Okay, maybe "love" is an overstatement.

Not long after I filmed the Donghuamen Night Market segment with CBS (but before it aired), I was contacted by KGW, Portland's NBC affiliate. Stephanie Stricklen, the correspondent, wanted to shoot an odd street food story for the Portland area, and of course, I obliged. (According to an online pole, viewers had insisted she try scorpion.) She was also excited to learn that Jacob is an ex-Oregonian, and thus his appearance in the segment.

This KWG clip which aired on August 19th shows both the Donghuamen Night Market and the slightly less tourisy Wangfujing Snack Street.

I always thought that if I ever tried eating bugs, it would be on a dare, for a ton of money. Then last weekend I found myself at the Donghuamen Night Market with a CBS crew, trying centipedes, silkworms, and other odd critters for a CBS Early Edition segment. (More photos following the video.) 

You can also see the video on CBS's site.)

The story of Jiumen Xiaochi (九门小吃）begins like many other stories of snack sellers in modern Beijing. Menkuang Hutong was a street where families sold traditional snacks using recipes and and skills that got passed down for generations. The hutong demolished some years back, to make room for new developments.

This story, though, has a happy ending. Eleven vendors got relocated to the new Jiumen Xiaochi, a collection of stalls now housed in a traditional courtyard. Some of these snacks, like bingtang hulu, can be found all over Beijing. Others, like flour tea, are a bit more unusual.

The restaurant is at the end of an meandering hutong off a larger road, not any place you would stumble upon. Jake and I made a lunch date and followed a map, walking 10 minutes or so from Jishuitan subway station. We bought a card from the reception desk (located in the dining area, not the entrance way), and ordered away.

Suanlamian, or sour and spicy noodles, was on display in its naked form. Instead of being doused with chilli sauce, the yellow and brown wheat noodles came with some peppers and cilantro on top, and a dish of chilli sauce on the side so you can adjust according to your spiciness threshold.

If you have been to Beijing*, you've most likely come across this street scene: a bunch of people crowded around a street vendor, picking out skewers from a bubbling hot red broth. Others are standing around munching on the their bounty with a look of ecstasy on their faces. Passersby, drawn by the sight or smells or possibly even the pheromones of the people in ecstasy, join the crowd. You wonder, what is all this?

Málàtāng seems to be more of a magnet than most other highly addictive street food. Most likely it's because of the number of choices you get. Shrimp, fish balls, tofu, bean curd, lotus root, mushrooms, chicken, beef tendon, noodles, and much more get cooked in a pot of steaming broth laced with Sichuan peppers and sesame oil. You get a plate or take-out container and make your selection either blindly or informed, by asking nicely and trying to remember if there's a chapter on animal parts in your phrasebook. No matter, because everything is cooked through and more often than not, delicious. At 1 rmb or 50 jiao per skewer, you can have a light snack for 3 rmb or stuff yourself for 10 rmb.

Even on the bleakest of Beijing's winter days, many corners of the city are lit up with bright colors. These are the corners where the bīngtáng húlù vendors stand, selling their skewers of candied fruit.

The traditional form of bīngtáng húlù 冰糖葫芦 is a skewer of about half a dozen hawthorns that are dipped in a sugar syrup, which hardens into a shiny candy coating. The snack is most popular during fall and winter months, when the hawthorn and its cousin the crab apple are in season. Hawthorns, called shānzhā (山楂) in Chinese, are also used in juices, jams, even alcoholic drinks. The Chinese believe that hawthorns aid digestion, so this is one sugar-ladened treat that you shouldn't feel guilty eating. At least, I don't.

Did I mention that adults love this as much as kids do? It's not uncommon to see adults going about mundane tasks like grocery shopping or commuting home, munching on a shiny fruit kebab with the nonchalantness of a Westerner sipping a cup of take-out coffee.

Isn't she a beauty?

Ever since coming to Beijing I've been addicted to ròujiāmó 肉夹馍. This snack, which originated from Xi'an in Shanxi province, consists of pork, herbs, shredded lettuce, and chilli sauce stuffed into a pita-like pocket. It reminds me of the Middle Eastern shwarma pockets I would get in NYC from street vendors, though ròujiāmó with its juicy juicy pork is decidedly un-halal.

Ròujiāmó can be found in many snack shops and street stands around Beijing (and Xi'an, Shanghai, etc.). Most are already prepared with a decent amount of pork sitting neatly inside. The ones I'm addicted to, however, are the ones that are made to order. The vendor would splice off fatty pork off the rotisserie spit, chop up the meat, and mix it with lettuce, cucumber, onions, and chilli sauce. She would then stuff the contents into a warm pocket. The ròujiāmó is subsequently so overflowing with pork that there's no way you can eat it without getting messy. But it looks and smells and tastes so delicious that you just don't care.

We were walking by the Zhongyou Department Store tonight when we saw the familiar lights and crowds that indicated excellent street food was near. That area, near the 77th Street Underground Mall and an underground arcade, was full of kids and 20-somethings lining up for delicious, cheap eats. Or rather, crowding in and pushing forward for delicious, cheap eats. Forming orderly lines for anything here is not exactly ingrained into the national psyche.

Of course, big crowds are usually helpful in judging which stand has the best food. At Tiānxià Tèsè Miàn 天下特色面, about 10 or 15 people were vying for who would be next for an order of kebabs or spicy noodles. We pushed in as well, and were pushed aside by the next couple. In this type of situation the best thing to do is be patient and hold your ground. Waving money, particularly exact change, helps the vendor notice you.

We glanced at the menu but ordered what everyone else was ordering, which was suànlàfěn 酸辣粉, or spicy and sour noodles. Almost everyone in front of us added an ice-cream-scoop size dollop of chilli sauce on their noodles. We added just a large spoonful. As for the taste? Hot, hot, hot, but well-balanced by the sour kick of vinegar and the crunchiness of roasted peanuts.