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4 hours ago
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Though I suspect many of us first find ourselves drawn to this Chinese “cold plate” by the faintly surreal overtones of vegetable-based violence suggested by the name (and before you say it, cucumbers are, of course, botanically speaking a fruit), it’s the flavour that keeps us coming back for more. A salad of cool, crunchy fruit bathed in a deeply savoury, garlicky dressing, according to Wei Guo of the Red House Spice blog, Pāi Huáng Guā is to be found on “family dinner tables, in small street cafes and in upscale restaurants” nationwide.
Here in the UK, however, it’s particularly associated with Sichuan restaurants, where the cucumbers act as a bracing contrast to the fiery flavours of chilli and hot and numbing Sichuan peppercorns. In fact, there are many different versions regionally, but what they all have in common is a guarantee to wake up your palate with a good smack after all those turkey sandwiches – though it would pair pretty well with them, too. In fact, smacked cucumbers go with everything from grilled meat to hot pots, but right now I’d recommend starting with a fried egg (or some silken tofu) and a bowl of steamed rice.
The cucumber
Georgia Freedman, who includes a recipe from He Ayi, a cook from the Weixi Valley, in her book Cooking South of the Clouds, says that “bumpy-skinned Chinese cucumbers or other ‘seedless’ cucumbers” are preferable here. My local Chinese supermarkets stock only the usual British variety of cucumber, however, which I discover through the magic of the internet are considered to be seedless, though clearly they do contain seeds, just soft immature ones. They also have a thinner skin than the smaller, thicker fruit common in the US, which means there’s less need to peel them, though some recipes still do. Personally, I think the dish looks prettier with the contrast in colours between green skin and pale flesh, and even prettier if, like Guirong Wei, owner/head chef of London Xi’Anese restaurants Master Wei and Dream Xi’an, you peel them in stripes.
This is a purely aesthetic choice, unlike the decision on whether to remove the seeds. Guo explains that she doesn’t do so because “they are tasty and nutritious”, adding that “little food waste happens in a Chinese kitchen”, while Wei does remove them on the basis that they add excess water which, the tip box that accompanies her recipe in the FT Weekend advises, “can dilute the seasoning, alter the flavour and make everything soggy”. I have to say I’m of this school of thought, too; I prefer the cucumber to be as crunchy as possible, and it’s the work of moments with a teaspoon to deseed it – plus you can eat the seeds as you go.
Much as the recipes I try are divided on the matter of seeds and skin, they also disagree on whether it’s necessary to salt the cucumbers first, to draw out moisture before dressing them. Tony Tan, Ayi and Joe-Wah Chow of Bristol’s Wai Yee Hong supermarket, whose recipe pops up in Sally Butcher’s book Salmagundi, are team salt, leaving the cucumbers for 15-20 minutes before draining off the liquid they’ve exuded, while Wei, Fuchsia Dunlop’s The Food of Sichuan and Julie Kleeman and Yeshi Jampa of Oxford’s Taste Tibet restaurant, whose recipe is featured in their book of the same name, don’t bother. Dunlop notes that salting is helpful if you’re preparing the salad ahead of time, because it pre-empts the dressing doing the same job as the salad sits becoming more and more watery. If you’re eating it immediately, however, I’d advise against it, because the plumper the cucumber, the crunchier it will be to eat.
The smacking
As it pops up in the title of the dish, I feel as if the smacking deserves a paragraph of its own – according to Julia Moskin in the New York Times, “the difference between a sliced cucumber salad and a smashed cucumber salad reveals itself on first bite. Sliced cucumbers have a smooth, impenetrable surface, and when you introduce them to dressing, they usually shrug it off. By contrast, smashed cucumbers are wide open: their craggy edges and rough surfaces absorb flavours and form relationships in seconds.” That said, don’t take too much rage out on it. As Chow cautions, “you do not want cucumber mush”. In other words, bruise, but don’t pulverise.
The dressing
This is where the differences between region and chef become more apparent. Everyone uses garlic, whether crushed or, as Chow recommends, smashed and roughly chopped (I prefer crushed, because I’m a bit of a wimp about chunks of raw garlic), and some form of vinegar, either chinkiang black rice or the clear white sort, which Chow favours for the fact that it leaves the dish looking “clean and bright”. I’ll take a bit of murkiness, though, in exchange for a richer flavour.
Soy sauce is another must – or almost. Only Wei leaves it out in favour of salt. Though most recipes use the standard light sort, Dunlop calls for a sweet aromatic “red” or “re-made” soy sauce that’s common in classic Sichuan suanni, or garlic paste, which is produced by simmering light soy with spices such as liquorice root, star anise, cloves, bay, star anise, fennel seeds and Sichuan peppercorns, then stirring in sugar to make a treacly, warmly spiced condiment. This negates the need for the white or rock sugar in Chow, Tan and Ayi’s recipes, but in fact my testers seem to prefer the keenly savoury character of those salads, from Wei, Kleeman and Jampa, that eschew sweetness altogether. If you feel you’d like a little sugar, but don’t have the time to infuse soy sauce (which, to be fair, takes only about 45 minutes of largely hands-off work), then I’d suggest, like Chow, warming the dressing to dissolve a teaspoonful of sugar in it before use.
The other recipe that heats the dressing is Ayi’s, which pours hot smoking vegetable oil on to dishes of Sichuan peppercorns and chilli flakes and cucumbers, then combines the two. My testers love the numbing notes of the fragrant oil, but declare that, with two tablespoons of oil per cucumber, it tastes a bit “greasy”. Nutty sesame oil, as used by everyone but Wei, is more popular, though I am sold on the irresistible creaminess of her toasted sesame paste. This is an ingredient you’ll probably have to go to a Chinese specialist or online for; it’s not the same as tahini, which is made from raw, hulled sesame seeds, but you could use that at a pinch, though if you do so, I’d recommend adding a dash of toasted sesame oil as well.
Kleeman and Jampa leave it at that, but the other recipes I try feature chilli in some form, from Tan’s pickled peppers and Chow’s fresh red chillies to Ayi’s flakes, and most commonly the chilli oil in Dunlop, Tan and Wei’s recipes, with Dunlop specifying “with or without sediment”. Time for a confession: I, like many others, have an unhealthy relationship with said sediment – I can, indeed have on occasion, eaten it straight out of the jar of chilli oil, which means I’m always going to include it if it’s an option. You may feel differently, and that’s fine, though I will observe that many brands often have the benefit of containing the Sichuan peppercorns we all enjoy so much in Ayi’s recipe.
Wei uses a tomato in her salad, which gives a nice flash of colour and sweetness. The same goes for Chow’s fresh red chilli and coriander garnish, both of which look very handsome on the plate. None of these things are strictly necessary, but neither are they unwelcome, especially if you’re serving this to people you’d like to impress, rather than just gobbling it straight from the bowl, as I generally do.
Perfect smacked cucumber
Prep 10 min
Serves 2 as a side
1 long cucumber (about 350g)
2 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed (about 2 tsp)
1½ tbsp black chinkiang vinegar
1½-2 tsp light soy sauce
1 tbsp sesame paste, or tahini with a little sesame oil (see above)
A pinch of sugar (optional)
1 tbsp chilli oil, preferably Sichuan, plus sediment if desired
Half-peel the cucumber in alternating stripes. Cut it in half lengthways, then cut each half in half again lengthways, so you can easily scoop out the seeds with a teaspoon.
Put the lengths of cucumber on a board, flesh side down, then use the flat of a cleaver (or a rolling pin or other heavy object) to bash along their length to bruise, rather than pulverise.
Cut into slices about 1cm wide and on a slight diagonal, then put these in a bowl.
Whisk the garlic, vinegar and soy sauce into the sesame paste until smooth.
Taste and adjust the seasoning as necessary (add a pinch of sugar, if you like), then pour over the cucumber and toss.
Just before serving, drizzle over the chilli oil and sediment, if using.
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Smacked cucumbers: what’s the secret of their international success? How do you like yours, what do you pair them with, and where makes the best version?
