Some might know it as chili crunch, chili crisp, or chili sauce. La jiao you, or Chinese chili oil, is a product of the Ming Dynasty that unrooted itself in search of flavours in China, East Asia, and beyond. It would eventually become a product of the Asian diaspora and a symbol of the convoluted “American Dream.” It might even be in your fridge right now, labelled with brands like Lao Gan Ma, Momofuku, and Fly By Jing.

Chinese chili oil is many things: it is a cultural staple, a sense of belonging, a representation of adaptability, and even a social media trend. It represents how food can nourish and flow across regions, languages, and time. It is a narrative that needs Chinese Canadians and Americans at its helm.

What does Chinese chili oil mean to me?

La jiao you originates in the Ming Dynasty, nearly half a millennium ago, when peppers were preserved in oil to keep their freshness during the off-season. Since then, different regions have each added their local touch — Sichuan peppercorns for an addicting numbing sensation, fermented soy beans for a deeper flavour, or fried shallots and garlic for a crunchier texture.

While chili oil is readily available in supermarkets nowadays, my parents tell me that they didn’t eat much la jiao you growing up. In the 1960s, food in China was rationed per family, and there was barely enough cooking oil to begin with. My dad’s family of nine received only 250 millilitres of oil monthly, less than in one jar of Lao Gan Ma, so making chili oil was out of the question. My mom remembers only eating chili oil more regularly in her adulthood, once food rations were gradually lifted and China opened its economy to the world.

For me, I was lucky to grow up with homemade chili oil always just an arm’s length away. My mom usually kept it in an old jam jar, where remnants of a Smucker’s label were still visible. This jar had its own place at the dinner table. Even now, I can picture my mom in the kitchen, her eyes carefully watching over a pot of bubbling oil, the fume hood howling over her small frame. I would walk through the front door after school and choke on the intoxicating aroma, wary of the strong smell latching onto my clothes.

When my parents first immigrated to Canada, they struggled to find all the ingredients to make Chinese chili oil. There were very few Chinese supermarkets in Toronto at the time, and the ones my mom browsed only sold gochugaru, or Korean chili flakes. If my parents were after good chili oil, they could have stayed in China, where la jiao you is plentiful. But they chose to stay. 

In our family’s one-bedroom apartment on a frigid day, my mom brewed her first batch of chili oil as a Chinese-Canadian, inventing a recipe born in Toronto and borrowing Korean flavours. She carefully ladled the oil into a recycled jar, while keeping an ear open for my sister and I playing in the other room. She dipped a chopstick into the jar and tasted her concoction.

It tasted like home.

Chinese chili oil and the American Dream

In his piece for the Washington Post, Theodore R. Johnson remembers two of his former classmates, Bobby and Annie, one of whom is Japanese American and the other Taiwanese American. Johnson recalls that neither of his classmates went by their given names at school, and he asserts that their adoption of American names was key for their integration into white American society.

As I see more chili oil brands fill supermarket shelves, I notice how many products are devoid of Chinese culture, and I am reminded of Bobby and Annie’s story. I wonder if Chinese chili oil’s own loss of cultural identity is just an inevitable sacrifice for its commercial success in the same white American society.

I see similar cases with other Asian ingredients, such as miso paste and matcha. Chinese chili oil is often marketed as the perfect condiment for pizza, fried chicken, and even ice cream. Influencers invent their own recipes with new names, altering the flavour profile for a Western palate. A product that was once considered “niche” is now driving a growing market, where Asian American businesses and large corporations alike are thriving by borrowing from Chinese culture.

In many ways, this is the story of the “American Dream,” and Chinese chili oil mirrors the model minority myth — it is only successful when it embraces the approved role it has been assigned.

Americanized Chinese food in Canada and the United States has always had a complicated identity. “Chinese food” — think small white boxes loaded with orange chicken and fried rice — is seen as white-washed by Chinese Americans and Chinese Canadians. But behind each famous Americanized Chinese dish is a story defined by triumph. Many dishes were invented by immigrants in the 60s, around the time that the Chinese Exclusion Act was finally lifted.

Chinese Americans and Chinese Canadians embraced the recipes they knew and changed them according to local tastes and ingredients. Nowadays, Americanized Chinese food is a distinct cuisine deeply woven in the fabric of Western society, and its significance lies not in each dish’s “authenticity,” but in the resilience of the people who have made it their own.

See also: Cultural appropriation of food: Why it’s so personal

What is “authentic” Chinese chili oil?

When I try to define “authentic” Chinese chili oil, I think about my mom. 

I picture her staring at her first batch of la jiao you in Canada, cradling the oil-stained jar in her palms. She takes a deep breath, a moment of uncertainty she will try to keep away from her children. She hears one, or both, of us crying in the other room, and she puts her work aside to make sure we are alright.

She misses the restaurants and street stalls of Beijing, so she learns to make her own Chinese food. In fact, my mom insists to this day that the la jiao you she makes tastes different from any you can buy in the store. Her recipe has been tuned to our family’s palate, though it has taken many arduous years and attempts to get the right taste. But this Chinese chili oil is, and always will be, her own. I think this is the true “American Dream.”

A recipe for my mom’s la jiao you

When I called my mom to ask for her la jiao you recipe, she immediately put down everything to help, just like she always does for her children. She, a first-generation immigrant who has spent 25 years in Canada, feels validated that Chinese chili oil has become such a commercial success. My mom is happy that attitudes towards Chinese food are changing.

While writing down the recipe on a call, I was surprised to learn just how complex it is. The steps are simple enough, but there are ingredients I’d never heard of before, so my mom and I spent the better part of our conversation translating each item. “I can go check the package downstairs if you want,” my mom offers, while I can already hear her slippers dragging across the floor.

My mom never cooks with numbers in mind, so you won’t find any exact measurements in this recipe. If you have any doubts, rest assured that she would say to just go with your heart, “it’s going to be delicious.”

Ingredients:

• Dried chili flakes
• Vegetable oil
• Sichuan peppercorns
• Green onions
• White onions
• Ginger
• Star anise
• Cinnamon
• Chinese Angelica
• Geranium seeds
• Cardamom

Step 1. Pour the dried chili flakes in a separate bowl and set aside.

Step 2. Heat your vegetable oil. When the oil is hot, put in your aromatics (everything else on the ingredients list). When these aromatics begin to yellow, remove them.

Step 3. Take the oil off the heat, and let cool. Then, carefully take a few big scoops of oil and add to dried chili flakes, while simultaneously stirring the mixture with a pair of chopsticks. Add enough oil so that the mixture becomes paste-like.

Step 4. Allow the mixture to cool. Then, carefully add the rest of the oil to this mixture.

Step 5. Cover with a lid, and let sit at room temperature overnight.

Step 6. Transfer the chili oil to an old jam jar, and keep it in your pantry or fridge. Enjoy!

See also: Behind the counter: Restaurants and the immigrant narrative