![]() ![]() He smiled benignly through secretly gritted teeth as he was shaken down, scammed, and treated like a second-class citizen instead of an entrepreneur. He stuffed his pride down daily as he patiently served the intolerant. Less visible was the psychological burden of patronizing racism that kept him from being seen for the intelligent man he was. The once bright-eyed youth who had come to the States with dreams of becoming a physicist instead found himself constantly stuck at the restaurant he struggled to maintain, trapped behind lines of hot cauldrons filled with pork shoulder and chicken stock, open gas flames, and industrial broilers. It became a tradition for the rare solitary days spent with my often-elusive father. ![]() This relationship with roast duck soup grew stronger and more meaningful as I grew older. Imagine this: chopped duck, dark and gamey marrow unobtrusively seeping out of brittle, splintered bone. My parents discovered that nothing quieted down an angry, sobbing, newly-gap-toothed child like a big bowl of slightly cooled soup with tender duck morsels slowly congealing into eggy noodles. It was as much of an ordeal for my parents as it was for me - until my father stumbled upon the one thing he could bribe me with: soup. Threatening me with punishment resulted in kicks, screams, and frantic tears that dried on my cheeks in salty rivulets. It was a struggle for my father to get me there. Seeking the cutthroat bargain rates of Chinatown, my dad took as his responsibility trips from our home in Suffolk County, Long Island to a dentist there, where cash was king and everything was negotiable. Since my parents struggled to maintain their own business, they couldn’t easily afford health and dental insurance. Ultimately, some of them simply demanded white-glove treatment: the dreaded dentist. My parents tried every trick in the book, from tying them with floss to a doorknob and pulling them, red-faced, to having me chew hard candy. The roots of my little baby teeth were firmly entrenched in gums with a Krazy Glue-like core. Although I had my father’s thick, shiny hair, I unfortunately inherited my mother’s stubborn, crooked teeth. I first realized food could be used transactionally the year I was 7, when it became apparent that natural selection hadn’t done its work. In our house, money wasn’t used to coerce us to do the right thing, but tasty treats were always fair game. Although we were disadvantaged, because of my parents’ profession, food was always plentiful. Greens hold more value than greenbacks, and bringing home the bacon wasn’t a figure of speech - it’s what my parents literally did. Despite how much my tastes evolve or my standards rise, this will forever be the dish that transforms me again and again, back into a buck-toothed child eagerly grinning at a bowl bigger than her head.Ĭoming from an underprivileged family in the restaurant industry, I learned early on in life that although cash may change hands, food is the ultimate currency. Al dente egg noodles, floating like dense bundles of seaweed in a virtual seascape, with plump ground pork-and-shrimp wontons wrapped in translucent skins, the excess dough fluttering in the soup like the tails of fat jellyfish.Ītop it all, tender baby bok choy, Chinese broccoli, or crisp mung bean sprouts to add a splash of color and a refreshing, vegetative foundation to the heavy flavors. From this, steam rising to coat your nasal passages with delectable, moist warmth as the scent travels down to your mouth. A complex broth gleaming golden, tasting faintly of toasted shallots and green onions. Rich meat covered in crackling skins, shining with fat rendered out, and glistening with that which remains. Imagine this: chopped duck, dark and gamey, marrow unobtrusively seeping out of brittle, splintered bone. To this day, its heat and fragrant spices remain strong enough to work their ways through my sinuses to permeate my subconscious. For that one big moment, as you inhale the aroma, settle your teeth down, and let the flavors fill your mouth, you are again who you once were.įor me, that one dish was Hong Kong-style roast duck soup from Chinatown in New York City. Whether those recollections are good or bad, the strength of the association is such that time stands still. No matter the culture, no matter the upbringing, certain foods will always bring back certain memories. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |