There was mystery in the meal that always intrigued me. And I always waited for my favorite, steamed barbeque pork buns the sweet, white dough erupting at the center with chunks of soft, salty pork bathed in a five spice-scented sauce. While we didn’t always take them when they were offered, I never minded chicken feet their flavor was delicious, even if I ended up with what seemed like a mouthful of knuckles. It was too chewy for my liking, although my father often savored a bowl on his own. I also never partook in the heaping bowls of tripe. A special cart would come to fry turnip cakes right at your table, but they were not for me. There were little dishes with pork spare ribs, meaty, bony nuggets in a salty black bean sauce, and mini spring rolls, three to a serving, the fried wrapper shattering when you took a satisfying bite. You pointed to those you wanted and ignored those you decided to skip. They would open the lid, scented steam filling the air, to reveal bamboo baskets filled with translucent shrimp dumplings, pork and shrimp meatballs in a thin wrapper (shumai), and slippery rice noodle rolls stuffed with pork or whole shrimp, a heavy dose of sweetened soy sauce poured on top. I loved the way servers would navigate searing hot carts around the restaurant stopping at your table to offer their fare. In a traditional dim sum hall, diners don’t order from a menu rather, the food is brought to your table. In my young age, I recall a sense of chaos as my family settled into the groove of the restaurant followed by a sense of rational calm as the food began to arrive. Many restaurants that specialize in this type of cooking are large halls filled with huge round tables, big enough to sit multi-generational families. One of the earliest food obsessions I recall was with dim sum, a Cantonese meal of small plates filled with appetizers and dumplings, traditionally eaten as brunch. The long-term fallout has proven minor, but I guess my infatuation with food started at a young age.įive years old in Vermont, 1972.
I have no idea why my parents didn’t believe in napkins.
In practically every photo of me as a child, my face is dirty, often covered with food.
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