PART ONE

I have been promising to write for a while, and have found the titles of my stories "In the Pipeline" a tease. A tease for me, the author? Why yes, because they constantly remind me of the things that well-up inside me and want to be released onto paper, well web page. And the one that comes to the surface of my psyche the most? That is without doubt Food.

Food is more then just living to the Chinese, it is life itself. Food brings the family together. Food is used in expressions of happiness. Food shows wealth. Food not only stops hunger, but different foods protect the body in different ways, promotes a healthier body and gives rise, pardon the pun, to different hungers if you catch my drift. Too much food is good, and too little food is bad. To be without food is to be without life.

Food is in fact an essential part of life and socializing. Generosity starts at the dinner table. Guests are virtually force fed. Even if a guest appears out of nowhere in the middle of a meal, more food is brought on. If the guest does not want to eat, the host will help him or her pick something out. Refusals are not accepted. And to be the host is very important. To 'Invite guests' (????- qing ke) is very special to the Chinese, it is not considered a lose of money but a gain of face. Dinner companions will argue and struggle over the bill. At home everybody would argue, but over who bought what. I have been in restaurants eating by myself, seen a student or student's parent, nodded in polite acknowledgment, and when I asked for the bill, find it has already been paid. Maybe, after childhood's filled with poverty and lack of food in the post WWII era, people have been brought up to eat as much as life gives them.

There is a joke, it is racist in a way, but I do not tell it for that effect. It goes, 'Question: The Cantonese excel at all jobs, but one. What is the job? Answer: Zookeepers, because they eat everything.' If it was not true, it would not be funny. And as a foreigner living closely with so many Chinese and enjoying socializing with them I have learned how true it gets.

When I was a child, oh twenty years ago, my mother's idea of Exotic Eastern food seemed to be Western food with pieces of fruit, i.e. raisins, sultanas, and chunks of apple, all with some curry power. Though here in Taiwan, I must say that for some restaurants the idea of traditional Western food is plain Chinese food with corn and pineapple chunks. Is there something to be read from this?

After my early childhood experiences my parents began to take an interest in Chinese restaurants, especially on Saturday afternoons when the restaurants would offer special priced meals. At these times, I was able to enjoy my first taste of Chinese food; fried rice, sweet-n-sour pork, lemon chicken, Peking duck. I was soon to learn though that these were all I was going to taste. It seems that when people get near foreign food they like to bring it down to the bare essentials, which though natural selection devolve into Western food with chunks of fruit in it.

Western people become instant critics of how foreign food should look like and taste like. This can be best seen in Indian cuisine. Curries have to be spicier and Tandoori meats have to be red to the extremes where the cooks have to paint them with artificial dies. Chinese restaurants can be lambasted for not cooking the right way and usually end up serving the same food as all the neighboring Chinese restaurants.

Nevertheless, Western peoples introduction to Chinese food has never belied their suspicion of it. Western people want stability in their foreign food and do not want to be surprised half way though their meal by unidentifiable animal parts appearing in it. The older generations have also never gotten over the idea that Chinese food is wholesome. They live with the idea that everyone eats rice and scrawny chickens, chewing on skin and bones. And of course, it all gives you diarrhea, the dreaded trots, Bombay stomach, the (Hershey) squirts, Montezuma's revenge, etc.

Also Westerners are dubious of what goes into Chinese food, and foreign food alike. People often believe local Chinese restaurants are responsible for the disappearance of cats and dogs in their neighborhoods. This from people who believe Sweeny Todd was a real person, and where mobsters own the meat packing plants, enjoy your next meat pie!

Speaking of cats, it is not only humans that will turn up their nose at things that are different. Prior to coming to Asia, I had had a little disappointment with my two cats. Wanting to treat them I had bought them a large bag of small dried fish. I thought they would be good treats and inspire greater affection from the two of them. But could I get them to try even one of the fish, no way. In the end, I threw the contents of the bag on the compost as that seemed the only way to make any use of the little treats. It seems that that no matter how interesting you think something is to you, others will have a totally different perspective. One man's treat, is another cat's poison.

My first trip to the Orient was in 1994. I traveled for five weeks in the north and center of China. As a budget and inquisitive eater, I always avoided eating in hotel restaurants and looked for the places the locals would congregate. My thinking was that if there were plenty of people then the place could not be bad by their standards. Local people always know the best places to eat. Of course, choosing what to eat did present a small problem, but with the aid of a Lonely Plant guide and pointing at what other people were eating I sufficed.

I did pick the odd bad item, and apart from a twelve-hour stomach bug in Chong Ching, (May I praise them on their extensive public toilet system, though at times they were a little too public,) I had no problems. There was one memorable moment though in a place called Da Tong. Da Tong is famous for a string of Buddhist statues carved in niches in the side of a cliff. And an hours ride away is a Buddhist monastery perched on the side of a mountain face. Both were worth the visit, but Da Tong is a little bit out of the way, and when I was there the local authority had decided to tear up all the roads and return to outside plumbing.

As usually, I was no swayed by the hotel menu. It was westernized as far as I was concerned, and not cheap, which possibly was the stronger motive for not using it. I hunted out for where all the locals went, but the dust and mess from the road works dissuaded me from looking too far. And the smell made it difficult to generate an appetite. I finally found a restaurant that was doing a roaring trade and I decided to try my luck.

I had not sat down for long when a man entered the place with a woman on his arm. Seeing me he quickly came over and introduced himself as the assistant manager of the hotel I was staying at, and the companion was his wife. He did not speak English and my Chinese was at the level of 'My name David. Me western people. One sister. I soccer like.' We had a scintillating conversation I can assure you.

The assistant manager shouldered the burden of ordering the food for the dinner. But for an appetizer he had already brought a little something with him. Reaching into his coat pocket he took out an old tobacco tin and holding it toward me opened it. Happily he invited me to tuck into some small dried fish which remained me strongly of the same fish my cats had previously turned their noses' up to. I reached forward and took a pinch. Not bad, salty and a little bit chewy. There was nothing wrong with it, but I could not dispel the idea that in England I would be trying to give these to my cats as a treat and not as an appetizer at the dinner table.

My evening of culinary delights was not complete at that stage. When the main courses began to arrive, I saw they were nothing I could not handle. But the final and biggest dish was a complete fish, braised and in sweet-n-sour sauce. Before the meal, I was aware of a small custom to do with the arrangement of fish on the table. The head is considered the best part and is pointed at the most important person at the table. I as the foreign guest felt a sudden fear that the fish would be looking in my direction, and my hosts would be expecting me to enjoy the best part. Not knowing what I could say to get me out of the problem and gulped and waited. I was relieved when the waitress set it down turned to the assistant manager, though I did feel a pang of disappointment since I was not considered that important.

At this point, I had not yet done my sightseeing, so there was still another night to be spent in Da Tong. The assistant manager gleaned that much from me and arranged to meet me in the same restaurant the following evening for another dinner. Embarrassed that he had picked up the evening's bill I stipulated I would pay, as long as he ordered for me. I hoped not to have a fish staring me in the eye.

The next evening came, and while he had not brought his tobacco tin with him he had brought instead a old whisky flask filled with white spirit. It was distilled rice wine, and when I say white spirit I mean it did not just look like it. This stuff could not only strip paint off the walls, but strip the paint off enameled porcelain. I braved the stuff, and hoped it would not make me as much blind drunk as just plain blind. But this was all down to hospitality, the distilled rice wine could have been home made and as a special guest he was allowing me to try something he would not normally give to other guests. So, for that I was deeply pleased.

He ordered the meal, and once again the three of us tried to make polite conversation about the day's events. I managed to display my gratitude that they were looking after me, that I had had a wonderful day at the caves and the monastery, and that sadly I was taking the late night train to Beijing after the meal.

Again I was caught out. He had out smarted me and instead of a large whole fish for the main course it was pork. But he had not left me off the hook. The waitress brought, as a side dish, six lightly steamed herring heads. Their six pairs of eyes sparkled with freshness, the Chinese always look at the eyes as a sign of freshness, if they are not full and moist then do not touch the fish. But their freshness was not high on my agenda, their eyes challenged me to find a way out of eating them.

I know I could not refuse, there were six of them and my host would expect me to try. With three of us at least it was two each. As I started working on one of them to get at the meat from behind the gills and off the cheek, I saw with horror that the host's wife was declining to have any. Not her cup of tea. I smiled plaintively as I thought of the extra fish.

As you might expect I finished off my share. And it was not horrible at all. I did not like the look of the brain, it looked like a small soft boiled egg yolk, and I hate eggs, but I tried and I have not tried that part since. The eyes seemed to have a hard, stone like seed in the middle, but otherwise they were tasteless. I have since eaten fish heads on different occasions, but I usually stick to the fleshy parts on the neck and cheeks.

My parting memory of my host was getting on a bus to go to the train station. I was carrying a large backpack, which was rather cumbersome in the mill of people waiting for the bus. They were in a Chinese queue, that is everyone is in front no matter if you were first. So, the host rather kindly barged in front for me, shoved everyone to one side and ushered me on board. That is Chinese hospitality.

In part two I will talk more about the 'interesting' things you can enjoy eating in Taiwan.