Asia - Éva Zsuzsa Trembácz author

Thirteen years, four continents – that’s how my journey began

2025.07.07.2025.07.03. by evazsuzsa@gmail.com

Fourteen years ago, on a warm June day, I was sitting in a café on Ráday Street with my boyfriend. He was working in Budapest as an American diplomat, and his assignment was coming to an end in just two months. “Are you sure you’ll follow me—wherever I end up in the world?” he asked. Looking back, my confident “yes” was wrapped in pink clouds and a fair amount of boldness.

His job requires relocating every two to three years, and in that dreamy moment, I imagined myself strolling through Central Park, buying fresh basil at markets in Rome, and attending plays in London.

Reality turned out to be far more rustic, tangled—and wonderfully unpredictable.
I volunteered for a children’s organization in Beijing, welcomed VIP guests at a luxury hotel in Washington, D.C., awaited the birth of my daughter in Senegal, applied my communication background to HR in China, taught Hungarian to enthusiastic Americans, worked as a full-time mom, and reported from Bosnia for Radio Bézs in Hungary.

My hobbies adapted to wherever we lived: I biked alongside thousands of locals through Beijing’s bustling streets, took online writing classes during the sweltering heat of Dakar, explored American graffiti in art galleries built on old Beijing factory sites, danced barefoot to African drums in the sand, jogged along the Pearl River in Guangzhou, and hiked the hills surrounding Sarajevo. For the past five years, I’ve been sharing my stories and reflections on our lifestyle on the Hungarian magazine site wmn.hu.

I was six when my classmate Jutka walked into school with a beautiful doll one day. “My dad brought it from the end of the world,” she said. I had no idea where the end of the world was, but her words stayed with me.
Was there a cliff at the edge of it? What did it look like? Who lived there?

I didn’t know the answers, but I was sure of one thing: the place must be foreign, far away—and full of wonder.
Since then, I’ve been to many places that fit that childhood vision. And this is where I tell those stories.

Pumpkin, Beetroot, and My Beloved Cantonese Market

2025.07.04.2025.07.03. by evazsuzsa@gmail.com

Beets and butternut squash – these are the two vegetables I adore à la nature, without even a pinch of salt. And in Guangzhou, finding them felt like winning the produce lottery under the rarest alignment of stars.

I biked to my beloved local market twice a week – partly out of my devotion to markets, partly to preserve my peace of mind. I loved the explosion of color: golden mangoes, cascading clusters of lychees, pink dragon fruit, piles of deep green broccoli and okra.

I was stunned at first to see eggs and meat left unrefrigerated even in the sweltering 36°C heat. But my Hong Kong friend, living proof that meat bought under these conditions can be consumed for nearly four decades without issue, helped me let go of my Euro-centric food safety standards.

Shopping during siesta time had its own challenges. Sellers lay napping on camping beds right under hanging slabs of pork shoulder or ham hocks. The air was thick and sauna-like, with men in half-pulled-up shirts lounging in the heat.

I also loved the vibrant little world surrounding the market itself. Men sat on tiny plastic stools at food stalls serving steamed buns filled with meat or sweet red bean paste, all in bamboo baskets.

Next to massage parlors, small shops offered a dizzying variety of teas – shelves stacked high with green, oolong, jasmine, and herbal blends. Then there was the favorite of the younger crowd: the juice stand, serving ice-cold guava, mango, and lime drinks to beat the Cantonese heat.

And the scene wouldn’t be complete without the giant green plants crammed onto the smallest balconies, adding to the lush, year-round greenery of the already tree-lined streets.

Back to where it all started—there were two vegetables I simply couldn’t find in Canton: pumpkin and beetroot. Both have long been favorites of mine, not only for their taste but for the cozy fall and winter feeling they bring into the kitchen.
But that feeling was completely absent in subtropical southern China, where even late November only slightly eased the 91–97°F (33–36°C) heat and 88% humidity. The coldest we ever got was a “chilly” 50°F (10°C) in January.

Now, here in Istanbul, the markets are overflowing with pumpkins and beets. In a spontaneous moment, I made this salad inspired by their aroma—and the color harmony amazed me. Even more so the scent: due to lack of time, I roasted the beets and pumpkin together, and with that, fall—finally arriving at a mild 68°F (20°C)—made its way into my kitchen.

Ingredients:

1/2 lb (about 9 oz) pumpkin, cubed
3 medium beets
1 handful baby spinach
5 oz cooked quinoa
2 tbsp crumbled feta cheese
2 tbsp pomegranate seeds
1 tbsp pumpkin seeds
A few sprigs fresh cilantro (or parsley)

Dressing:

Juice of 1 small lemon
4 tbsp olive oil
1 tsp mustard
2 tsp honey
Salt to taste

Preparation:

Once my kitchen filled with the divine smell of roasting veggies, I layered the baby spinach and cooked quinoa in a large bowl.
I chopped up the roasted beets and pumpkin, added a sprinkle of feta, pomegranate seeds, and pumpkin seeds, then topped it off with a bit of cilantro—because the color harmony just called for it.
For the dressing, I whisked together all the ingredients listed above and drizzled it on top.

The Final Result:

Peasant Food with a Twist: Spicy Potatoes from China

2025.07.04.2025.07.03. by evazsuzsa@gmail.com

It was my grandmother who first told me that potatoes were “the food of the poor” – cheap, long-lasting, and filling.
Luckily, they can be prepared in so many ways – and I love them all.

My love for potatoes was fueled early on by the experiences I gathered in my grandmother’s kitchen – and by her heavenly cooking.
Back in the 1980s, keto-protein diets and glycemic indexes were concepts no one had even heard of, and potatoes weren’t banished to nutritional purgatory. In fact, among the winter staples of the time – potatoes, carrots, onions, and cabbage – they had a place of honor.

On cold December afternoons, while the fire crackled in the stove and sparrows pecked away at the feeder outside, we would cook in the small room set up as a winter kitchen.
We fried potato flatbreads (krumplilángos), filled soft potato-dough pastries with thick plum jam and sautéed them golden in oil, and made homemade mayonnaise for potato salad – slowly, patiently, one drop of oil at a time.
I’ve never eaten a potato-based plum-jam pastry since, and despite all my searching, I’ve never found that recipe online.

Over the years, many recipes have come and gone, but my devotion to potatoes has never faded – and this spicy, peanut-topped potato dish you see in the photo only deepened it.
It wasn’t love at first bite, though. Despite having lived in China for six years, potatoes were never a prominent part of local cuisine – neither in Beijing nor in southern Guangzhou.
Among the astonishing variety of vegetable dishes, there was usually just one potato item on the menu: julienned potatoes in a spicy-sour sauce.
It was tasty, but between the numbing Szechuan-pepper cabbage, the stir-fried green beans sprinkled with bits of pork, and the perfectly crunchy broccoli, my love of potatoes took a back seat for a while.

What I loved most about life in China was that every day held something surprising, something unexpected.
In the narrow alleyways behind the hundred-story towers of Guangzhou – among old bicycles and laundry hanging from balconies – it felt as if time had rewound a few decades.

On a grimy hotplate at a Beijing street corner, I once had the best egg-and-chili pancake (jian bing) I’ve ever tasted.
In the summer heat, local men would roll up their shirts to proudly reveal their bellies.
At my favorite Beijing market, I once stumbled upon fresh curd cheese – and in a side street in Guangzhou, dried seahorses were being sold from a plastic bucket.

Each morning on my bike, on the way to work, I’d pass a woman in her sixties who always walked backwards.
In well-kept parks, small groups waltzed to cassette music, others did tai chi, and self-declared opera lovers sang their favorite arias out loud.

Kantoni sikátor — Guangzhou’s Narrow Street

Felhőkarcolók — Guangzhou, Seen from the Banks of the Pearl River

Csikóhal műanyagbödönből — Seahorse Vendor in Guangzhou

We stumbled upon a tiny second-floor restaurant in Guangzhou by pure chance.
It was tucked away and served dishes from western China – bold, flavorful, and unfamiliar.
That’s where I first tasted this spicy potato dish, and it was so delicious that I insisted we celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary with it.

I ended up recreating it in Istanbul, thanks to a weekend lockdown that gave me time to experiment.
Here’s how it went:

Ingredients:

500g potatoes, thinly sliced

For the sauce:

1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon flour
3 tablespoons oil
A thumb-sized piece of ginger
3 garlic cloves
1 hot chili pepper
150g peanuts
1 bunch of scallions
Fresh coriander

I baked the potatoes at 180°C (350°F) for 20 minutes, then tossed them in the sauce mixture.
After that, I stir-fried them in a wok with hot oil.
When they were about halfway done, I added the peanuts to let them toast a little.
I finished the dish with fresh coriander – though I admit I forgot to sprinkle sesame seeds on top.

To be honest, they didn’t turn out quite as crispy as the original version, so I’ll keep experimenting.
At my husband’s request, next time I’ll even add numbing-hot Szechuan peppercorns for that authentic fiery kick!

Green Beans and Kung Fu Panda

2025.07.04.2020.09.25. by evazsuzsa@gmail.com

Nyíregyháza, 1980s

Growing up, I only knew them in two forms: dill-infused green bean soup and dill-infused green bean stew. I wasn’t a picky eater at all, but these two dishes made it onto the very short list of foods I just couldn’t stomach—because of one culprit: dill. Its smell alone could drive me out of the kitchen.
Where I’m from, in Szabolcs (Eastern Hungary), we called green beans long beans, and they weren’t even green—they were pale yellow, unlike the deep green, buttery sautéed kind that started showing up in the ’90s.

The real turning point in my relationship with green beans came thanks to a Chinese dish called gan bian siji dou—dry-fried green beans with garlic, chili, and umami-rich flavors. Ever since that first bite, I’ve been hooked. I could honestly eat it every single day.

Beijing, Late August 2008

We moved to Beijing just one month before the Olympics.
At the time, the nearly 20-million-strong metropolis was bustling with preparations. Architecturally fascinating structures awaited the athletes: the iconic Bird’s Nest stadium and the ultra-modern glass complex known as the Water Cube, which later became a venue for classic concerts.

The city was shrouded in a gray, apocalyptic-smelling smog that authorities were desperately trying to combat. They launched silver iodide rockets to seed rain over Beijing—an infrequent sight in this arid city—in hopes the precipitation would wash away the pollution streaming from factories.

But getting rid of that massive smog cloud was far more complicated than just a few rainmaking rockets.

Madárfészek - Peking 2008 — Bird’s Nest – Beijing 2008

I took the newly opened subway through the gray, sprawling city to get to the swimming pool. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience to see Tibor Benedek, Tamás Kásás, and the whole team in person—wrapped in Hungarian flags, cheering for the water polo team, and listening to the national anthem ring out amid the Chinese crowd.

The weeks following the Olympics were equally unforgettable, as I immersed myself in Beijing and its cuisine: I took cooking classes in the hutongs, those narrow gray-brick alleyways built in the 13th and 14th centuries. There, I learned the recipe for spicy green beans cooked with Sichuan peppercorns—a dish that completely transformed my relationship with green beans.

And I also learned that one kitchen knife is enough for a household—but it better be big and wide, just like Kung Fu Panda said.

Ingredients:

1 lb green beans
5 oz finely chopped chicken (ground pork can be used as a substitute)
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 tsp fresh ginger, minced
1 tsp Sichuan peppercorns – the heart and soul of this dish! It numbs your mouth and tongue, but once you get used to the sensation, it becomes a lifelong love. I promise!
Dried chili peppers (to taste)
Soy oil (or any neutral cooking oil)
Salt

Preparation:

Heat a small amount of oil over medium heat and sauté the green beans just until tender. Remove and set aside.
Turn the heat to high and add more oil. Stir-fry the garlic, ginger, and dried chili peppers briefly.
Add the chopped chicken, sprinkle in the Sichuan peppercorns, and add a splash of soy oil. Cook until the meat is done.
Return the green beans to the pan and stir-fry until the middle parts of the beans turn a deep brown.

Serving suggestion:
In China, this dish is typically served alongside steamed rice or meat dishes with lots of vegetables.