what they called 稀饭 (xīfàn), literal “thin/diluted rice” more akin to rice soup than the thick congee popular in Chinatowns nowadays, it’s zhou that taught me love for all porridge.

It’s like this: Xifan was poor man’s gruel, a plight for leftover or limited rice to make it last even longer. One part rice, one hundred parts water (or so it seems)—the true taste of childhood in Mao’s revolutionary China. Ma’s craving for plain xifan to this day once meant many weekend mornings slurping soupy rice with pork floss and 榨菜 (zhàcài). 

But zhou, upon my first encounter with it in Beijing, was intentional porridge, a luscious white lie willing to cover up the truth about hard times. Porridge, but make it fashion! Dressed with pickles, small cuts of lean meat, 皮蛋 (pídàn) in each bowl, every time, instead of just special occasions. Seasoned, even? This was thrilling to me, child who had never experienced porridge that wasn’t watery, thin xifan.

The Secret to Thick Congee

There are many ways to cook down rice and water, but this is my personal method. Its ensuing thickness is redolent of Beijing. My roommates crave it. More than one ex has requested the recipe. My sister, international jetsetter back from business school on winter break and the pickiest eater I’ll cook for, returned for seconds. 

My Beijing friends call it zhou, my Cantonese friends call it jūk, my Vietnamese friends call it cháo, my Korean friends call it juk, and every single one of them loves this porridge.*

The secret to my version is more ginger and scallion than you think necessary. Oftentimes I’ll make it with some of the leftover chicken stock from poaching Hainanese chicken, replacing the lean pork with the gently poached chicken meat as well, and less frequently I’ll save the ginger-scallion oil for dressing too. Poached chicken congee is actually my #1 favorite congee of all time. But even without these extra measures, this congee will come through for you.

Begin with one cup of short- or medium-grain pearl rice (not glutinous/sticky rice) or similar. Short-grain rices contain more branched amylopectin starch molecules and fewer non-gelatinizing amylose starch molecules than firm long-grain rices like jasmine or basmati (but not nearly as little amylose as glutinous rice). This makes it susceptible to thickening without becoming fully sticky. I use Kokuho Rose (the red bag), considered medium-grain, and it works great.

Wash and rinse the rice up to two times, and then let it soak in cold water for about 30 minutes. Use the time to slice a fat thumb (maybe even a knob) of ginger into thin matchsticks, and then throw everything (rice, water/stock, ginger) in a covered Dutch oven or other wide, heavy-bottom pot. Bring the pot to a boil over high heat, then simmer gently for an hour with the lid slightly cracked so it doesn’t bubble over (important).

*Lisa Lim of the South China Morning Post writes that the Western name, “congee,” is actually borrowed from “Tamil kanji (also the Telugu and Kannada gañji, the Malayalam kanni and the Urdu ganji), from kanjī (“boilings”), referring to the water in which rice has been cooked.”

Once the pot is simmering away merrily, prepare the meat and other add-ins. You can use minced meat, but I prefer the more tender slivers from pork shoulder. Chinese cooks tend to prefer this section of 前腿肉 (qiántuǐ ròu), foreleg meat, for mincing meat and slivering. The meat slivers should be about the width of a matchstick to cook through almost instantly (see above photo).

In a small bowl, mix three ounces of slivered pork shoulder with 1/4 teaspoon of salt and half an egg white, stirring continuously in one direction. This helps “起粘性 (qǐ niánxìng),” add viscosity.

Add 1/2 teaspoon of 料酒 (liàojiǔ), cooking rice wine, to purify the raw meat flavor. The liaojiu in Chinese kitchens is often a derivative of 黄酒 (huángjiǔ), yellow rice wine, such as the omnipresent Shaoxing huadiao.

Lastly, add 1/4 teaspoon ground white pepper and 1 teaspoon of sweet potato starch. Sweet potato starch absorbs more moisture than potato starch, but if you don’t have it just use whatever starch is on hand.

After about an hour of cooking, I start stirring more often as it thickens. Between 60-90 minutes of cooking, the congee progresses from typical rice porridge (à la your favorite dimsum restaurant) to the clumpy pidan shourou zhou mess I love. Beyond 90 minutes, it can start to get a little too thick even for me.

Depending on how you like your century egg, add it with the scallion whites up to 10 minutes before the congee is done cooking. The longer you cook (and stir) the century egg, the more it disintegrates into the congee. I like whole chunks of the egg, so I cook it anywhere from 5 minutes on the heat or off of it in the residual heat.

Whatever you do, once your congee has thickened to your liking, turn off the heat, then stir in the slivered pork meat. The thin, lean slices cook quickly in the residual heat and stay tender this way.

Season to taste with extra salt and any other favorite toppings, like pork floss and zhacai pickled mustard greens or fermented beancurd or homemade chili oil, of course. Serve pidan shourou zhou piping hot and garnish with the green ends of the scallions.

From the Buddhist mealtime liturgy “粥有十利”, “Congee Has Ten Benefits,” from Yichu’s 10th-century manuscript 《釋氏六帖》, «Shìshì liùtiē»: