BEIJING—It may have been during our visit to the Laoshe Teahouse, a glitzy tourist trap off Tiananmen Square, that I realized how hard our Chinese hosts were trying to please us. It wasn't just the floor show—two country boys imitating jet planes, a tubby dancer "balancing porcelaneous flower jug on head and throw it in the ambience of the evening," and of course the fabulous "face smearing of the Sichuan opera also called blow facing!"
No, the really thoughtful touch was the chow waiting for us as we entered the restaurant: bags of congealed KFC french fries, with ketchup. Lots and lots of ketchup, in little foil-wrapped Heinz packets. There was a good reason for all that seasoning. I was with 44 other foreigners, most of them tomato farmers, canners, and food processors, who had come to China on a tour with the World Processing Tomato Council.
China, it turns out, now grows more tomatoes for processing—the kind that get turned into ketchup, pasta sauce, salsa—than any place in the world besides California, and maybe Italy. The precipitous rise of the country's tomato industry, which scarcely existed a decade ago, is wreaking some havoc. The Senegalese claim that cheap Chinese tomato paste is driving farmers off the land. Turks, Aussies, and Russians have similar complaints. The Italians are especially unhappy: The Silk Road over which Marco Polo brought home the pasta has turned into a pipeline of cheap tomato paste. "The phenomenon of Chinese tomato paste is grave and preoccupying," Calabrian newspaper Gazzetta del Sud opined recently.
The story of how China's tomato industry grew surely must rank as one of the weirdest of the country's economic boom. To begin with, the Chinese themselves shun tomatoes. In China, about the only way you can get a person to eat a tomato is by slicing it and liberally sprinkling sugar over each slice. After the Spanish Conquest, peppers and sweet potatoes became firmly entrenched in the Chinese diet. But the tomato found no home here. We say tomato; they say "foreign eggplant" (fan qie, in Mandarin, anyway).
Nevertheless, in 1993, a private domestic company called Tunhe decided to start growing tomatoes in China's arid western highlands, an area studded with camel herds, yurts, oil derricks, and ancient underground irrigation systems.
Most of the tomatoes are grown in the province of Xinjiang, an ancient, landlocked crossroads on the Silk Road where many of the natives are Kazakhs, Uyghurs, or members of various Muslim ethnic groups. A few years ago, Tunhe went flamboyantly bankrupt and was taken over by a Chinese state-run food conglomerate, Cofco. Its chief competitor in the tomato business is the Chinese army. The army's Xinjiang Production and Construction Corps is a shadow power in the province and has about 1 million employees.
The XPCC was established in the 1950s to create work for the thousands of soldiers and ex-convicts who had been sent to the region to Sinocize it and keep an eye on the Soviets and ethnic minorities.
The point of growing all these tomatoes in Xinjiang—as well as in Inner Mongolia and Gansu province—was not so much to secure vital spaghetti Bolognese resources for China, as it was to create jobs for some of the Han Chinese sent to the region during the heroic age of Chinese communism.
The XPCC's tomato-producing affiliate and Cofco Tunhe have given small plots of land to tens of thousands of tomato farmers. At harvest, the tomatoes are collected in gunnysacks, dumped into trailers, and driven by truck, motorcycle, and even donkey cart to ultramodern, Italian-designed tomato processing factories. There, using the standard method for creating industrial tomato paste, most of the tomatoes are heated to about 200 degrees, which causes them to blow up. The resulting paste is partially evaporated and flows into sterile drums. The drums go by rail across the country to the east coast and are shipped around the world.
On my tour, some of the visiting tomatoistas were looking for business opportunities. All were gathering intelligence as to how serious a threat China's tomatoes were to enterprises back home, where in some cases tomato-growing is not only a business but a way of life. The Chinese were sensitive to these tensions and sought to reassure their guests that they were really enthusiastic about tomatoes, too, and not just for the money. At a symposium in Beijing, Ning Gaoning, the president of Cofco, offered the following happy explanation: "Tomato is such a beautiful fruit," he said. "It brings us taste and nutrition and health, and also it brings us business. It is a foreign thing. But it is more and more an important thing in the 'New Socialistic Countryside.' " Speeches like Ning's would be punctuated, during the tour, with the plinking of glasses of Chinese plonk (Cofco's Great Wall wine) and of the sickeningly sweet Cofco-brand tomato juice. And of course by lots of ketchup.
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