Double Cup Love

by Eddie Huang

  —

  I got back to the crib, cut the pork belly, flash boiled it, and red-cooked it like we do at Baohaus, except I replaced the Wild Cherry Pepsi we use there with seaweed. Like going Côtes-du-Rhône instead of Beaujolais, trading ripe fruit for an earthy bass line. I paired the pork belly with stir-fried cabbage using a hint of dry chili, vinegar, light soy, sugar, and garlic. Similar to Jamaican stewed cabbage but sharper and fresher, like draft sake.*5 The cabbage was something I wanted people to mix, mash, and throw alongside everything. Eating at potlucks, I’d always nab a piece of pork, marry it to some cabbage, then shovel a grip of rice into my mouth with pork jus to wash it all down.

  Meanwhile, I sliced the bitter melon, chopped fresh chilis, grated some ginger, and set up the rest of my place.*6

  I was trying something new with the bitter melon. Usually, people would just gan tsao—“dry cook”—the bitter melon with some salt and oil and embrace the bitter cooling effect. Bitter melon is one of the seminal ingredients in Sichuanese cooking because it neutralizes heat. When you eat a spicy, numbing dish, it just makes sense to eat something cool and bitter alongside it.

  I wanted to use a Sichuanese ingredient but prepare it in a Taiwanese way. So, I did a xiao tsao: “little stir-fry.” Like lu wei, xiao tsao is a classic technique where you could take any vegetable or even cured pressed tofu, stir-fry it with dried baby fish and peanuts, and serve it hot or cold. Moms loved it because you could make it and set it aside. I’d go play Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out!! in the basement, walk up, take a few bites of xiao tsao over rice, and then run back downstairs. For me, cooking has always been about ideas and techniques, not recipes. Xiao tsao, lu wei, hong sau, these all began as ideas, then they became techniques and eventually one ingredient fit so well with the idea that it somehow usurped the idea: hong sau pork belly, lu wei duck wings, and stir-fried bitter melon are probably the best renditions of the ideas. But I think the great cooks remember the philosophical roots: hong sau, lu wei, stir-fry, g-funk, bounce, trap, triangle, motion, Princeton—to me it’s about the idea. People and pork come and go, but ideas? Ideas can be bigger than all of us if we just let them grow.

  I started by opening up the fresh chilis in the wok, then hit ’em with some grated ginger. Quickly, before anything browned, I added dried baby fish and peanuts, and tossed it over and over. You want all the ingredients glossy, shining with oil, but not dry or browned. Then came the bitter melon, sugar, splash of vinegar, salt, white pepper, and at the last second, I saw a bottle of wai jwa (crooked mouth grain alcohol)*7 that I picked up from a street stall. Without really thinking too hard about it, I took a sip, then dashed it over the bitter melon.

  FLAMES!

  Literally, my wok flamed up, but I continued to toss the bitter melon until the flame went out. When the fire cleared, I looked down into the wok…no burns, no brown, just perfectly wok-tossed xiao tsao.

  “Eddie, are you OK?” screamed Emery.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, I just flambee’d some bitter melon.”

  “Stupid! You’re cooking in a closet and breathing in carbon monoxide! OPEN THE DOOR!”

  He was right. I was having such a good time in the kitchen with the high-BTU burner that I forgot I was literally trapped in the five-by-five closet that separated the balcony from the living room. The glass door to the living room was fogged up with grain alcohol vapors and chili fumes. I started to cough and wheeze as I leaned over to the door.

  “Fucking China!”

  “It’s not China’s fault you’re hotboxing yourself with bitter melon in the kitchen closet.”

  “It is definitely China’s fault that this kitchen is also a closet. Look, there are hooks for hanging laundry on the wall in front of the stove!”

  When we first got to the apartment, there were actually towels and socks from the previous guests hanging from those hooks.

  “Did you just burn grain alcohol?”

  “Yeah, this wai jwa.”

  “In bitter melon?”

  “Yeah, try it.”

  Emery skeptically dug in. Took a few nibbles, thought to himself, and spoke. “Interesting. It’s weird and different, but good. Bitter, a little sour….There’s a lot going on. Bitter melon is usually pretty plain and bitter.”

  “Do you like it like that, though? The usual way gets boring.”

  “Yeah, I’ve never been a bitter melon fan, but people here fucking love that shit. I just don’t know what they’re going to think.”

  “Well, try the seaweed.”

  “You put seaweed in the pork?”

  “Yeah, you like?”

  “Mhhm, good. Smart. I like it more than the way Mom does it with five-spice. I get a headache from five-spice now.”

  “You get a headache from all Chinese food.”

  “That’s why I don’t eat Chinese food; food is utilitarian. It serves a functional purpose, and if it gives me a headache after I eat it, it fails that functional purpose.”

  “I want to enjoy my food! What’s the point of living to a hundred if you eat frozen broccoli and chicken all day?”

  “That’s a hundred years I get to play RTS*8 games online and watch porn.”

  “Well, you have positive outlets. I need to die as soon as possible because any extra time I have I’ll spend watching the Knicks.”

  Emery was the contrarian’s contrarian. All through school, teachers thought I was crazy, an iconoclast without a cause. When Emery came around, all records were shattered. He was like Peyton Manning, laughing at bum-ass Wrangler-wearing Brett Favre’s accomplishments and systematically flicking each record away.

  If I characterized America as something with a lot of promise that had a very smelly belly button, Emery would say it was a valley of lepers and liars spreading the gospel of infectious disease across the seven seas. That it never had promise, that it had no intention of fostering democracy, freedom, or diversity, but instead was a strategic reaction to the supply-and-demand dynamics of the global political economy at the time. Of course, he’d bring up slavery, the slaughter of Native Americans, and the Chinese Exclusion Act as his best evidence. And he was right.

  —

  “BRRRZZZZ!”

  My doorbell rang just as I was packing up the pork for our party at Hakka Bar. It was Evan.

  “There are a bunch of people at Hakka Bar already, you ready?”

  “Yup, start taking up the rice cooker, make ten cups of rice.”

  “OK, you want me to use the bottled water?”

  “Definitely.”

  I chopped some fresh cilantro, washed the chopsticks and bowls, and started bringing things up to Hakka Bar.

  I took the elevator up and walked across the balcony until I reached Hakka Bar, a former Super 8 Motel suite with a patio and door blown out. Hakka Bar was popular in the neighborhood and always had a solid group of customers, but Hakka Heather told all her friends that we were cooking that night, so the crowd was younger than usual. One homie who looked like a cannonball in a wife-beater walked up to me, spliff in mouth.

  “HIP-HOOOP,” he said in a sleepy Chengdu drawl.

  “Ha ha, what up, hip-hop?” I responded.

  Hakka Heather came over with another young woman—similar height, similar braid in the hair, similar bootleg green 59/50 hat with puffy Chinese writing on the dome.

  “Eddie!” Heather greeted me. “Look! Hat says ‘Hip-Hop.’ ”

  I felt like I was staring at my boy’s University of Michigan hip-hop T-shirt from 2002 and cried laughing inside. I was trying to figure out what was cornier: Ann Arbor business school stairwell hot 16s or Chengdu Super 8 Motel Rooftop cyphers. Quickly, I realized that Hakka Heather had promoted me to her friends as a hip-hop chef and felt transported back to a Food Network development meeting.

  “These are my friends. They all like the hip-hop and want to try your food. Very excited to meet you.”

  “HIP HOOOP!” said the chubby Chinaman once again.

  “What’s your name?�
�� I asked him in Mandarin.

  “Huo Tse!” he said. Train.

  “Word, how’d you get that name?”

  “I work on the train.”

  “I like that. Utilitarian alias.”

  “What did you cook?”

  “Hong sau pork, chili cabbage, bitter melon, seaweed….”

  “Ahhh, good taste. Twenty-five RMB right?”

  “Yup, twenty-five RMB a plate.”

  Twenty-five RMB was about $3 U.S.—the same cost as a bowl of noodles and sliced pork from the vendors downstairs. Twenty-five RMB gets you a well-rounded meal on the street in China, even in Shanghai.

  In the back of Hakka Bar, Evan had the rice cooker, butane burners, and chafing dishes ready in an apartment kitchen. I unloaded the pork belly into a wok set over the butane burner on low, the cabbage went in a chafing dish, and the bitter melon xiao tsao and seaweed went on large platters. I plugged in my iPod, played some Dipset, and got ready to serve. The people in the bar started to pick up plates and line up. Huo Tse was first. I put two scoops of rice on his plate, topped it with pork, au jus of red-cook, bitter melon on the side, seaweed, and cabbage in the front.

  “EY! Can I get some more rice?”

  “Yeah, no problem. You want more pork?”

  “No, no, no, too generous. Just more rice.”

  “Huo Tse always hungry!” said Hakka Heather. Then she turned to me.

  “You don’t need to give more pork. For twenty-five RMB, you already giving way too much meat, just give rice if they are hungry.”

  Hakka Heather and the other people were policing the portions for me. I just wanted people to try my food, but Heather felt like they were already getting a deal and it was bad face for them to ask for more.

  “Hey! I heard you are from Taiwan, too!” said a customer bum-rushing the serving table. He was darker than everyone else, had longer hair, and looked like some sort of Chinese surfer.

  “My parents are overseas Chinese born in Taiwan, but I was born in America.”

  “Then you are Taiwanese like me! Look at your food, must be Taiwanese.”

  He got his plate, gave me 25 RMB, and walked his way down the line.

  “This looks great,” he said, “but you gotta peel the eggs for people. In Taiwan they would peel for you.”

  “You are not in Taiwan anymore!” said Hakka Heather and ushered him away to a booth.

  Within minutes, everyone had assumed positions. Customers scoped the situation, Evan received the cash, Emery scooped rice onto plates, I loaded the meat and three, and Hakka Heather kept the line moving. Despite my third-grade Mandarin, no one tripped. The best part of serving simple homestyle food is that nothing gets lost in translation. If what you’re doing is real, people will walk through walls for it and assume the position, a.k.a. the squat & shovel.*9

  The next customer was interesting. He had a Been Trill hat and Pyrex shorts on like a Chengdu clone of SoHo kids hanging on Lafayette Street. It was actually the first time I’d been to China outside Shanghai and seen someone rocking a current N.Y. style without any sort of mutation. He didn’t finish the look with a fanny pack or white tube socks and a bowl cut.

  “Wassup!” said the homie in relatively unbroken English.

  “Sup. I’m Eddie.”

  “I am Xiao Li. Very excited to try this food. Heather tell us all about you.”

  “Word, well, I hope you like it, fam. It’s just simple potluck food.”

  “Ha, you are the kidding. Red-cooked pork not so simple: Holiday Style.”

  Xiao Li was right. I’d become desensitized to the fact that Baohaus was in effect Taiwanese Boston Market,*10 serving a slice of Chinese New Year every day. Growing up, red-cooked pork was a holiday dish you’d eat for Grandma’s birthday, Moon Festival, or Chinese New Year but we’d gotten so used to doing it every day at Baohaus I didn’t associate it with Chinese New Year anymore.

  I made him a plate. He nodded his thanks.

  “If you want to smoke, we have the weeds outside.”

  “Word, I’ll come thru.”

  “Also, what is this music you playing?”

  “DIPSET!”

  “Hmmm, what is Dipset?”

  “What do you mean, ‘What is Dipset?’ ”

  “Like, what is this? I never heard.”

  “Motherfucker, Dipset is the greatest!”

  “Hey, man, you cool, but why you call me motherfucker.”

  “It’s just a way of saying ‘you.’ My bad.”

  “I don’t think motherfucker means ‘you.’ You just called me person who fuck mother, how does this mean ‘you’?”

  “No, like, you MY motherfucker, you may not fuck other people’s mothers or my mother, but you MY motherfucker.”

  “I know this word, but I don’t know why I am your motherfucker.”

  “It’s like sometimes people in Chinese say lao sai, or son of a bitch, but you still cool.”

  “Ohhh, OK, I understand but kind of don’t understand….”

  We were mercifully interrupted by the Taiwanese homie.

  “WA SAI!” screamed Taiwanese Point Break.

  “Ha ha, it’s good?”

  “This five flower pork [pork belly] is great. Very tender and flavorful, spicier than most red-cooked pork and less sweet so I like it, but I have NEVER had anything like this seaweed, it’s even better than pork!”

  “Thanks, man, it’s easy. Just put the seaweed knot in the red-cook.”

  “I know, it’s so simple, someone should have thought of it! But…you know what is my favorite?”

  “What?”

  “This xiao tsao! I see exactly what you did. TAIWANESE XIAO TSAO WITH BITTER MELON! Very funny interpretation, I like.”

  Just as I was about to thank him, a guy with stunna shades and a CDC snapback rolled up to the line, rockin’ all Huf everything, alongside a friend who looked like a Fung Wah bus driver with lanyards on his neck and bookish glasses.

  “What is this going on?” said Stunna.

  “Twenty-five RMB, you get red-cooked pork, cabbage, seaweed, a braised egg, and bitter melon with rice.”

  “OK, OK, not bad deal. I want three. Two for me, one for my friend Fish, here.”

  He pointed to the Fung Wah bus driver.

  “Cool, what’s your name?”

  “Rabbi.”

  The teacher of the Torah watched intently as I made the plates. Rice first, then pork, cabbage, seaweed, braised egg, and…

  “What’s that?”

  “Bitter melon.”

  “I know bitter melon, but why you have fish in bitter melon?”

  “I think it tastes good.”

  “I don’t know. We don’t eat bitter melon like this in Chengdu.”

  Point Break came to my rescue.

  “Eh! Da gu, try it first! New style Taiwanese xiao tsao.”

  “Ahhh, this is Taiwanese food?” exclaimed Rabbi.

  “I don’t know, man. I’m wai-sheng ren born in America, so I’m not really sure.”

  “Ha ha, you funny man. What do you think it is?” laughed Rabbi.

  “My dad told me as a kid, I’m Hunan, so you Hunan. I guess it’s Hunan.”

  “OK then. Hunan in the house!”

  Point Break got tight.

  “No, no, no, that is definitely Taiwanese food. You are Hunan but cooking Taiwan style. Xiao tsao is for sure Taiwanese!”

  “But the bitter melon must be Sichuan or Hunan,” said Rabbi.

  “We have bitter melon in Taiwan, too!”

  “Yes, you have, but we famous for bitter melon. This is our dish.”

  “Sure, but Xiao Ming here apply Taiwan style, now we the more famous, ha ha ha!”

  “Whatever man, I tell you after I try it.” Rabbi settled.

  I looked down at Rabbi’s ankle.

  “Fam…what is that on your ankle?”

  Your mans had the most official 2001 Brooklyn summertime round-the-way-girl wrist tattoo on his ankle.

  “Oh
, you know this? FABOLOUS.”

  “Of course I know Fab, but why do you have a Fab tattoo on your ankle, homie?”

  “I am hip-hop-head. First article I ever wrote was on Fabolous, so I tattoo on my ankle.”

  “Damn…what if your first article was on Spliff Star?”

  “Then I might have Spliff Star tattoo.”

  “That’s deep.”

  Rabbi walked away with his plate and continued to eye the bitter melon.

  Emery sidled over.

  “I don’t like these hip-hop posers.”

  “What’s wrong with you, man?”

  “They’re just consuming black culture without any connection to it. They live in Chengdu.”

  “Son, the culture is international.”

  “Well, you’re blind to it sometimes, too. You grew up with it, but you’re not black, either.”

  “Emery, it’s not about being black. Nineties hip-hop is some civil disobedience shit. If homie tattooed Thoreau on his ankle, you wouldn’t call him a poser.”

  “Thoreau’s shit isn’t tied to a racial struggle! Hip-hop is specific to the black experience.”

  “Yes, it came from a very specific experience, but it’s transcendent just like Thoreau. You can’t tie culture down to anything, you have to let it mutate and adapt and evolve.”*11

  “I’m just sick of people in China always sucking on America’s tit for inspiration when there’s plenty to draw from here.”

  I understood Emery’s frustration. Nobody likes posers. People in China literally rented white people to pose as experts, butlers, and models to provide a layer of “authority” or “excellence” to everything and anything in China. Emery despised this worship of whiteness because it took incredible strength to love his own skin. He wanted Chinese people to look within. People like Rabbi, Xiao Li, and myself struggle because whiteness is a universal problem, but luckily, intergalactic black culture is something we’ve seen ourselves in. While many people want us to treat black culture like an oasis we’re passing in the larger cultural desert, I sat down in it because to a cottonmouthed traveler that’s spent his life circling a cul-de-sac, water is just water.

  Just as we were about to rip each other’s faces off, Rabbi returned with Fish.

  “Hey, man! This bitter melon is crazy! I’ve eaten bitter melon my whole life and never had this flavor. What did you do? So fresh.”