Chop Suey Nation

by Ann Hui

  We’d already seen a number of these regional variations along our trip. There was ginger beef back in the Prairies. In Quebec, we’d found “fried macaroni,” stir-fried pasta with soy sauce, meat and veggies. In my research, I’d also come across “Peterborough won-tons” (deep-fried wonton skins, without the meat fillings), and the Timmins, ON, custom of serving all Chinese dishes with a side of toast. And here in Newfoundland, it was braised ribs.

  “When you fail, you learn,” Mr. Yu said. “You learn from your mistakes.”

  * * *

  The restaurant was beginning to fill up again, which I took as my cue to get out of the way. But first, I asked about the sign at the door.

  “What does that mean, that your chow mein is made with cabbage?’”

  “Another Newfoundland thing,” he said.

  The first Chinese restaurateurs had to improvise because they weren’t able to find Chinese ingredients, he said. But the problem was especially pronounced in Newfoundland. It was nearly impossible to get even basic ingredients, like soy sauce or bok choy, imported onto the island. Even egg noodles—the “mein” in “chow mein”—were difficult to come by. One of those enterprising early restaurateurs improvised by cutting cabbage into thin strips, so that they’d resemble, at least in appearance, thin noodles. He started calling it chow mein, and it stuck.

  To this day, “chow mein” in Newfoundland means thin strips of cabbage, stir-fried with veggies and meat. For noodles, Mr. Yu said, you have to ask for them specifically, by ordering “Cantonese chow mein on noodles.” The sign on the door was a recent addition, he said, after tourists started getting confused.

  I decided to order my own container of Newfoundland chow mein, to go. As I walked out with the Styrofoam bowl, Mr. Yu waved goodbye. He nodded at the bag in my hands. “You won’t find anything like this in Vancouver,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye.

  Back in the car, I found Anthony sitting with a pizza box in his lap.

  “I got this for you,” he said, handing me a small personal-sized pizza box. I opened the lid to find a pizza covered with a white sauce. Studded across the top were pieces of pink shrimp, small scallops and what looked like chunks of lobster meat, all of it under a blanket of cheese. “Apparently it’s a Newfoundland thing,” he said.

  I grabbed a slice, then took a bite. The seafood tasted like it was from frozen, and all of it was overcooked—the textures of the shellfish indistinguishable from the rubbery mushrooms. The cheese tasted like salt and little else. I winced and handed the box back to Anthony.

  Then I pried the lid off the Styrofoam container from Canton. Sure enough, inside were thin strips of cabbage, stir-fried with plump pieces of chicken, carrots and onions. Using a plastic fork, I took a big bite. It tasted familiar—the sweetness of the veggies, the juicy chicken and a hint of soy and sesame, like chow mein without the crunchy noodles. What it lacked in texture it made up for with a richness in flavor. The cabbage added a depth to the dish. It was even more savoury, even more umami than a traditional chow mein.

  “What is that?” Anthony said, leaning over and looking into my bowl.

  “Chow mein,” I said happily. “It’s a Newfoundland thing.”

  And it was. This dish, from its origin story, to its ingredients, to its execution—it was utterly and completely Newfoundland. It told the story of this place. It was as Canadian as it was Chinese.

  “When you fail, you learn,” Mr. Yu had said. “The point is that you keep going.”

  Just weeks earlier, I had been so dismissive of this food as “fake Chinese.” Now I realized I had been completely wrong. This ad-hoc cuisine, and the families behind it, were quintessentially Chinese. It was pure entrepreneurialism. Out of cabbage, they’d made noodles. Out of a bucket and water, they’d grown bean sprouts. They had created a cuisine that was a testament to creativity, perseverance and resourcefulness. This chop suey cuisine wasn’t fake Chinese—but instead, the most Chinese of all.

  * * *

  In late afternoon, Anthony and I arrived in Gander, where we would stay the night.

  The small city is home to over eleven thousand—big enough for its own shopping mall, with a couple dozen stores, and a local CBC station. It’s also the city that gained international attention after welcoming thousands of stranded passengers after the 9/11 attacks forced the landing of several airliners. (The city’s outpouring of generosity toward these complete strangers would later became the subject of the Broadway musical Come from Away.)

  After a quick dinner at the Country Kitchen inside the mall (fish and chips for me, poutine for Anthony), we returned to our hotel with plans to depart early the next morning for Fogo Island.

  All those months earlier as I was plotting out our trip, my editors and I had briefly talked about ending the trip in Ontario instead of driving all the way to the East Coast. It would have been significantly cheaper to stop in Toronto. But there was the one restaurant I really wanted to visit, all the way out on Fogo Island. After stumbling across the blog post about the Fogo restaurant, I had found a photo of the woman who ran the Chinese restaurant on Fogo Island. The photo haunted me. Like many, I had only learned about Fogo Island recently, after the opening of a splashy hotel built there by tech millionaire (and Newfoundlander) Zita Cobb. The hotel and the celebrities it attracts—everyone from Justin Trudeau to Gwyneth Paltrow—had suddenly shone a giant spotlight on the tiny island. But outside of the fancy hotel, what little I knew of the island was that it was tiny, secluded and about as remote as it gets. I couldn’t shake the idea of this woman running a Chinese restaurant there, alone. I knew I had to meet her. My editors agreed that the extra mileage would be worth it. And so, much of the trip was designed around my hopes of eventually getting to Fogo Island.

  We had planned to take the ferry to Fogo the next morning. It was a small government-run vessel that would have taken about an hour and fifteen minutes to transport us along with our car to the island. But as I checked the ferry’s website that night in our hotel room to confirm the departure time, I saw that the storm that had dogged us back in Cape Breton wasn’t done with us yet. Our ferry had been cancelled. Instead, the province had chartered an Air Labrador flight to hop back and forth between Gander and Fogo, and it was our only alternative to get to the island. The cost was the same as the ferry, and the flight would take just half an hour—one-third the amount of time as the ferry. The only catch? We wouldn’t be able to bring our car with us.

  I did a quick search for taxi services on Fogo, glanced at a few search results that popped up and went to bed.

  * * *

  The next morning, we woke up early, with plans of catching the first flight out from Gander airport. Walking into the terminal was like travelling back in time. It had originally opened in 1938, and at the time, with its four paved runways, was the world’s largest airport. As the only airport in the Maritimes, it was strategically located for bomber aircrafts that required refuelling and maintenance before continuing overseas. Until the 1950s, it remained one of the busiest airports in the world.

  But in the 1960s, the invention of jet aircrafts that didn’t need refuelling ended all that. And the airport, a temple of Modernist architecture, looked like it hadn’t been touched since. The international lounge was like a set from Mad Men, with Mondrian tile patterned floors, orange walls and mid-century modern furniture.

  Many of the airline counters were still setting up and the Air Labrador counter wasn’t yet open. Sitting next to the counter was a man who looked to be in his forties who wore a camouflage jacket with a deer emblazoned on the back and a camouflage cap. He was surrounded by large boxes and duffle bags.

  “This the flight to Fogo?” I asked.

  He nodded and introduced himself as Cecil. He was just returning to Fogo after several months of working near Toronto. The fisheries on Fogo aren’t what they used to be. So he (and many Fogo locals) go off-island at least part of each year for work.

  “This your fir
st time on Fogo?” he asked.

  I said that it was, and that we were planning on doing some sightseeing on the island.

  “Who’s gonna take you around?” he asked.

  I told him we hoped to rent a taxi or a car once we arrived.

  He scrunched his eyebrows and cocked his chin. “Taxi?” he asked. He seemed skeptical.

  I said that I’d seen them online. Fogo Island had become such a hot spot for tourists recently, surely it wouldn’t be hard to get a taxi.

  He nodded his head slowly but seemed unconvinced. A few minutes later, he added, “Tell you what, if you get stuck, just give me a call. I’ll take you around.”

  I just smiled. It was a nice offer, considering we’d only just met. But I told him we’d be okay.

  Not long after, a man with a clipboard wandered over to us to check us in. It was just the three of us for the flight, he said. Once we were ready, he’d take us out to the aircraft.

  So Cecil, Anthony and I followed the man through a sliding glass door and directly onto the snow-covered tarmac. There, a Twin Otter aircraft was waiting for us. As Cecil passed his bags to the handlers, Anthony and I climbed the steps up into the cabin. It was the smallest plane I’d ever been in, about twenty seats in total. It was probably the oldest plane I’d been in too, nothing like the sleek airbuses and Dreamliners I’d grown accustomed to as a flight attendant. The cabin looked as if it hadn’t been updated since the 1960s, and had the feel of a school bus, with blue bench-style seating and walls painted turquoise and white.

  “Where should we sit?” I asked Anthony.

  He looked around the empty cabin.

  “Anywhere we want, I guess.”

  As we settled in our seats, I realized that where there would normally be a door separating the flight deck from the cabin was instead an open space. I thought back to the security training I’d had working as a flight attendant. It had been just a few years after 9/11, and the importance of preventing anyone from entering the flight deck had been drilled into us. But today, the pilot and his first officer were just a few arm’s lengths away. We watched as they conducted their pre-flight inspections, checking dials, flipping through manuals, speaking with each other in hushed tones.

  A few minutes later, we were ready to go. With a few more flips of some switches, we were taxiing toward the runway. We could feel each and every bump on the pavement. We began gaining speed, hurtling forward with the cabin shaking and jolting the entire time. Finally, with a last gasp of effort, the plane lifted off into the air. Below us was Newfoundland—all tree and rock and snow-covered lakes. Anthony and I fell into silence, both of us gazing out the window. From above, the Atlantic Ocean looked ready to swallow the island whole.

  Just twenty minutes later, it was time for descent. I scanned the landscape below us, looking for signs of civilization. But the island looked untouched. The plane touched down on the runway, next to a single, temporary-looking building that looked to be in the middle of nowhere.

  We walked out onto the tarmac and into the airport. All the while, I looked for some kind of transportation—a rental car kiosk, a taxi stand or at least a bus kiosk. But there was only a tiny parking lot next to the terminal with a couple of cars parked. Otherwise, there was nothing but empty fields and forest.

  Inside the one-room terminal, there was only a single employee working behind a counter, selling plane tickets. I noticed a bulletin board on the wall. Pinned to it was a business card advertising a taxi service. It looked to be the same one I had seen online the day before. I passed the card to Anthony and asked him to call it. Meanwhile, I stood in line, waiting to speak with the airport employee.

  A few moments later, Anthony appeared by my side. “He said the taxi service hasn’t been in business since 2013.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no taxi service,” he repeated.

  I searched on my phone for “Fogo Island” and “taxi,” but sure enough, the number that popped up was the same as the one on the business card.

  The airport was at least ten kilometres from town. And in this weather, walking was not an option.

  Now what?

  I turned around to look for Cecil, but he was nowhere to be found. Behind me in line was a young man who looked like he might be a local.

  “Excuse me,” I said. He looked up. I explained to him what had happened, how we’d found ourselves stranded.

  “I don’t suppose you might know someone we can hire for the day to drive us around?”

  He thought about it for a few moments. Then he turned to the group of men standing behind him.

  “Hey guys, do you know anyone who can drive them around?”

  I could see them thinking about it, mumbling to each other, conferring. I looked at Anthony, who looked at the men, who looked back at us.

  A few moments later, from across the room, a man’s voice piped up. “They can take my car.”

  I whipped my head around to see where the voice was coming from. It was an older man with white hair. He was walking toward us, one of his arms outstretched with a set of keys.

  I was stunned. I turned to look at Anthony, who looked similarly taken aback.

  I tried to speak. “I—we—what?”

  I couldn’t tell if he was joking. He was a complete stranger. We were complete strangers.

  A few feet away, the woman he was with nodded in encouragement. They were completely serious.

  “We’re heading to Gander for the day so we don’t need it,” he said. Gander—the city famous for its generosity to strangers. “Just leave the keys at the counter when you’re done.”

  I looked at Anthony, who still looked stunned. I couldn’t imagine such a thing happening back home.

  The guys standing around the airport were all nodding their heads in agreement. They seemed to think this was normal—as if this type of generosity, and trust, was typical. From their reactions, I suspected, perhaps it was—at least here in Newfoundland.

  I asked him his name, and he introduced himself as Lloyd Bailey.

  “Lloyd, you have no idea how grateful we are.”

  He just shrugged. “It’s nothing, really,” he said.

  Before he and his wife walked away, I called out one last time. “Lloyd, are you sure? You’re not worried we’ll steal your car and you’ll never see it again?”

  He just laughed. He gestured around him at the empty fields and ocean surrounding us. “It’s an island,” he said. “You’d have nowhere to take it.”

  A few minutes later, Anthony turned the keys in the ignition of Lloyd’s Hyundai sedan. The dashboard lit up and the engine roared to life. We were on our way.

  Chapter Twenty

  Abbotsford, BC.

  1977–84

  Most mornings, my parents were at the Legion by eight. Mom would flip the “Closed” sign to “Open” and greet the occasional customer already standing outside waiting for their morning coffee.

  She’d get the coffee started right away, then count the cash at the register, making sure the totals she’d added up the night before were still correct. Dad would head straight into the kitchen. There wasn’t much to do to prepare breakfast. Most mornings, they’d have fewer than ten breakfast customers, and most would just order coffee. Maybe toast—a bowl of cereal at most.

  Instead, while the dining room slowly filled up, Dad would begin getting lunch ready.

  As instructed by Mr. Cheung, he’d decide what soup to put on special based on what was left over from the night before. If there was extra chicken, he’d make chicken noodle soup or cream of chicken. If it was carrots and peas, he’d make a vegetable medley. He would spell the soup out in white letters on a black magnet board, under the words “Today’s Special.” Next he’d figure out the sandwich special—hot beef, or hot turkey, or maybe a clubhouse. By about ten most mornings, the restaurant would quiet down again. Dad would wash the dishes, rinsing out coffee mugs and toast crumbs.

  And soon, it was time for lunch.
This was normally their busiest time. Construction workers from the job site across the street, workers from nearby offices and some of the elderly locals who had become regulars over the years would all stream in. On an average day, they would see about fifty customers.

  On especially busy days, when the customers all seemed to walk in at the same time, Mom would scribble out the orders frantically. “H + E” —ham and egg—she’d scrawl on her pad, slamming it down on the counter for Dad. “B + E”—bacon and eggs. She felt like she was everywhere at once—greeting people as they walked in, taking orders, dropping off dishes and calculating bills at the end of the meal.

  And Dad was running around inside the kitchen. Slicing sandwiches. Sloshing hot soup into bowls. Flipping toast on the griddle. Whenever it felt like it was too much, he would calmly talk to himself, walking through the checklist of things to be done.

  Toast bread. Warm beef. Slice tomato. Cheese.

  The customers arrived, they ordered, they ate and they left. This would happen over and over and over again, until about two in the afternoon.

  And suddenly it would be quiet again. Mom would sweep or finish taking care of the books. She hated when she was in the middle of a long calculation, her head a jumble of numbers, and a new customer would walk in. She’d greet them, take their order, then have to start again from the beginning. Other afternoons, people would just come in to say hello—the regulars who got to know Mom by name and would sit for hours just to chat.

  Dinner was normally slow at the Legion, even slower than breakfast.

  Very rarely did people go out for dinner or leave their houses at all in the evenings in Abbotsford. Many of them were farmers who were up at dawn and in bed by eight. Most had barely a few dollars to scratch together.

  So Mom and Dad would eat their own dinner. They’d have whatever was in the restaurant that day. If there was a giant roast turkey in the fridge, Dad would set aside the drumstick—the best part—early in the day so Mom could have it with dinner. He’d steam some bok choy or sui choy he’d buy on the weekends in Vancouver. All of it they’d eat with steamed rice Dad made in a rice cooker in the kitchen.