Palate Cleansing

I googled 'Australian - Chinese' writers recently in a pique of curiosity to see what would come up. This article caught my interest, mainly because of the word 'hyphenated.'

Years ago when I was a university student in Perth, I was introduced to the works of Trinh Minh-ha, who wrote something that has stuck in my head all these years.

'The challenge of a hyphenated reality lies in the hyphen itself. The hyphenated condition certainly does not limit itself to a duality between cultural conditions.'

I had not, up to that point, ever thought of myself as a hyphen, or hyphenated, but Minh-ha's theory around hybrid identities resonated with me. And still does because it provides an apt symbol for those of us who have or still do straddle multiple ethnic and cultural worlds as part of our daily lives. The fact that the article that caught my interest about Australian-Chinese writers is titled 'No-one is Born Hyphenated.' shows it is still a popular symbol being used 

Anyway, the opening paragraph contained another sentence that caught my attention. I quote:

Ethnic literature's hot. And important, too,” says one writing instructor. “I’m sick of ethnic lit,” a fellow student retorts, “It’s full of descriptions of exotic food.” 

This made me laugh because the memoir I am writing about growing up as a Chinese kid in Australia contains lots of descriptions about the getting, preparing and eating of said exotic food.

I am such a cliche was my second thought.

Which got me thinking about us hyphenated Chinese - (add second culture here, or third, ad infinitum) people for whom food is, to put it mildly, pretty important.

And not just any food. Good Food. Good Chinese Food.

Good Chinese Food is very important to most of my Chinese-hyphen friends. I have friends that have rice every night. Congee is important. Meat is important. Quality is important. Wok flame is important.

It makes sense. Irrespective of culture, your palate is formed by the food you eat growing up. And your attitudes towards food are informed by your environment . For the Chinese, food is imbued with vast powers. It is medicinal. It is preventative. It is superstition. It is celebratory. It is family. It is communion. It is value-for-money. It is, just short of religion. Actually, it is a religion. For the Chinese, food is a religion.

Somehow, I became an atheist.

Like most of my hybrid friends, Chinese food was a huge part of my upbringing but now, unlike some of them, I do not regard Chinese Food as the apex of the culinary universe. I like it. I eat it occasionally. I eat a lot of it if mum and dad are visiting. But for the most part, it does not feature in my daily diet.

This does not compute with some of these friends. It doesn't compute with my mother although she pretends it does.

But what do you eat? they ask, aghast.

I like raw things, I like vegetarian food. I don't really like congee. I think stir-frying is handy, but over- rated.

I don't want to eat the things that I had to eat every night growing up.  My palate is not a case of either-or. Chinese Food vs All Other Food.

There is however, one Chinese dish which I worship with holy devotion. It has sustained me for 43 years, most likely because I don’t have it that often.

Like the title of the article, we are not born hyphenated.  We are born multitudinal. I couldn't exercise that within my palate as a child when rice was might.

But I can now.

Dinner is Served

Now that I am pregnant, meeting friends for drinks has become a thing of the past. Rather than looking back at those alcohol quaffing evenings through sepia-tinted (or septic as my liver would cry) nostalgia, I've found a new social enterprise du jour.

Meeting friends for cheap dinners.

Certainly some friends looked askance at me when I first suggested that we sup together.  I've always enjoyed dining and drinking but not together. If we were out for a session, it was a liquid one. For me anyway.

I've gone from this..

With nausea in check and mouth open wide, I have sampled the cuisine at a fair few joints lately. The Shard near London Bridge for a (suprisingly) fancy curry; Kitchen Italia in Convent Garden who are gunning (I think) to take Strada's crown; supposedly Gordon Ramsay's fav, Donna Margerita in Wandworth for their famous pizza and most recently, The Bedford & Strand in Charing Cross for some old-fashion pie action.

To this...

I have thoroughly enjoyed this new spate of social intercourse. With two-for-one vouchers in hand, I plan to cruise London's mid range eating establishments until I find my gems. The excitement of it all makes me giddy. Frugality makes me come over all frou-frou.

This, however, is not cool.

 Let's see how long it lasts.

Home is Where The Heart Is

I have been back in Australia for three weeks now and it has been exhilarating and exhausting. I've barely stopped to catch my breath as we've moved on from place to place in an Antipodean journey down memory lane.

Sydney was pretty much as I'd left it twelve years ago. There was no love between us then and there is none still. Lindfield where we stayed was lovely with its wild squawking birds and verdant bushland. Bankstown where we spent an afternoon was also charming in a 1950's retreat-back-to-the Orient way. Our family and friends welcomed us in their warm embrace but Sydney still felt aloof, hungover and suprisingly stale. We made it to Bills in Darlinghurst which according to the New York Times has the best scrambled eggs in the world but unless you like your eggs 70% cream, I'd give it a miss.

Melbourne, dining capital of the world lived up to its reputation ten times over during our stay there. As well as seeing old, dear friends, we ate up a frenzy and left the city with bad indigestion. As soon as we landed I hotfooted it to the Shanghai Dumpling restaurant on Tattersalls Lane.

This way to Dumpling Heaven

To my relief it was still  there, intact and slightly less grubby than before. Comforted by a steaming hot bowl of noodle dumpling soup, I had a feeling that our Melbourne soujourn  would be A-OK. After scouring for bargains at the best car boot market in the world (Camberwell) , we met up with Tim and Cory to feast on Chinese nosh and talk about the old days of environmental campaigining and the election fallout. In the days that followed our mate John feted us with a Mexican lunch at Mama Sita, Spanish churros and drinks at Movida and a ten course French degustation menu at Vue du Monde. As if the sight of two stuffed walruses was not enough to suggest that lettuce was in order, he invited us to dine the following night at his own restaurant Carsons in Yarraville. How we managed to put away all the delicious food coming from the kitchen I do not know. We rolled out of Melbourne content and already nostalgic for the food that we had seen but not had time to sample. We'll be back Melbs, with Gaviscon in one hand and a fork in the other.

After long last we landed in Perth, my home town. Once I see that clear light sky with minimal pollution, I know that I am back. The elements in Perth are what draw me back in at first. The big sky, blue in the daytime and star-filled at night. The ocean  that is ten minutes drive away and the smell of air slightly crisp with sun.

And slowly then come the people whom I have known for many a year and shared much with. Last night in a big group reunion at Clancys, I sat amongst my old, dear friends, some whom I have not seen for three, four years. Time seemed to have preserved us in a bubble for it was as if we had spoken and laughed together only yesterday. Closeness really has nothing to do with distance. Last night reminded me how lucky I am to have those old bonds still.

Alphabet Street

In 2006, a group of friends boldly embarked on a mission that was to lead them to wrack and ruin. With stars in their eyes they decided to formulate a plan whereby they would tour the world alphabetically, via the portal of food.

On that fated night, the following game plan was laid:

Participants: Four couples of diverse heritage, countries of origin, hairstyles and temperament.

Aim: To alphabetically sample cuisine from different countries, e.g. A – Algerian food, B – Burmese food and so on

Rules: Cuisine to be from a country that none of the participants’ originally harked from or were or had been citizens of. Just so you know, this ruled out America, Australia, Britain, China, Hong Kong, India, Ireland and Vietnam.

Modus Operandi: Once every two months, one couple would be in charge for a designated letter of the alphabet. They could either cook the food themselves or book a restaurant.

Finale: If the group make it to Z in 2011 without committing collective hara-kiri; the plan is to fly to Zanzibar and never cook again.

My spot in Zanzibar

In truth there were more rules stipulated than above but if you’ve read this far, you may be wanting to commit hara kiri yourself so I’ve spared you the fine print.

Miraculously we have kept the momentum going over the past four years. We have eaten our way though a birth, house moves, robberies, job changes, muggings, holidays, overseas guests and a million other life incidences that could have derailed us . We have gorged on cuisine from Argentina, Belgium, the Caribbean, Holland, Egypt, France, Greece, Hungary, Indonesia, Japan, Korea, Lebanon, Madagascar, Nepal, Oman, Peru, Canada, Russia, Spain and Thailand.

And now we are at U as in Uzbekistan, Uganda…. er... Uluru?

The end is so close. I can feel that Spice Island breeze already.

The Food Anger

I hate getting bad food in restaurants. It makes me so angry. In fact, it makes me LIVID.

London is not a city where the general standard of food is average or better. It varies wildly between bloody awful to exceptional. When you try a new restaurant in London, you are taking a risk.

I had dinner this week at the Giaconda Dining Room. This place is well known as being a little haven of inexpensive civility amongst the brashness of Soho. I'd heard good things so was looking forward to it.

When we sat down to order at 8pm I was ravenous. I'd been up since 5.30am and worked on a photoshoot all day long. My eyes made quick work of the menu. Rigatoni Puttanesca for starter. Baked cod with polenta and endive salad for main. Done.

The Puttanesca came and went without comment passing from my lips except for two words:

Very salty.

The Husband who was happily tucking into his Pig Trotters cast a wary glance in my direction. There was fear in his eyes but he wisely made no comment.

When my main arrived I dug in with gusto. My enthusiasm palled after the first bite. And took a rapid nosedive after the second and third. The flavours of the dish were not fish as expected but oil. The fish tasted of oil. The polenta tasted of oil and even the salad tasted of oil. I put down my fork. My husband looked up nervously from his Hashed Ham Hock with Egg and Salad.

How's yours? I asked
Good, he said. Do you want to swap?
No.

I sat fuming and then it was upon me.

The Food Anger.

When I am very hungry and I do not eat, I get a bit nuts. I'm short tempered, irrational, snappy. I would not trust myself to drive when I'm like this.

However when I'm very hungry and have paid good money to eat something at a nice restaurant and it turns out to be crap, I lose it. One of these days a plate will hit the wall. Another diner will be spattered with food as collateral damage. I will probably be arrested.

As my husband ate, I stabbed. I stabbed the oily fish on the oily polenta. In my mind I was stabbing the chef. Then I started to complain. Loudly.

I warned all the other diners not to get the fish. I also told everyone not to bother ordering fries either as they were oily and rubbery. I lamented how it was too late for us but they should all leave now if they hadn't yet ordered.

My husband continued to eat and ignore me.

I was being childish and obnoxious. But I didn't care. I didn't want to speak to the waiter politely and ask for another dish. The waiters were giving our table a wide berth by now anyhow.

When he had finished his meal my husband ushered me out as graciously as he could. He did not tip them however which was just as well as it would have meant the end of our marriage.

Two days later and I am still pissed off. But at least I am not foaming from the mouth anymore.

We went out for dinner the next night too. But that's a whole other story.