Beijing's economic revolution is overthrowing the cabbage culture

By Ted Anthony
Associated Press

Rickety trucks from one-horse towns streamed into the city, laden with heads of "da baicai" — big cabbage. It is known more widely in the United States as napa cabbage, or by its Cantonese name, bok choy.

Folks queued their donkey carts and wheelbarrows, anxiously stocking up. Refrigeratorless families by the millions lined gray rooftops with edible green shingles.

Last week, the cabbages came, right on schedule. But it's not like it used to be.

With each November's passing, the fuel of the proletarian revolution is becoming simply another lifestyle choice in a shiny city of dizzying selections. And therein lies a tale — of economic progress, increasing affluence, and a generation of pickier palates weaned on Pizza Hut.

"Old grandpas still fondly remember da baicai. But for people my age, it's just like any other vegetable," said Dong Yue, 34. He oversees marketing for Dayanglu, one of Beijing's largest wholesale produce markets. Its inventory this week includes 109 varieties of vegetables.

In recent days, vendors from all corners of the land have brought their perishable harvests to Dayanglu for the pre-winter rush. Color is splashed everywhere: scarlet bell peppers, emerald hot peppers, deep-purple eggplants.

Armed with the inventory of available vegetables, Dong ticks off those that many farmers hadn't heard of a decade ago. When he's done, 50 of the 109 items are checked — everything from iceberg lettuce and celery to the more exotic "monkey-head mushrooms."

"Lines for da baicai? You won't see that anymore," said Gao Zhanmin, laughing as his half-full truck of cabbages loomed behind him. "They want one bunch, they just go out and buy it. They don't need to fill their homes with it anymore."

Twenty years ago, 95 percent of sales at Beijing's wholesale produce markets came from da baicai. Ten years ago, it was between 50 and 70 percent. This year, Dong expects just 9 percent of Dayanglu's sales to come from the cabbage.

Last week, the government's Xinhua News Agency said demand for da baicai is expected to plummet yet again, this time by 8.3 percent from 2002.

"The house vegetable of Beijing has lost its vaunted position," Xinhua said with a whiff of lament.

It's hardly disappearing: In 2001, the average Beijing resident consumed 77 pounds of the cabbage. But China's two-decade experiment in capitalism has brought extraordinary changes to everyday life, and even to cabbage.

When economic reform began in the late 1970s, Beijing was emerging from Mao Zedong's Cultural Revolution. Restaurants, scorned for years as bourgeois, were rare. Among winter's few certainties were the odor of burning coal, the wizened men on street corners selling sunflower seeds from burlap sacks, and the cabbage.

Da baicai became Beijing's culinary canvas. There was cabbage in sour sauce. Cabbage soup. Cabbage and bean curd. Braised cabbage over rice. And on special days, cabbage dumplings — sometimes with a bit of minced pork.

"There were no other vegetables. And no one could have afforded them anyway," said Ma Laicang, owner of the Old Beijing Zhajiang Noodle King, a restaurant offering several cabbage dishes.

A 1988 shortage caused panic buying, and a glut the following year left 80,000 tons of cabbage piled in the streets. The mayor invoked patriotism and ordered public offices, schools, factories and army units to stock up. The cabbage crisis ebbed.

In 1992, the government cut its cabbage subsidy. Five years later, it deregulated the price. Popularity plummeted. Why hoard cabbage when so many other delicacies were available?

In today's Beijing, the French superstore Carrefour sells fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, nine varieties of mushrooms and an entire aisle of canned vegetables — a sharp contrast to Beijing of 1980, when an average Chinese couldn't buy a Coca-Cola without knowing a foreigner.

And, in an indication of the way China is going, many truckloads of da baicai are headed south — it seems diners in Guangdong province are hungry for a taste of old Beijing.

"It's a delicacy there," said Hou Li, a vegetable seller. "Now southern vegetables come north and northern vegetables go south. City kids today, they have no idea where the things in their bowl come from. One day, they'll think watermelons come from trees."