Lijia Zhang's Blog

Tasting Menu in Kathmandu
I’ve had my fair share of tasting menus in this life, from solemnly plated morsels in Paris to architectural salads in New York. But I confess I did not expect to encounter such refined culinary delights in Nepal.
Today, Gillian — birthday queen and the reason I’m here — organized a celebratory dinner at what may well be the best restaurant in Kathmandu, if not the entire country. The banquet began in Bhaktapur, a beautifully preserved medieval city about 13 km east of the capital, famous for its temples and elegant Newar architecture.
After sightseeing, we were whisked to a restaurant with the most auspicious of names: Tusa, meaning “new beginning.” A welcome drink awaited us — cucumber juice with mint and some mysterious “other goodies” (avocado? fairy dust?). Whatever it was, it was fresh and dangerously good. My appetite perked up like a hungry fox.
Then came the eight-course feast. First: warm buckwheat bread tucked prettily inside a hand-painted wooden box, accompanied by herb-infused butter that could make ordinary butter hang its head in shame. Next, a crisp lentil fritter — imagine falafel’s more elegant cousin — crowned with a snowfall of cheese.
Then something truly exotic: Rildhuk, a traditional dumpling-like dish made from millet flour, served with earthy mushrooms and a delicate foam of gundruk. Yum. A pan-seared river fish followed, flanked by pickles and finely chopped vegetables — light, bright, and perfectly balanced.
A lemon and apple sorbet then arrived to “cleanse our palate,” though it felt more like an invitation to keep eating. The main course — roasted chicken with cauliflower purée — was nothing short of sensational. And then came dessert, plural: a parade of sweet things, the star being a cake made from stinging nettle (yes, nettle!), served with buffalo yogurt and chestnut purée. Heavenly.
We were nine in total, all gloriously stuffed, slightly giddy, and entirely content. Kathmandu had just delivered a culinary surprise with the precision of a master chef and the flair of a magician.

Kathmandu
I was last here about 34 years ago, when my ex and I travelled overland from Lhasa. Those two months remain the best journey of my life. The final stretch in China had no public transport, so we stuck out our thumbs and hitched rides. One truck driver kindly let us on. Only later, when I got down, did I notice my backside was blood-stained. It turned out that I’d been sitting on a freshly slaughtered yak.
I also remember the delirious joy of eating in Kathmandu after Tibet. In Tibet, the landscapes and people were unforgettable; the food, not so much. Imagine a diet designed by people who think “flavor” is a dangerous foreign idea. These days, the food in Tibet is much better, thanks to Chinese influence. (I know this is a loaded statement!)
Arriving in Kathmandu, I ate like a woman possessed, demolishing momos, curries, sushi and anything else put in front of me.
Now, decades later, I’m back. I’m once again eating my way through the city, occasionally pausing to explore and walk around —just enough to make room for the next meal. Here are a few random shots before I roll myself to the next restaurant.

Lanzhou
Lanzhou, the capital of Gansu province, probably doesn’t rank high on most tourist itineraries, but I have to say it turned out to be a delightful city. After sampling the famous food street, we – my daughters and I – strolled across the Zhongshan Bridge, proudly known as the “First Bridge of the Yellow River”, the very first permanent crossing ever built over China’s mother river. From there we wandered into the riverside park, which was bursting with life.
The whole place was alive with music and movement. Elderly people waltzed under the trees, groups of women lined up for the familiar square dance, while another circle swayed and spun to Uygur melodies. Some had even gone the extra mile, dressing in brightly colored Uygur outfits, sequined vests and embroidered headscarves flashing in the sun.
I am no dancer, but the sheer joy of it was infectious. Before long I found myself muddling along, arms waving vaguely in time with the music. No one minded my clumsy steps. Everyone was too busy laughing, clapping, and spinning. What fun it was to be swept up in such unselfconscious happiness, right on the banks of the Yellow River.

During our short tour of China, I favoured Labrang Monastery, a spiritual place in southern Gansu. My daughters, however, had more earthly priorities: Lanzhou. To be precise, a food street smack in the city center, right by the Yellow River.
I had always believed southerners knew best how to eat. Perhaps I was wrong, or perhaps the Lanzhou street vendors have been hiding their culinary genius all along. There we found every possible temptation: fermented rice with red beans, pear soup steeped in herbs, sticky rice bathed in date sauce, and deep-fried red bean balls that seemed determined to sabotage any notion of self-control.
Many of these treats took me straight back to childhood, when my grandmother whipped up similar delights. We practically spent the entire day snacking, moving from one stall to the next like pilgrims on a holy food trail. Each time we sat down, we ended up chatting and laughing with stall owners or fellow diners. The people were very friendly, and we were ridiculously happy, though by the end of the day, my waistband was considerably less friendly.

In recent years, a new craze has swept through China’s tourist spots: dressing up in traditional costumes and posing dramatically against famous landmarks. The other day, my daughters decided to join the fun at the Confucius Temple 夫子庙, and what a performance it turned out to be.
The operation began at 4:30 p.m. in a photo studio. Because my sister knew the owner, the girls received VIP treatment with the best photographer, the best makeup artist, and, I suspect, the heaviest headgear in Jiangsu province. Each makeover took over an hour. By the time the photographer whisked them off to a bridge overlooking the Qinhuai River, the sun was setting, the red lanterns were glowing, and the teahouses were shimmering invitingly in the water.
At 7 p.m., they still hadn’t finished and had to join us for dinner in full regalia. They looked magnificent — if a little ghostly — their faces buried under a geological layer of white powder. Between the elaborate hairpieces and the heavy silk robes, they could barely relax or enjoy the food: the headgears were so heavy. After dinner, they, still wearing their trainers, hidden under the long dresses, marched off to continue the shoot, while I sensibly stayed behind, enjoying my tea and freedom from hairpins and headdresses.

Qianmen
Last night, I arrived in Beijing from Nanjing and stayed at a courtyard hotel near Qianmen, an area I’ve never known intimately. As I emerged from the subway station, the two magnificent towers—the Gate Tower and the Arrow Tower—rose before me, bathed in golden light. For a moment I stood still, taking in their quiet grandeur. What a fabulous city Beijing is, I thought, where I spent nearly two decades of my life, full of stories and seasons.
Qianmen, meaning “Front Gate,” has stood for centuries as the southern threshold of the Inner City, one of the capital’s most enduring landmarks. First built in the early 15th century as part of the capital’s vast city wall system, the towers once guarded the heart of the empire, serving both ceremonial and military purposes.
I used to go to Capital M, a refined restaurant nearby, partly for the incredible food and partly for its view of the towers. Another small pilgrimage into memory.
After dinner with a friend, I had a romantic impulse to stroll across Tiananmen Square, as I often did on quiet nights long ago. But the square was sealed off; visitors must now register at least a week in advance. Oh dear. The city has changed, the rules have multiplied. It made me feel even more nostalgia.

A Hot Pot Restaurant with Chinese Characteristics
It could only happen in China.
Haidilao—literally “scooping from the bottom of the sea”—is a wildly successful hot pot chain that has turned dinner into a full-blown variety show. The food is excellent, but that’s only half the story.
While waiting for a table, you’re offered free drinks, hot soy milk, cold plum juice, even watermelon seeds to nibble on. There’s a little reading corner if you feel studious, and a counter where you can buy lottery tickets if you’re feeling lucky. By the time you sit down, you’ve already lived a full day’s worth of emotional experiences.
If you’re dining in a private room, the entertainment begins. A performer appears, swirling across the floor, and—poof!—changes masks in a split second. Bianlian, or “face changing,” is an ancient Sichuan art form in which emotions transform faster than Beijing’s weather. Just as you recover from that spectacle, the “noodle guy” bursts in. He doesn’t just pull noodles. He dances with them, twirls them over your head, flings them in the air, and even brings his own sound system. You half expect him to take song requests. (Please, watch the video. You’ll laugh your teeth off!)
Every diner is entitled to a head massage or a manicure. I opted for the latter. As I was being pampered, I chatted with the weary-looking manicurist. She told me she’d started work at 8 a.m. and wouldn’t finish until 4:30 the next morning. “Working through the night?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, smiling faintly. This branch, near Nanjing South Railway Station, doubles as a refuge for stranded travelers: people who’ve missed their trains or can’t afford a hotel. I’ll bear that in mind.
Once again, it struck me: the success of Haidilao, like so many Chinese miracles, rests on the shoulders of migrant workers. My sister assured me the staff are well paid. I certainly hope she’s right.

Red Flags Over China
In recent years, China has stepped up its patriotic education campaign, which includes the mandatory display of national flags during public holidays. The result? At this time of year, red flags are everywhere. They flutter from office buildings, sprout from residential compounds, line the highways, and dangle from e-bikes. Step into a fancy Western restaurant in Nanjing and you’ll find not one, but two miniature flags planted right in the middle of your candlelit table, as if they’re part of the cutlery. Nothing says romance like a steak, a glass of Bordeaux, and the Motherland staring at you from between the salt and pepper shakers.
It reminded me of an old image: Wu Qinhua, the heroine of the revolutionary ballet The Red Detachment of Women, standing tall, clutching the national flag with tears streaming down her face.
But perhaps there’s a kind of continuity here. Then and now, the flag is everywhere: on the battlefield, on the stage, and, these days, on your dinner table next to the crème brûlée.

My Former Rocket Factory
My former military factory once played a part in China’s modernization drive. It was founded in 1865 by Li Hongzhang, a prominent statesman, as part of the Self-Strengthening Movement. Today, it has been transformed into the 1865 Creative Park. While some key sectors remain, other parts, including my former work unit that produced gauges and measurement tools, have been turned into media companies, design studios, creative industries, and, of course, restaurants.
This morning, after a delicious dim sum, my daughter, my niece Catherine with her husband and son, and I strolled around the grounds of my old factory. To my amazement, I found the very building where I once spent ten years greasing machine parts. In one photo, the gun stands just around the corner; in another, my daughter poses at what was once the entrance to my work unit.
The factory I knew was a place of noise, sweat, and drudgery. Now it hums with music, art works and ideas. Walking through the old gates, I felt time folding in on itself: the young woman I once was, oil-stained and weary, seemed to glance at me across the decades. The creative park is a lively, enchanting place — almost unrecognizable, yet rooted in the same bricks and beams.
I am glad the old factory has been given a second life. And I am glad, too, that I have found mine.

Nanjing Massacre Museum
As a Nanjing native, I have visited the museum many times. Today, I made a point of taking my daughters there, hoping to deepen their understanding of a defining event in the history of our city. Being a national holiday, the crowds were immense, some visitors carrying white chrysanthemums as a tribute. Our guide mentioned that yesterday alone, some 25,000 people came.
The museum, established in 1985 on the site of a mass grave, is dedicated to preserving the memory of the Nanjing Massacre (December 1937 – early 1938), during which an estimated 300,000 civilians and unarmed soldiers lost their lives.
Since my last visit years ago, the museum has been renovated. Once again, I was struck by its design and the power of its presentation. It is vital to remember and preserve history—lessons that should resonate in every aspect of our lives in China today.