Six in the morning in Guiyang: a bowl scarlet with pounded chili oil, silken cubes of congealed blood and hours-braised pork intestine, crowned with cracklings that shatter between your teeth.
A pot of tomato-red broth comes to the table still bubbling, smelling of fermented fruit and mountain citrus — and the sourness lands at the back of your throat, because nothing in this soup ever came from a vinegar bottle.