As the fog lifts, the outline of Liugong Island emerges from the indigo waters, and the whistles of fishing boats cut through the morning haze. Weihai awakens, the clink of anchors against the docks creates a clear sound, and the sea breeze carries a salty, fishy flavor, the unique code for freshness that comes from the 37th parallel north. The fog not only blurs the line between heaven and sea, but also evokes the city's obsession with "freshness" – not seasonal freshness, but the sharp, savory, fresh-from-the-waves, vibrant flavors.
For Weihai residents, the most important element in their fresh food is its "qi." Fish, shrimp, crab, and shellfish must never be frozen carcasses; they must be served with gills spread and tails trembling, carrying the memory of their last gulp of seawater straight into the wok. This "qi" is a life-or-death struggle, the soul of seafood. Seafood here is not often cooked elaborately, and the Weihai kitchen god is undoubtedly a rather impatient person. A pot of water, half a ladle of sea salt, and a few slices of scallion and ginger—that's all it takes. Oysters, scallops, and shrimp are dumped into the steamer and steamed over high heat. In a split second, the hard shells crackle, revealing trembling tender flesh. Steam, laced with a rich, fishy aroma, rises. This stench is a shock to a stranger's nose, but a clarion call to the lungs of a Weihai native. Steaming is the cruelest form of mercy, instantly entrapping the soul and leaving no escape for the umami. Eating requires even greater swiftness, not caring about the red burns on your fingertips. A light dip of ginger vinegar is quickly thrust into your mouth, as if a second's delay would betray the ocean's gift.
If steaming is the queen, then pickling is the alluring concubine. Weihai pickling eschews the rich, oily sauces of Jiangnan, instead using strong liquor, seasoned with minced garlic, pepper, and ginger, to fiercely dismantle the taboos of eating raw food. For drunken crab, plump swimming crabs are required, submerged in the liquor, and refrigerated overnight. When you open the lid, the aroma of wine mixed with the freshness of crab pierces your nose. The roe is as yellow as amber. As you breathe it in, the sweetness and the strength of the wine clash between your teeth, unleashing a truly refreshing taste. Pickled oysters require even greater courage. As the meat slides down your throat, the wildness of the sea instantly explodes. After the salty, fishy flavor, a strange sweetness emerges, like kissing the crest of a wave and then falling into the abyss.
But Weihai offers more than just the sea. Mountains wind around the city's ridges, pushing the bounty of the land to the brink of the tideline. The goats on Licha Island graze on salty shrubs, resulting in a firm, mutton-free meat. Cut into large chunks and stewed for a long time with a sprinkle of wild Sichuan peppercorns, the meat's aroma is as rich as the mountains, yet lingers with a lingering hint of the sea breeze. And that's not to mention the "fish pot pancakes," a fusion of mountain and sea: a simmering iron pot with mixed fish in the bottom, corn pancakes affixed to the sides. The fresh fish rises with the steam, the rough pores of the pancake absorbing its essence. The pancake's grainy aroma sinks into the broth, dispelling the fishy odor. The moment the lid is opened, the mountains and sea meet, creating a truly delicious feast.
The Weihai people's love of fresh food is a philosophy forged by survival. In the past, fishermen risked their lives at sea, eating fresh food not only to fill their stomachs but also to devour the ocean's power. While they no longer worry about famine, their demand for fresh food is ingrained in their genes. They know that freshness, like morning dew, is fleeting, and they refuse to slack off. This eagerness stems not from scarcity, but from a reverence for a gift from heaven: the ocean is both violent and generous, and only with the utmost speed and simplicity can its deepest essence be extracted.
As dusk lingers, the lights of the seafood stalls gradually light up. The white mist from the steamers intertwines with the smoke from the grills, and the clatter of beer sipped mingles with the hum of the tide. The fishy smell of the sea between the traveler's teeth and cheeks is the mark of Weihai; and the people of Weihai themselves have long since put the entire ocean into their stomachs.
