Two American Blondes in Taiwan

Fifteen years ago, my eldest sister Adrianne did what most young girls do in the summer: attend summer camp; in addition to the usual hemp bracelets and face paint, this experience was set apart by a petite Taiwanese girl named Sandra. Her English was extremely marginal, but she bridged the language barrier by shyly braiding Adrianne’s lengthy locks with nimble fingers, smiles gleaming out of her dark eyes. The camp drew to a close, and my parents were eager to meet Sandra and her parents at the closing barbecue; shortly they learned that Bernard and Ruth Lee were vacationing in the US in order that their two children, Sandra and little Michael, might learn English, the coveted language. The Lee’s English was scarcely better than Sandra had been able muster; however, through sign language and rudimentary drawings scratched on napkins, a friendship was formed that has lasted to this day.

            The Lees had generously brought my three older siblings to their home in Taipei, giving them the grand insider view of the vast, throbbing city. Thus, in December of 2010, my sister Ellie and I also found ourselves en route to Taiwan for a three-week stay; we blearily stumbled into the Taipei airport around midnight local time, to be greeted by a grinning Mr. Lee with English much improved through the passage of time. Sleep came quickly, and I awoke the following morning to the sounds of an unfamiliar city: a megaphone at the elementary school across the street blared obtrusively; car horns scolded each other like small children vying for a toy; scattered Mandarin drifted up from a streetmarket nestled into the adjacent alleyway.

            “Good morning!” Mrs. Lee chimed, ushering us to a small table positioned outside the kitchen; with the light of morning flooding through barred windows, we curiously surveyed the snug apartment before us. The furnishings were simple, in the modest style characteristic to urban Asians; our American eyes found no overstuffed couches or 50-inch televisions, instead falling upon delicate calligraphy-adorned tapestries and a set of uncomfortable wooden furniture topped with miniscule red cushions. A glance out the third-story window revealed a view of the narrow alley below; mopeds skittered hither and thither, cutting corners and dodging slower-moving pedestrians. Still, the rumblings of weary jet-lagged stomachs quickly drew our attention back to the task at hand: breakfast.

Settling at the table, a colorful array of peculiar fruits stared up at me, among them guavas, sugar apples, and deliciously crisp wax apples (see photos). I hesitantly tasted a moon cake filled with curiously flavored red-bean paste, acquired in the traditional style from a relative’s recent wedding. Yet few things stick in my memory and on my taste buds as well as milk bread, an unassuming treat that fast became our breakfast staple. Its soft, tender crumb easily surpassed and exceeded all white breads that I had ever tasted, melting luxuriously on the tongue with buttery ease.

Soon, our breakfast tradition was established: a slice of milk bread, untoasted (toasting it would have been like using glow-in-the-dark paint on the Sistine Chapel-some things shouldn’t be improved upon), a selection of fruit from Mr. Lee’s morning market ventures, and an aromatic cup of oolong tea.

To my great surprise, the Lees held various levels of disregard for tea, ranging from passive dislike to outright disdain; this phenomenon completely defied my misguided visions of dignified old Orientals sipping thimblefuls of tea while contemplating the venerable sayings of Confucius. Over the years, Ruth and Bernard had always showered my family with gifts of traditional Taiwanese clothing, snacks, and cookies, but among our favorites was loose jasmine tea, with its dainty floral notes serenading the olfactories. Perplexed by the seeming discontinuity, I questioned Mrs. Lee as to what compelled them to continuously give us this tea, the apparently loathed substance. “Jasmine tea is cheap, low-quality tea, but Americans love it,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Everyone is happy. ”

With a curt laugh at the shocked expression coating my visage, she strolled briskly through the busy marketplace. I hastened my steps to keep pace with Ruth’s quick gait, as she expertly wove through street vendors noisily advertising their wares; it is no mystery how these petite folk maintain their diminutive stature, as they almost exclusively walk, bike, or take public transportation for all purposes. Mrs. Lee simply refuses to drive in Taipei, dreading the perilous streets of Taipei and its equally frightening drivers.

We were on a very specific mission, scouring the stalls for ingredients of that night’s dinner; with a critical eye, Mrs. Lee patiently selected an assortment of fish balls, enormous prawns, intestines, shellfish, and other such appetizing items.

That night we were to be introduced to a winter staple for most Taiwanese households: hot pot. Although methods and preferences may vary from family to family, the fundamentals remain the same: a communal shallow kettle of water is perched upon a hot plate in the center of the table, and surrounded with various raw meats, seafood, vegetables, noodles, etc. Once the water is boiling contentedly, each diner is responsible to drop in items of his choosing, and then wait as they cook in a matter of mere seconds.

I eagerly boiled away, sliding thinly sliced beef, bok choy, mushrooms, and udon into the bubbling frenzy; with dampened fervor, I hesitantly sampled dark, salty duck blood, balking at the gelatinous texture. Vigorously suppressing the gag reflex, Ellie gummed a mouthful of stringy pig intestine, while I valiantly attempted to fish out a shrimp with my chopsticks. With a practiced air Sandra skillfully removed the hardened skin and tail of a similar plump, pink shrink using only her chopsticks and lips, and all this in the blink of an eye; during my travels, I found that the Taiwanese are unparalleled in dexterity of hand, particularly where the dinner table is concerned.  “Just put it whole in your mouth!” Bernard advised with an amused smile, as I meanwhile fumbled clumsily with my chopsticks, trying in vain to remove the shrimp’s inedible portions. “Put it in your mouth, and spit out the skin.”

Practically every meal at the Lee’s table was accompanied by a bottomless bowl of rice, and tonight’s dinner was no different; Sandra wrinkled her nose in distaste at the sight of the multigrain glutinous rice that Mr. Lee prefers over white. “Do you have any soy sauce for the rice?” Ellie queried with American naivety, asking what seemed a perfectly natural question; the Lees exchanged a collective glance, slipping each other furtive smiles. “You Americans and your soy sauce. We never put soy sauce on rice.” Bernard said with a laugh.  Blushing crimson, Ellie rushed into the tiny kitchen to retrieve an undersized bottle of soy sauce. Needless to say, we never requested it again.

Another evening, Mr. Lee herded Sandra, Ellie, and I into the car, a notable occasion in itself; our destination was a Japanese restaurant, and our purpose was to experience sashimi (very fresh raw fish). We seated ourselves at the counter directly opposite a chef preparing seafood, separated only by a lengthwise case containing various cuts of fish and other unknown meats. Peering curiously at us, a silent waitress provided chopsticks and cups for tea, the latter Ellie and I drank in copious amounts that night to quench wasabi-induced thirst. Bernard chattered familiarly with the chef, who, for what seemed like hours, kept a steady stream of various fishes flowing over the counter for us to sample.

At first, I stared blankly at the piece of raw pink flesh perched upon a small mound of white rice, and my stomach knotted with uneasy anticipation. Following Sandra’s example, I dabbed the rice-and-fish in wasabi paste, and thrust it in my mouth with a piece of pickled ginger; gasping for air, I blinked wetly, the wasabi flushing out my sinuses in seconds flat. “More tea! More tea!” The waitress encouraged enthusiastically. However, I was astonished to discover that I actually enjoyed the fish’s silky smooth texture, supplemented by the white heat of the wasabi and the ginger’s pungent sweetness. Salmon, tuna, and mackerel I consumed with gusto, even venturing to choke down a morsel of raw squid, chewy to the point of frustration.

“More tea! More tea!”

I obliged willingly.

Eating and drinking, the evening passed easily, slowing down as my stomach reached its capacity. I groaned with serene contentment, and turned my attention to the doings behind the counter; the chefs were busily preparing some unidentified dish, of which, as we soon discovered, lobster was quite literally the centerpiece. Gazing at the finished product in wonder, we marveled at the entrée now heaped into an enormous wooden boat. The unused portions of the lobster, being the head and tail, were artistically placed in the container to give a distinctive life-like appearance; however, what I at first assumed to be dead was moving imperceptibly, its slender legs flailing helplessly and antennae feebly probing the surroundings. “Is it alive? Why in the world do they serve it still alive?” I asked Mr. Lee dubiously. “The lobster is served barely alive, so that the customers know it is fresh!” Bernard replied knowingly, chuckling at my surprise.

Nodding thoughtfully, I wonder if I’ll ever learn not to be surprised.

No, I realize, a life without surprises is a life void of flavor, and the lack of spontaneity sucks the spice from existence.

Pass the chicken feet, please.