Made in China: Chili Hot

The wait for a table at Beijing's Feiteng Yuxiang restaurant is rarely less than 30 minutes, even on weeknights. The restaurant serves up all the Sichuan standards and does them well, but those who brave the crowd and endure the wait know exactly why they've come: for the shuizhu yupian, or "boiled fish slices." The dish that packs them in is no more appetizing in presentation than it is in name. The fish -- typically, slices of catfish or a southern species the Chinese call "black fish" -- is served in utilitarian, stainless steel washbasins, filled to overflowing with deadly looking chilies and pungent huajiao, or Sichuan peppercorns, all swimming in what must be two liters of oil. A waitress comes by with a straining ladle and deftly scoops out the chilies and the tongue-numbing huajiao, and dinner is served. The taste is absolutely out of this world.

Six months ago, barely a soul in Beijing had heard of the stuff. But nowadays shuizhu yupian is all the rage, the latest in a long series of culinary crazes to have seized the capital in the last decade. Up until the mid-1980s, it was still hard to find decent restaurants in town; most were dreary, state-run eateries with wretched service and unimaginative menus. Back then the Moscow -- the Stalin-esque monstrosity known affectionately as Lao Mo -- was the destination of choice for anyone bent on dining out. But with increasing disposable incomes, Beijingers started eating out in growing numbers, and enterprising restaurateurs rushed in from all corners of the country to meet the demand. One successful eatery would spawn a dozen imitators, setting off a full- fledged food fad that would last until the next thing came along.

The first few fads focused, for whatever reason, entirely on mutton. In the late '80s, the Muslim Uighur cuisine of northwest China's Xinjiang province -- dishes like la tiaozi, hand-stretched noodles stir-fried with sliced mutton and veggies, and the now ubiquitous cumin-flavored lamb skewers called yangrou chuan'r -- took off among young Beijingers looking for a taste of the exotic. Mutton fever continued through the mid-90s, with an explosion of restaurants specializing in shuanyangrou, or Mongolian hotpot, an old Beijing classic and still a wintertime favorite, consisting of paper-thin slices of lamb flash- cooked in boiling broth and dipped in a sesame-based paste. This was followed by the sudden popularity of yang xiezi, a stew made with lamb vertebrae. Then there was hongmen yangrou ("red-simmered lamb"), a richly spiced mutton stew originating in Henan province, that appeared in 1995, peaked in popularity in 1997 and has since, inexplicably, all but disappeared.

Shanghainese cooking -- relatively bland, sweet and delicate -- did enjoy a brief period of popularity in the late 1990s, but Beijingers' palates demand more vigorous stimulus. It's no surprise then that the last few years have been dominated by Sichuan cooking. Mala tang (an assortment of goodies strung together like kebabs and dipped in hot chili oil) and the closely related Chongqing hotpot, were all the rage among Beijingers in 1998 and 1999. Then it was shuancai yutou tang (Sichuanese sour cabbage and fish head soup) in 2000. Earlier this year, it was mala xiao longxia (spicy crayfish), served in great heaps that leave flame-red chili stains on diners' shirts. As Peking palates get increasingly jaded, the half-life of a food fad gets increasingly short.

At the moment there's no better place to get a grip on Beijingers' latest cravings than Ghost Street (Gui Jie), a two-kilometer stretch of road entirely lined with 24-hour restaurants, with every regional Chinese cuisine amply represented. The street really gets hopping in the wee hours of the morning, when it's packed with the capital's night crawlers -- hostesses, late-shift cabbies, and a motley crew of miscreants. Regular dining hours sees a more civilized Ghost Street, where you can sample the latest taste sensation or try any of the greatest hits of yesteryear. Each passing food craze has left in its wake a few exemplary eateries out of the dozens that initially appear, with a few of the survivors inevitably to be found on Ghost Street.

All these fads have transformed what was once a gastronomically challenged city into a culinary capital. Sichuanese friends have even confessed to me that some of the Sichuan restaurants in Beijing are every bit as good as those in Chengdu and Chongqing, though you have to know where to find them. With its diverse and ever changing offering of terrific eateries, Beijing has already eclipsed Hong Kong as the discerning diner's destination of choice. Taipei, long recognized as Asia's premier food city, has enjoyed that reputation largely because its population includes Chinese from all over Greater China. With all the regional restaurateurs converging on Beijing in recent years, the old Northern Capital is now a strong contender for Taipei's crown.