China's Top Raw-Eating Ham with a Rosy Aroma

[ Ham ]

My good friend once told me a solemn joke:

Why do people like long-legged partners?

Because in the jungle society, you need to run fast,

And a long-legged partner lives longer.

I said, why not a black-haired pig instead?

A ham story sounds more ancient and sexier.

The first time I heard the concept of raw-eating grade ham was actually from Iberian black pigs. Pigs raised for ham all over the world basically have a “ball lightning” build – short legs are considered beautiful. Jinhua ham uses “two-ends-black” pigs; Xuanwei ham uses Wujin pigs. They’re common cooked hams, all short-legged.

In China, the only universally recognized core region for truly natural raw-eating ham is Nuodeng. The Nuodeng black pig has round, thick, beautiful legs. They look sturdier, but surprisingly carry a delicate rose fragrance. A strange thought drifted through my mind: Should Valentine’s Day ads be changed to “Give a ham, and your hands will carry the scent”? But don’t forget, after enjoying the ham, you’ll need an oil-proof napkin.

It’s hard to pin down when Nuodeng people began eating raw ham, because the flavor is much fresher and sweeter than top overseas hams. So you don’t even need to open a bottle of wine – the ham itself is enough to start the feast. I’ve tasted it many times; the aftertaste has a subtle rose fragrance, just like its core production area – remote, lingering, and enchanting.

Nuodeng Village in Yunlong County sits at an altitude of 1,900 metres at its lowest and 2,300 metres at its highest, right at a bend of the river, bathed in warm, moist air all year round. This environment is extraordinarily suitable for the deep fermentation of ham.

Chasing clouds and stepping through the fragrance of Dali’s glutinous corn and porcini mushroom season, I met Yunnan ham expert Li Xiaofeng. The fruity and milky aromas were rich, no cloying sensation in the throat, the whole palate clear, and a slow-coming sweet aftertaste. China’s best raw-eating ham comes from the marriage of Nuodeng black pigs and Nuodeng well salt – at least three years for a single leg. I was filled with deep respect.

We talked about top-grade ham all the way, so delighted that we didn’t notice the mountain temperature suddenly drop ten degrees. Perfect excuse for an extra dish. He brought my team, straight from the airport, to warm up with Nuodeng’s free-range chicken. In the cool air, a full spoon of chicken fat and ham broth, a genuine earthy yellow, shimmering with oil. Lifting a piece of black-boned chicken (white feathers, black skin, black bones – the Jiangnan version usually has white feathers, black skin, white bones) from that glossy soup, the feeling of being wrapped in bliss is hard to describe. But always worldly about ingredients, I sensed something wrong with the “ham”.

Driven by greed, I fished for clues from Master Xiaofeng:

“Isn’t this a ham production area? Don’t you cook with ham?”

“Top-grade ham, we don’t cook with it.”

Only then did it dawn on me. Of course!

We spiralled up the winding mountain road, nearly dizzy by the time we got off, passed through a pavilion with a couplet: “Created by nature, crafted with divine skill. Let the wind blow, quietly watch the ripples.” I saw the undulating Nuodeng mountains, inside a natural ancient Bagua village – the foot of the mountains veiled in clouds, like a fairyland, straddling the middle of the Shandi Plain, with a green-and-white dual-coloured area resembling a Bagua diagram. The dividing edge is a natural hill that rises like a ham. When Xiaofeng introduced it as “naturally formed”, I stared at him in amazement. He’s probably been asked too many times: “I don’t know how this came to be either. Maybe it’s the gods’ blessing. Behind is the ancient village of Nuodeng. The small natural waterways here have created the mountain spring water of Nuodeng, and our natural microclimate also comes from this place.”

Deep in the white clouds lies Nuodeng’s “salt.”

We travelled late into the night. I woke to the sound of mist and birdsong in the mountains. Outside the window, the whole place is called Nuodeng, a name with over 1,000 years of history. It flourished because of salt, and declined because of salt. After liberation, when sea salt was developed in massive quantities, the ham and salt of this place were sealed away with the thousand-year-old Bai ethnic village.

I heard that every Bai household here can boil down salt, each ladle of brine seeping from the earth at the foot of the mountain. This production has been going on since the Han dynasty, clearly recorded in the Tang dynasty’s Manshu. Nuodeng, because of a single salt well, was already famous at home and abroad in ancient times. During the Northern Song, people from Xinjiang migrated southwards. Because their skin was fairer than the local Yunnan people, they became known as the Bai ethnic group.

According to the Wanli-era Yunnan General Gazetteer: “In the Han dynasty, Yunnan had two wells: Anning Well and Yunlong Well.” The newly compiled Yunnan General Gazetteer verifies that today’s Nuodeng Well is the Yunlong Well of the Han dynasty. Yunlong’s well salt paid annual salt taxes of 38,000 taels of silver in the Ming dynasty. “Before there were roads here, in ancient times mules and horses carried salt down the mountain, and then good things from the central plain were bartered and brought here. So Nuodeng has been very wealthy since ancient times.”

I arrived at Nuodeng ancient village’s first salt-making workshop, called Bingli. I really saw tall “cake-like” salt piled to one side. “This is our traditional Nuodeng pack-salt, shaped for the convenience of horse caravans, also symbolizing ‘good things come in pairs’ – one pair per load. The word ‘pack-salt’ actually shares the same character as the ‘pack’ used for tea in Yunnan.” Hearing Xiaofeng explain, I suddenly understood.

In the whole village there is a famous 21-metre-deep brine well. I entered the Nuodeng salt well brine house, located at the junction of two streams. The house is surrounded by railings, with an eight-chi-square freshwater well shaft and a brine well shaft six chi on each side, with a winch stand above and low wooden boards below. The well is right there. In ancient times they manually drew brine from below and distributed it to each “stove household” to boil salt. “Twin bridges block a narrow gorge, a stream too slender to be a river. Layered paths divide the path ahead, houses piled high on the slope. High ground has few flowers, but in good harvest years there are many drinkers. Nearby, the sound of zithers and pipes; spring nights listening to elegant songs.” That described the Nuodeng of the salt industry’s prosperous era.

A huge cauldron of brine, hot steam rising. A wood fire burns beneath. The salt crust at the bottom naturally forms salt stalactites, looking like century-old white candle wax drips in a grand European cathedral, all furrows and ridges. When sunlight hits, it reflects the glory of the past.

In ancient China there were three Silk Roads: one the Maritime Silk Road, another the Northwest Silk Road. Thinking that I was standing on the Southern Silk Road, also called the Salt-Horse Ancient Road, a sense of reverence arose spontaneously. This road started from Chang’an and went all the way to India. Bisu was the only place for salt production along all the old corridors – and Bisu was the old name for Nuodeng.

Nuodeng ancient village still preserves over four hundred Ming and Qing dynasty residences in architectural styles like “three rooms and one screen wall”, “four-sided courtyard with five sky wells”, “five-drip eaves”, and “one seal”. Following the last remaining horse caravans, sharing bites with the horses, we munched fire-roasted pears by the 1,300-year-old salt well, then traced the salt road along their tracks.

Perhaps it’s divine guidance that salt is an extraordinary gift to this land. The water that drips from Nuodeng salt is called brine. Drinking it diluted can reduce inflammation; it treats eye ailments and tonsillitis. Horses, mules, and ducks here are all prophets – they’ve long known to lick Nuodeng’s salty gemstones. Salt milk is used as medicine locally. When people suffer from eye problems or tonsillitis, they simply dissolve it in water and drink it.

Legend has it that brine was discovered here as well. In the Han dynasty, a shepherdess came to a barren land – present-day Bisu – at noon. She noticed her flock would crowd together to drink water at noon. Eventually she realised they were drinking brine. “Nuodeng salt is squeezed from a well over twenty metres deep. The brine is boiled down to form the raw local salt in our hands. It contains a tiny bit of impurity, which just proves its naturalness. The brine is naturally yellowish, so the boiled salt is not pure white but a natural pale beige. This salt is special – nowadays we’d say it’s high in calcium, rich in potassium, low in sodium, and iodine-free.”

Xiaofeng and I once did an experiment, selecting the best “ham salt” from the world’s finest salts from special regions. “This salt is tasty, very umami, a bit like monosodium glutamate. It’s fine for cooking, but if you use it to cure ham, it might alter the ham’s original aroma. Anything artificially added that changes the ham’s flavour is no good. Salt that’s too salty is the same. For salt selection, you need to choose the most ‘ordinary’ one that doesn’t affect the ham’s true taste. For top-grade ham, I believe it’s the same everywhere!”

Nowadays people shun sodium and nitrites, even excess iodine. But look at the inspection report: traditional Nuodeng ham showed “not detected” for both. I said, incredible!

I pressed Xiaofeng: was that the whole secret? “If I had to say, Nuodeng salt naturally contains an ancient strain of microbes that makes raw-eating ham naturally free of nitrite (you wouldn’t believe it without seeing the report). But it’s naturally occurring.”

Any special technique? None, it’s all natural!

Nuodeng only starts curing ham after Lidong (Start of Winter), which isn’t a technical barrier anywhere in China.

“Ham is originally fresh pork leg. The whole fermentation process is complicated, requiring ripening and air-drying. The simple truth is, if you cure it in summer, without a fridge in the old days the meat would go bad. Even with cold storage now, the humidity and microorganisms can’t match natural conditions.” I followed Li Xiaofeng into the ham factory and saw all sorts of “antique legs”, hanging in a vast array alongside dusty stories of the past, surprisingly desolate and beautiful!

If you hadn’t entered the ham cellar, you’d never understand that the “mould distribution” visibly thickens with age. Xiaofeng pointed at a one-year market ham and said, “The mould has started to rise from the middle; on the top there’s only a thin layer of tiny mould, fermentation hasn’t really begun yet. Because of the curing time – that’s what I mean when I say you need years of aging to make the very best ham.”

On every shelf, the curing time was clearly recorded. “Look from top to middle to bottom. The fermentation interval between each layer of ham is actually 15 to 20 days. Black pigs grow slowly; a one-year-old pig is just qualified to become a ham. When we cure the hind leg, the difference in curing time depending on leg size can be maybe 20 days to a month.”

But when curing ham, the Bai people carefully choose the days!

“During Bingjia days, people cut back on ham curing. Only when Shengjia days arrive do we start curing in big volumes.”

“Shengjia, Bingjia?”

I then remembered the saying “On the summer solstice, the third Geng day enters the dog days; on the winter solstice, when it meets Bing, the cold begins” – it’s about using the Heavenly Stems to observe climate patterns. In ham production areas, the theoretical curing season runs each year from Shuangjiang (Frost’s Descent) until Lichun (Beginning of Spring), mainly concentrated between Dongzhi (Winter Solstice) and Xiaohan (Minor Cold), a very brief period. As for storage, because of the climate, ordinary hams need special human intervention to preserve them, but here in Nuodeng it’s completely natural.

“There are two nodes for curing ham, which are our traditional terms: Shengjia and Bingjia. A very strange phenomenon: we cure ham from the winter solstice until minor cold, every month there’s a batch. In between, there’s about a week of Bingjia. What is this Bingjia? Actually, it’s the climate effect of the whole environment. During Bingjia, odd things tend to happen. In the old days, cutting firewood during Bingjia – back then they often needed wood for fires – trees would be full of moisture and never fully dry out. The same goes for ham.”

I specifically compared the entire fermentation process of Nuodeng ham with foreign hams. “For Spanish hams, for example, the Mediterranean climate, the whole fermentation process is in cellars with constant temperature and humidity, so fermentation time increases. Due to high humidity, their hams need relatively longer.”

“Nuodeng ham in China undergoes semi-air-dried natural fermentation. After the ham is prepared, we naturally hang it in airing rooms or fermentation rooms to let it dry. Time allows the moulds to keep changing; wind and temperature age it. During this process, moisture, fat, and oil gradually diminish over time. When you eat the ham, it will feel slightly firmer, and the sweet aftertaste will come a little more slowly.”

In truth, the ham craze in the Chinese market owes thanks to the past decade when Spanish raw-eating ham dominated the global standard discourse. The Yunnan Nuodeng ham team took part in a blind tasting competition in Shanghai in 2017, with Xiaofeng as the team leader. He confessed honestly: “Actually, before the event, we were quite anxious. Although I had great confidence in the quality of our ham, after all, we weren’t on equal footing. Before going on stage, we comforted ourselves: as long as we don’t lose too embarrassingly when the scores come out, that’s fine.” That day he invited 100 prominent local foodies and bloggers in Shanghai for a blind tasting. No wine was provided. So I asked, what happened next?

“When the score came out, we were very honoured: we won by a narrow margin of 52 to 48, four votes. We couldn’t believe the result at the time. It was a kind of recognition for all these years of insisting on making top raw-eating ham!”

“Yes, except those foreigners don’t know that eating ham plain can be so milky, with a hint of rose fragrance, a clean aftertaste, and even a sweetness.” I said, savouring a plate of Yunnan Nuodeng ham.

“The aftertaste is truly wonderful, and the salt level is low. Not everyone is used to pairing ham with wine. That would take so long to finish...” By the time he said this, I had already polished off the plate.

“Although Nuodeng ham’s sweet aftertaste comes slowly, once it arrives, it lasts. The entire mouth and throat never have that cloying feeling!” Xiaofeng added.

The best part for eating raw is the “middle cut”, about three-tenths of an inch from the bone, with even and fine fat marbling – what is commonly called marbling. That part is close to the maza of Spanish ham; for a ham carver it gives a high yield. But actually, if properly kept, a whole Nuodeng ham aged three years or more is excellent for eating raw, each part with its own charm – plump or lean, each has its merits!

I saw the ham carver slicing the leg, sparkling in the light. For ham experts, those crystals are the ham’s “growth rings”. The crystals are actually monosodium glutamate, physical MSG. During fermentation, as years pass, the crystals grow larger and larger. “At the beginning, one to one and a half years, it may be just tiny granules. After one and a half to two years, they grow to crystal grains like broken rice. We use the simplest method to determine a ham’s fermentation age. When you cut open the whole leg, look for crystals; if they’re there, it’s at least a year old.”

The mould is alive, with its own strains and viability rate; I even felt those crystals were alive. The formation of these crystals is a comprehensive art of humidity, temperature, altitude, wind direction, and even the ham maker’s mood. Jiangnan’s “out-of-vat meat” is local pork cured for 15 days. “Nanfeng meat” is cured for three months and must be from the front leg, so it’s also called “wind leg”, with a golden ratio of fat to lean. “Nanfeng” – southern wind – as the name suggests, tastes best when the southern wind starts blowing. Ordinary salted meat cured for one year is of the salty-dry type, easy to preserve, but generally has no crystals. Ham is the supreme among them; in sunlight, it glitters like diamonds inside. Only when ham has fermented beyond 12 months, then entering 18 months to a year and a half, do crystals gradually form.

If the place changes, the flavour, colour, and aroma all change. I believe the village elders who say that Nuodeng ham can only be made here; once you leave Nuodeng, it can’t be cured.

Nuodeng is also the only place among all of China’s ham-producing regions that maintains a constant temperature all year round, like a giant ham freshness cabinet. Every year, Liu Xin, owner of Hong 0871 Yunnan Cuisine, comes to the home of Nuodeng ham to buy this specialty of Dali’s Bai people. To preserve the ham, he goes to great lengths. Liu Xin himself is a master of Yunnan cuisine, and for the sake of a good raw-eating ham, he didn’t hesitate to build China’s and even Asia’s first constant-temperature, constant-humidity ham room.

Detecting ham by its aroma, Xiaofeng became good friends with Liu Xin because of ham. He said that once they tried to take the same leg, same raw materials, same master, but to a place lower down the mountain to cure it. The whole flavour just didn’t emerge. “It was divine. I sent it for testing, and some bad indicators would appear. Not like now, where everything is ‘not detected’. The place of origin cannot be replicated, the weather cannot be replicated. Only ham cured in this place has this kind of flavour and this kind of quality.”

After days of persistent rain, I finally got home from a business trip, with a mountain of writing debts. I usually turn down dinner invitations, spend time writing at a café not far from home, and make myself a ham salad in the morning to get by. In spring and summer, I add endive, rocket, mulberries to my ham salad, a few drops of balsamic vinegar, and a bit of nuts, cheese, even honeycomb. In autumn and winter, I cook a sunny-side-up egg and small vegetable pot, finally topping it with my beloved ham. The ham in the salad can also be as warm as skin. I warm the plate in the oven, then lay the ham slices on top, eating them all warm and oily.

Time ripples out from here, including that wonderful journey a few years ago, seeming as if it were right before my eyes. An elegant ham carver does not necessarily have beautiful legs. But once you’ve witnessed their tender battle with the leg, you understand why it’s a profession that can earn $4,000 an hour. Florencio Sanchidrián, the greatest Spanish ham master featured in “Once Upon a Bite”, was born in Ávila, Spain, and makes 200 hams a year. My good friend Teresa, a Spanish ham expert, tells me that Florencio Sanchidrián is now Spain’s most famous ham carver, who has carved for prominent political figures. In 1986 he won first prize in a Spanish ham carving competition. In 2004, he was appointed by the International Academy of Gastronomy as World Ambassador for Iberian Ham. In 2013, the New York Times called him a rock star in the world of ham.

China’s raw-eating ham once attracted no interest. It was Spanish ham that extended the beautiful legs I admire. Before, I only ate it cooked; now I can have it raw. In Chinese ham factories, everyone is a carver, but no one ever paid attention to their skill.

In a small Spanish town, I once ate freshly carved ham. That carver was calm as if strolling in a garden. In my heart automatically played a Spanish bullfighting tune, as the knife danced delicately, gliding like reeling silk, slowly drawing out “cicada wings” from the blade’s tip. He rolled a slice effortlessly in the light; when he teased my lips with it, I couldn’t help my chest heating, couldn’t help trembling. That was an unbearable lightness of my life – a beautiful and dangerous experience. If he ever came to China to taste this rare fine leg, his knife, too, would find fulfilment in this life.

Deep in the mountains, it’s hard to find. Inside Hong 0871 is the only ham room in the country, the place I most want to infiltrate like 007 to crack its code – inside hang nothing but three-year-plus Nuodeng long legs. The ham room meticulously replicates all the fermentation conditions of the Nuodeng production area. This precise semi-air-dried fermentation ensures that each long leg still has its original aroma.

Just thinking about it makes my own legs seem longer.

D O Y O U L I K E H A M ?

“There are more people waking up at the same second

than falling asleep at the same second.”

Food Bless You!

Consultant for “Once Upon a Bite”

Host of “The Godlike Table”

Producer of “Food Wild China” and “Life Worth Living 369”