China's Most Hardcore BBQ City: If It Exists, We Grill It

This spring, Zibo barbecue exploded in popularity online, standing out in the barbecue scene. But when it comes to the pairing of barbecue and flatbread, another barbecue hotspot cannot be overlooked—Hotan. There, people grill just about anything, pushing the ancient cooking method of "roasting" to its limits.

For thousands of years, the arid climate of southern Xinjiang has allowed Hotan locals to "grill everything." Naan, dumplings, whole sheep, even eggs and fruits—all are infused with a unique "Hotan flavor" by the heat of flames and hot stones.

Hotan lies at the southernmost tip of Xinjiang, bordered by China’s largest desert, the Taklamakan, to the north and the legendary Kunlun Mountains to the south. Between them flows the Yurungkash River (also known as the White Jade River), whose banks yield the famed Hotan jade. For many outside Xinjiang, the name "Hotan jade" is better known than the place itself.

In the Taklamakan Desert, camels stroll leisurely.

Yet for food lovers, neither the desert’s solitary smoke, the sacred Kunlun peaks, nor the prized mutton-fat jade compares to the allure of local cuisine. As a friend put it: "Hotan is a city that, come nightfall, is enveloped in a haze of smoky aromas, with flames from red willow branches eagerly licking at every ingredient."

The fiery glow teases the taste buds of every diner.

Just as Lanzhou doesn’t have "Lanzhou hand-pulled noodles," Xinjiang doesn’t refer to its skewers as "lamb kebabs." Here, the simple term "kebab" suffices to express reverence for mutton.

The oldest form of roasting also comes from sand pits—a gift of the land to Hotan’s people. Before the invention of grills, symbolizing "the earthly joys of smoke and fire," locals wrapped tender lamb in sheep’s stomach, sealed it with red willow branches, and buried it in scorching sand to roast. This ancient wisdom of "adapting to local conditions" carries the warmth of the land.

Today, grills lend mutton an even more enticing appearance and flavor. Xinjiang’s lamb is naturally fresh and free of gaminess, needing only its innate taste to stand out. Most kebabs follow the "three lean, one fatty" rule, sandwiching lamb fat between leg meat. As it grills, the fat sizzles and drips, dancing on the smoky grill.

When the meat turns a tempting caramel-brown, the Maillard reaction releases rich aromas, showcasing barbecue’s timeless appeal. This culinary tradition, which sustained our ancestors through the ages, still thrives today, transcending history’s flames and smoke.

Locals often keep their kebabs simple—just a sprinkle of salt or a puddle of brine on the plate. As the perfect companion, naan humbly serves as the "plate," with the wilder approach being to wrap the skewer tightly in bread, yank out the metal stick, and devour meat and naan together. A sip of lamb broth, herbal tea, or yogurt makes the perfect finish.

On the proper way to "devour skewers."

In contrast, tandoori meat is more traditional and refined. Also made from leg meat, the chunks are larger, marinated before skewering on red willow branches. Unlike regular kebabs, tandoori meat is both charcoal-grilled and slow-cooked, making it ideal for big cuts—crispy outside, tender and juicy inside, delivering even greater satisfaction.

Beyond lamb, kidneys offer their own bold charm. If French foie gras is an exercise in slow, delicate frying, Xinjiang’s lamb kidneys are a fiery, seductive spectacle. After a quick sear, they retain a hint of pink inside while the surface turns crisp and fragrant.

From northern Xinjiang comes another trick—the "fake kidney," where lamb offal (mainly liver) is mixed with onions and stuffed into caul fat, named for its resemblance to real kidneys. It’s a convincing imposter in both looks and flavor, often eliciting reactions like:

"Am I really eating a fake kidney?" "Yakshi! So good!"

Hotan’s watermelon barbecue is a particularly modern twist—hollowing out a watermelon, stuffing it with lamb, ginger powder, cumin, onion, and peppers, then hanging it in a tandoor. The result is said to be exceptionally tender meat, sweetened and cooled by the melon.

In Hotan, whether ancient or avant-garde, whether in a tandoor or on a grill, locals showcase boundless creativity with lamb. Yet, visiting Hotan and only eating kebabs would be a disservice to this city brimming with culinary passion.

Unleashing the aroma of wheat—the proper way to enjoy flour.

Hotan’s culinary style stems from its unique natural environment.

Compared to northern Xinjiang, Hotan in the south is even drier with less rainfall. Although the land is dotted with nearly 300 oases of varying sizes, water resources were historically scarce. Thus, cooking methods like stewing or boiling were impractical. Whether it’s the beloved "laghman" (hand-pulled noodles) or "polo" (pilaf), Xinjiang dishes are typically oil-rich and water-sparing.

The people of Hotan, however, employ more primitive yet ingenious techniques. Their "Kumachi," dubbed the "desert pizza," relies entirely on scorching sand to cook—first, a large sheet of dough is topped with fatty lamb and chopped "piyaz" (onions), then covered with another sheet of dough and sealed to form a giant "meat pie."

Hotan’s "desert pizza," Kumachi.

A pit is dug in the wild, and firewood from poplar or tamarisk branches is burned to embers. The meat pie is then buried under the hot ashes and sand, allowing steady, even heat to penetrate. After about an hour, it’s dug up, dusted off, and the golden "desert pizza" is ready. This ancient, humble dish embodies the reverence and devotion Hotan people hold for the land.

When this "sand pit" is moved into a courtyard and reinforced with alkaline soil, it becomes the famed "tandoor." In Xinjiang, no matter how delicious laghman or polo may be, naan remains the eternal staple. Locals joke that they’re "either buying naan or on their way to buy naan."

The "basic version" of naan—look how big and round it is.

The basic naan is made by flattening dough into a thin disc, pricked with tiny holes to prevent cracking during baking. Before being slapped into the tandoor, it’s brushed with oil and sprinkled with sesame seeds—some regions even add "black cumin" from Uyghur medicine. The result is a crisp, golden naan that retains the original aroma of wheat.

The upgraded versions, however, are stuffed with various fillings—creamy milk naan, onion naan, spicy chili naan, or fragrant patchouli naan. Hotan, known for its roses, even incorporates rose jam into naan. The concentrated floral scent, intensified by the tandoor’s heat, infuses the dough, creating a sweet and romantic treat with liquid rose essence.

If naan is the undisputed king of staples, then Hotan’s "samsa" (baked buns) reigns supreme for breakfast and afternoon tea.

While baked buns are found across Xinjiang, Hotan’s version is uniquely round and renowned for its flavor. Despite their small size, the thin dough is packed with filling—half diced lamb leg and half lamb fat, ensuring juiciness when baked. Chopped onions add layers of sweetness.

A perfectly round shape is the hallmark of authentic Hotan samsa.

The oven for samsa is slightly smaller than a tandoor but uses similar techniques. Before baking, saltwater is sprinkled inside to cool it rapidly, then the buns are swiftly slapped onto the walls and sealed with thick cloth. The lamb becomes tender in the enclosed charcoal heat, while the fat renders out, gilding the surface—melding into harmony within the flames.

If sharing with friends, especially late at night, I’d choose to tear it open.

Freshly baked samsa is at its best but too hard to bite. Hotan locals often pair it with herbal tea: first, the flat side is pressed down to soften, then a knife lifts the base, creating an "edible bowl" filled with concentrated broth. The meat and soup are eaten hot, followed by the juice-soaked dough, and finally the tea is sipped to aid digestion.

Hotan people—grill anything in sight.

For them, almost any everyday ingredient can be grilled.

In the bustling Hotan "bazaar" (Uyghur for market), whether it’s jade, roses, silk, or dazzling fruits, nothing outshines the food in the eyes of gourmands. At barbecue stalls, whole roasted lamb is legendary, but beyond common grilled eggplants and leeks, Hotan folks also love roasting "kawa" (pumpkin).

Whole roasted lamb still dominates the barbecue scene.

Xinjiang’s abundant sunlight and drastic temperature swings yield pumpkins that are large and sugary—perfect for roasting to maximize their aroma and sweetness. After hollowing, some are stuffed with dried fruits, while others are simply brushed with honey. The result is tender, flavorful pumpkin, infused with smokiness and honeyed richness.

Grill the pumpkin until golden on both sides, and even the neighbor’s kids will cry from craving.

In the bustling night market of Hotan, the locals' signature skill—roasted eggs—reigns supreme. Eggs of all kinds, from chicken and duck eggs to larger goose eggs and smaller quail or pigeon eggs, can be grilled. The most famous roasted eggs—chicken eggs, goose eggs, and roasted kawa—are humorously dubbed "two eggs and one heart."

The stalls display eggs from various poultry.

Roasting eggs is a delicate craft, with heat control being the key. They must be slowly and persistently baked over ash-covered charcoal, carefully turned all the while. This meticulous task has no middle ground—a slight misstep can cause the shell to crack, leaving nothing but a messy "scattered eggs" disaster.

The flavor of roasted eggs is entirely different from boiled ones. The shell becomes crispy, like fragile porcelain, requiring effort to peel. The egg white resembles Hotan's famed mutton-fat jade, smooth and lustrous, akin to a work of art. The white is pleasantly chewy, while the yolk is creamy and rich, infused with a smoky aroma from the roasting. Scooping out the white and yolk with a small spoon feels like unearthing a culinary treasure.

A roasted egg with a spoon stuck in it looks like a golden mine of deliciousness.

Today, the creativity behind roasted eggs continues to evolve. A luxurious upgrade involves cracking open a large goose egg, pouring out the egg white, mixing the yolk with chicken and pigeon egg yolks, adding honey, and garnishing with saffron—a favorite among health-conscious youth. This mixture is then roasted while stirring, proudly called "three eggs and one star." Of course, if you prefer, quail and duck eggs can join the mix, making it "five eggs and one star."

"Taste Xinjiang" Special Event Ongoing

⬆️Click the image to join the Xinjiang event⬆️

Special thanks to enthusiastic netizen @ShepherdBoy'sStar