by Daniel Ivanov

Authenticity in food is a complex and often debated concept, rooted in the idea of preserving the cultural, historical and regional identity of a dish. But is it about strict adherence to traditional recipes, the use of locally sourced ingredients or the spirit and intention behind the cooking? When transplanted into the context of food globalization, authenticity becomes a fluid concept, shaped by local tastes, the availability of ingredient and cultural interactions. Japanese food producers in Berlin, for instance, experience authenticity differently – some feel inauthentic when adapting dishes to local demands for more vegetarian and vegan options, while other embrace fusion as an authentic expression of their craft. Authenticity in food, or rather the notion of it, turns out to be subjective because it is shaped by the personal and professional backgrounds of those involved in its creation, from chefs to consumers (Reiher 2023).

But what if you’ve experienced a certain cuisine in so many different ways that you’re no longer sure what “authentic” is supposed to taste like? This was exactly my case with Chinese food. My first encounters with it took place in Bulgaria, where I grew up. As a child, I had no reason to question the deep-fried chicken drenched in sweet and sour sauce – it was delicious and that was all that mattered. Years later, however, I found myself in Yokohama’s Chinatown with a group of Chinese friends, and my idea of Chinese food was turned upside down. The menu looked nothing like what I had known, and when the food arrived, I was even more surprised – so many dishes were spicy! I casually mentioned that I had never thought of Chinese food as particularly spicy. The response I got back from my friends was something in the lines of: “This? This is nothing! The real thing is way spicier. This is not very authentic Chinese food. They tone it down for Japan.” Since that day, I have been wondering how spicy “authentic” Chinese food is. Back in Berlin, armed with curiosity, a big appetite, a fondness of spice and a healthy dose of skepticism, I took on a mission to find out.

Keeping the ambiguous nature of authenticity in mind, I set on a mission to find some Chinese food that would satisfy my craving for the spicy kick that Chinese food can give. Hi! Chili 海椒 (Sichuan Tapas Bistro), located in Prenzlauer Berg, Berlin, opened its doors in late 2024 and has since garnered a 4.9-star rating on Google Maps with glowing reviews in multiple languages. The restaurant is co-owned by two women coming from Chongqing and Chengdu, two of China’s spice capitals, and it prides itself on bringing the bold flavors of the owners’ hometowns to customers in Berlin. The online reviews painted a picture of near-universal acclaim: “rich in flavor”, “nice seasoning”, “delicious” and even praise the food in Chinese (which is always a good sign). But could all this praise withstand the scrutiny of my own expectations?

I arrived at the small restaurant in the early afternoon on a windy January day with a friend. Scanning the menu, we discovered that this place offers a variety of Sichuan dishes, adorned with a chili symbol indicating their spice level. The three-tiered system (one, two or three chilis) promised varying degrees of spiciness. Being a little cautious, my friend and I ordered the Peas and Pork Mince Noodles (one chili) and paired it with Crispy Pork Bites that came with the homemade chili powder dip from the tapas section. The food looked promising. The noodles glistened in a sauce that hinted at Sichuan’s signature umami-laden spice mix and the pork bites were fried to a tantalizing crisp. But how spicy was it?

Before ordering, we had asked the waitress (who turned out to be one of the owners) whether their spice levels were calibrated for German customers or stayed true to Chinese standards. She smiled and admitted that they didn’t adjust it to suit local taste. True to her word, the noodles had a pleasant, slow-building heat with a touch of Sichuan peppercorn’s signature numbing effect. It wasn’t overwhelmingly fiery, but it was far from the watered-down, almost non-existent spice levels often found in Westernized Chinese restaurants. The pork bites’ crispy exterior and seasoning, combined with the rich-in-flavor chili powder dip, complemented the noodles perfectly, creating a well-rounded dining experience. The owner later mentioned that many of their spices were imported directly from China to maintain the authentic flavor – a detail that showed in every bite.

In summary, it can be said that Hi! Chili 海椒 succeeds in offering a piece of Sichuan and Chongqing in Berlin. Those who are afraid of being overwhelmed by the spiciness will find the chili scale a helpful guide. For lovers of spice, there is enough heat to keep things interesting without scorching the taste buds. Ultimately, “authenticity” and “spiciness” are two subjective concepts and are perceived differently by, for example, a homesick expat looking for a piece of home, a chef interpreting tradition through a contemporary lens, or a curious diner discovering flavors for the first time. The judgment of “authenticity” and “spiciness” often reflects not so much the food itself, but the experiences and expectations of those who eat it. Ultimately, I can only say that the food I ate at Hi! Chili 海椒 did not disappoint me. As for the question of how spicy “authentic” Chinese food in Berlin is, I’d rather leave that judgment up to you.

References:

Reiher, C., 2023. Negotiating authenticity: Berlin’s Japanese food producers and the vegan/vegetarian consumer. Food, Culture & Society 26(5): 1056-1071.

Daniel Ivanov is a student in the Master program Global East Asia at Freie Universität Berlin.