HLM – Chapter 190 Hangi, Hangi

Hangi is a traditional delicacy of the Māori people. It essentially involves digging a pit in the ground, placing heated stones inside, then adding wrapped food to the pit. No seasoning is added during the steaming process except for salt, allowing the natural flavors to shine through.

This dish takes a long time to prepare—usually three to four hours—so if it’s to be eaten in the evening, preparation must begin by mid-afternoon.

Of course, it’s a perfect dish for mass cooking. Just three or four people can make enough for dozens.

Aturu assigned two women and two men to prepare the Hangi. Everyone else continued working.

In Māori culture, the division of labor in cooking is very strict—a long-standing tradition. Specifically for Hangi, men are responsible for digging the pit and lighting the fire, while women prepare the food.

Wang Bo had only tasted Hangi once and had never seen it made, so he watched from the side with great curiosity.

Two burly Māori men enthusiastically started digging the pit with shovels. The hole was about half a meter deep with a 1.5-meter radius—much larger than a tree pit.

These big men were strong as oxen, practically human excavators. They huffed and puffed and had the pit dug in no time. Then they stripped off their shirts, revealing layers of fat, seemingly unbothered by the whistling winter wind as they worked bare-chested.

Once the pit was ready, they filled it with flammable newspaper, sprinkled in wood shavings and diesel, then built a wooden frame across the pit. They stacked wood on top of the frame and placed stones atop the wood.

The stones were smooth, thin river pebbles, gray-black in color. Wang Bo picked one up and got his hand all sooty. “Hey, were these stones already used in a fire before?”

One of the burly men grinned and replied in broken English, “Yes, Mayor. Used before. Family stones. Earthquake didn’t break them. Still can use.”

Aturu came over and explained, “These are seasoned stones, used for Hangi many times. They’ve soaked up the flavors—kind of like a starter broth.”

Wang Bo suddenly understood—it was like the “old broth” used back in his hometown for stewing pig heads and offal.

After arranging the stones, one of the men lit the bottom layer of newspaper through an opening. Thanks to the wooden frame, ventilation was good, and the fire roared to life instantly.

The two men crouched beside the pit to warm their hands, and Wang Bo chuckled. So they did feel cold after all.

One of the men waved him over. “Mayor! Come warm up! Winter needs fire!”

Soon, two women brought over two large black iron cages and also came to warm themselves while they started layering in vegetables and meat.

Wang Bo didn’t want to freeload, so he asked Bowen to drive back and bring all the leftover beef and lamb from the past couple of days. With so many people, he brought quite a bit—over 200 jin (about 100 kg) of meat.

The Māori people knew the Sunset Ranch meat was top-notch. Seeing all that meat, they clapped and danced like they were getting ready for a party.

The bottom of the cages was lined with cabbage leaves, then sprinkled with fine salt. Strips and chunks of beef, lamb, chicken, and duck were layered on top, followed by more salt—this time in coarse chunks instead of fine grains.

The layers alternated—salt, meat, then vegetables like potatoes, eggplants, green beans, cucumbers. These were wrapped neatly in mesh.

Noticing Wang Bo’s curiosity, one of the women smiled and explained, “No mesh, the veggies fall apart after cooking. Hard to eat. Mesh makes it easy.”

Wang Bo nodded, impressed. “Smart idea!”

Layer by layer, meat and vegetables were piled high into a hefty mound. The Māori folks were grinning ear to ear. Their love for food was unmistakable.

Thanks to the diesel, the fire was blazing hot. The firewood burned quickly, turning the river stones red-hot—proof of the intense heat.

Wang Bo asked, “Why not use coal or smokeless charcoal? Those heat up faster.”

One of the Māori men scratched his head, “Never used. Ancestors didn’t use.”

Wang Bo: “……”

Once the stones were hot enough, it was time to cook. The men used shovels to quickly remove the stones and remaining burning wood, carefully piling them aside.

They moved quickly, because those hot stones were needed to steam the food. The hotter the stones, the better the cook—so speed was everything.

After clearing the ashes, the men returned the stones to the pit and placed the cages on top. Then they covered everything with a clean, damp bedsheet, followed by the original hot soil and ashes, sealing the pit completely.

Wang Bo nodded. This method reminded him of “Beggar’s Chicken” in some parts of China. When he was young, they’d roast fish in a similar way—sealing it up to steam gently, resulting in tender, ash-free meat.

With the pit sealed, the four Māori folks went back to tree planting. Maybe the promise of a good meal boosted morale, because they worked faster than ever—and even broke into song in Māori.

Māori singing matched their nature—bold and unrestrained. The tunes weren’t complex—more like powerful chants. It was all about energy and spirit.

Aturu joined in too—or rather, bellowed along—but he was clever. Seeing Wang Bo’s puzzled face, he ran over and sang in English:

“We sailed from distant oceans, Ho ho!
We stepped barefoot on this land, Ho ho!
Birds sing here,
People live here,
You ask me, Ho ho!
What is the most important thing in this world?
My answer will always be—
It’s food, it’s food, it’s food! Ho ho…!”

Wang Bo widened his eyes. “You people really love eating, huh? Sounds like your ancestors didn’t think anything else mattered!”

The Māori certainly loved food, though maybe not in the most refined way. You could tell from their iconic Hangi dish.

Besides Hangi, dinner also included spiced braised pork, stuffed pig stomach, manuka honey-braised chicken, honey-roasted potatoes, and chili-roasted potatoes.

Everyone brought a dish from home—one per person. As night fell, they gathered around the Hangi pit, ready to feast.

Wang Bo hadn’t brought a dish, and although he’d provided the beef and lamb, he still felt a bit guilty. So he asked Anderson to send over a whole bunch of beer.

His generosity won the hearts of the crowd. They all came over to toast him, beer bottles clinking, foam flying.

Just then, someone looked at the sky and shouted, “Come on, it’s Hangi time!”

“Hangi! Hangi! Hangi!” the crowd of Māori cried out in excitement.

That’s when Wang Bo finally understood—Hangi wasn’t just the name of the dish, it was also a cheer, an expression of joy.

They removed the soil, uncovered the top sheet, and the moment the steam and aroma burst out, it was enough to beat back the chill of winter—and instantly whet everyone’s appetite.