Creating from the heart
That same idea lies at the heart of Zhang's cooking: "The presentation on the plate is only the result. The real power is in what you don't see."
Her inspiration for the spring menu came from the film Before Sunrise — a story built on conversation, movement, and gradual emotional unfolding.
"I wanted the menu to feel like that," she explains. "Five walks, five stages of connection. A process where the senses slowly awaken."
The journey begins with the most fundamental elements. For Zhang, that means everyday ingredients of Yunnan: potatoes, corn and fruit. A crisp shard of multicolored potato puree cracks like soil under pressure, a quiet metaphor for germination.
From there, the experience moves downward into water and earth for the Below and Ground chapters. A delicate broth of grass buds evokes flooded rice fields, while a tempura of Ottelia acuminata — an aquatic plant rarely fried — reimagines a familiar ingredient.
"Underwater plants are white,"Zhang explains, "but when sunlight reaches them, they turn green. That transformation fascinates me."
As the courses progress, textures soften, deepen, and then rise again. A dish of sprouted grains — quinoa and brown rice formed into roasted rice balls — signals emergence. Paired with pan-fried blossoms and a stir-fry of often-discarded plant parts, it reflects Zhang's refusal to waste.
"I want to use every part of the plant," she says. "That's how you respect its life."
Diners often describe Zhang's food as expansive, even "grand", for the way it channels Yunnan's biodiversity. Yet the sensibility behind it is rooted in something more intimate: the kitchens of her childhood.
Her grandmother, also from the Bai ethnic group, cooked with quiet precision. Her mother, by contrast, embodied a more familiar narrative — long hours in the kitchen, feeding others at the cost of her own energy.
"That kind of sacrifice scared me,"Zhang admits. In professional kitchens, she encountered another challenge: an industry still shaped by unspoken barriers for women. Instead of retreating, she chose to build her own system.
At Under Clouds Green, there is no shouting, no rigid hierarchy. The atmosphere is calm, structured, and defined by mutual respect.
"I want it to feel warm," she says,"where people feel taken care of. I only serve what I would give my own family."
Zhang's path has been anything but linear. She studied accounting in New York, married, had a child at 24, opened a cafe, and trained at a cooking school in France. At just 33, she opened her own restaurant.
The cost of that journey remains tangible. Her children live in Yunnan, and she speaks openly about the guilt she carries.
"But I also think, that showing them what it means to dedicate yourself to something you love — that's another kind of strength,"Zhang says.
Outside the kitchen, Zhang lives simply: one winter coat, no jewelry, no excess. Her attention is reserved for what matters — seasonality, growth and transformation.
"Yunnan food is like the province's embroidery," she says. "Very delicate, very beautiful — but always with a certain roughness."
This evolving maturity has not gone unnoticed. Xie Li, a wine expert and author who has followed Zhang's culinary journey, sees a profound progression in her current work. "The menus have become increasingly refined," Xie notes. "Her underlying logic is clearer, and her distinct style and narrative are now sharply defined."
That balance between refinement and rawness, control and spontaneity runs through both her cooking and Cai's music.
As the final notes of Walker fade into the evening, diners step back out into the hutong breeze. The experience lingers, not as a single flavor or melody, but as a shifting interplay between the two.
In their long-distance duet, Zhang and Cai offer a quiet proposition: that the most powerful forces are often the least visible — taking root beneath the surface and gathering strength over time, before finally, and inevitably, coming into bloom.
Contact the writer at liyingxue@chinadaily.com.cn
