Beijing Hutong Food Walk

Beijing's hutongs are the capillaries of this ancient city. One sunny weekend, I decided to measure every brick of Nanluoguxiang with my taste buds.

Emerging from the subway station, I turned into the main alley of Nanluoguxiang. The crowds were denser than I had imagined. On both sides, old gray-brick houses with gray-tiled roofs had been converted into various little shops, but if you looked closely, the carved eaves and stone door piers still bore the flavor of centuries past. I didn't rush into the shops. Instead, I ducked into a side alley called Yu'er Hutong — much quieter there. A few old men sat at the doorway playing Chinese chess, a radio crackling with Peking opera. This was the hutong I had imagined.

Back on the main street, it wasn't long before I spotted the storefront of Wenyu Cheese Shop. The shop wasn't large, but people were queuing outside. It's said to be one of the capital's most time-honored imperial cheese makers, with recipes passed down through generations of master craftsmen. I ordered a plain cheese. Scooping into it with a spoon, the texture was somewhere between yogurt and pudding — icy, smooth, and tender on the tongue, with a hint of sweet fermented rice amid the creamy richness. A completely different world from those industrial cheeses in the supermarket.

When I left Wenyu, dusk was falling. I headed east along Gulou East Street, aiming for Yaoji Fried Liver Shop. For outsiders, Beijing-style fried liver might be a "threshold dish" — a gooey, dark sauce swimming with pork liver and intestines, hardly what you'd call refined in appearance. But one bite and the garlic and fermented bean paste aromas explode on your palate. The liver slices are tender without a trace of gaminess, the intestines immaculately cleaned. Paired with two steaming hot pork-and-scallion buns, on a late autumn evening it felt like pure salvation.

Sitting in the shop, watching pedestrians hurry past the window and the silhouette of the Drum Tower in the distance, I suddenly understood why Beijingers are always saying "let's eat and drink a bit." This is perhaps the most enchanting thing about hutong cuisine — it's not Michelin-starred dining, but in the most unadorned, down-to-earth flavors, it tethers the soul of a city firmly in place.