The Car Ride
It was a Taiwanese version of Datsun, the quintessential entry level car. My parents bought it used. It might as well be a new Mercedes to me. I remembered going to driving lessons with my mother under the hot Southeast Asia sun, and did not connect that one day, we would own a car. It has a light yellow exterior, with a no non-sense interior, and perpetual faint gasoline smell.
The palpable excitement, and nervous anticipation pulsed through my body as I witnessed my mother navigate through the busiest street of Kaohsiung as her front seat passenger on our family car’s virginal tour. My sister was at the backseat, and I could not recall if my older brother was with us or not. My father likely was working in his clinic that night. He later learned a little bit of driving under my mother’s tutelage. I recall him turtling along empty Kaohsiung streets after a family early morning swim on Xi Zhe Wan beach at the top speed of 30km/hr. He never obtained a driver’s license.
I could not explain why that night was so memorable, and why I felt being “transported” to a happy, magical place during that 30 minutes ride. It was probably not my early capitalistic sense of material ownership, or a preadolescent fondness for automobile. More likely, the car and, more precisely, a family’s de novo ownership of one could make any young child’s day.
The Taste of Drunken Chicken
Tasting good food is very important to my father. He grew up in the tumultuous era of Japanese occupation of China, World War II and Chinese Civil War where lives were lived or perished from mouthful to mouthful. That somehow did not dampen his love for culinary excellence. My late mother, an excellent chef, claimed she was only the second best cook in our family. By the time, I was old enough to appreciate good eats, my father was seldom to be found in the kitchen as he was busying with his medical career.
While food preparation at home was holy, eating out was sacred. His war era upbringing has made him very sensible and practical with money. In his Bible, good eateries provide excellent food at reasonable price. A bargain price always made food more palatable, and I have to agree.
Many of our vacations were centered on satisfying our guts. Traveling the distance to eat a good meal became feasible after my parents purchased the now famous automobile. I do wonder whether that was my father’s main motivation for car ownership. With above mentioned exclusionary criteria, one can guess our destination were never restaurants for the rich and famous, but somewhat out of the way little towns with famous local dishes. Interestingly, this was and still is quite common in Chinese culture, gastro-tourism, not that we don’t like the Cestine Chapel, or Yellow Stone National Park, but if these destinations served Spiced Bean Curd Carp or 3 Cup chicken as well….
I am not certain if Drunken Chicken is Taiwanese in origin. It has been a much celebrated dish locally, especially for post-partum women to build up their strength. It is chicken pieces stewed in rice or sorghum liquor and other spices. The best fowls, per Chinese standard, are the “walking chicken”. They are none-caged beasts that roam around, and produce more tender flesh. Therefore, they tend to be raised in the more spacious countryside.
It was with this dish in mind that my parents, with 3 kids in tow, drove the distance to a nondescript open aired country restaurant. Of course, the main dish, Drunken Chicken was ordered, in addition to several side dishes; they were served without fanfare. The fireworks came strictly from the pleasure of eating the food. I never liked alcohol; therefore, did not particularly like the dish, that is, until that fantastic meal. The repugnant alcohol was somehow transformed into a delicious spice that enlivened the tender, juicy chicken. The chef had to be a crafty alchemist! My taste buds and salivary glands met their soul mate. Even as I am writing these words, they are responding to that love of their lives. All right, that is a bit far. The side dishes were excellent, but my infatuated brain could not retrieve any information on what they were, or how they tasted. How should I describe what the chicken taste like? I could still taste the alcohol, minimally bitter, sweet scent, but without its nasty bite. The chicken was light, non greasy, yet full of substance in my mouth. The essence of chicken flavor was distilled, and amplified.
Now this is a theological question of the millenniums: If the Devil tempted Jesus in the desert with this dish, would the world have been saved?
The Choir Tour
Once upon a time, I was a choir boy.
At the impressionable age of 13, I became a born again Christian, while attending the tiny Taiwanese Baptist church in Costa Rica. After arrived Costa Rica in 1982 without friends or family, my mother and I were easy converts due to the support, familial atmosphere, and sincere friendships that church offered. It was a close-knit network of “single moms” and under aged kids, because the men, my father included, stayed behind to earn a living in Taiwan. We were looking for something better, better education, better security from the threat of communism, and better living environment. Vast majority of us were set to eventually land in the two North America countries, USA and Canada, using Costa Rica, with its lax immigration rules, as a stepping stone.
The Taiwanese congregation, numbered around 70, was supported by the San Jose branch of American Southern Baptist Church. Besides using the facility, receiving sermons from their pastor, we also formed a Chinese youth choir under their leadership, headed by a kindly, middle aged American couple. We were mostly a motley crew of 15 or so teenagers, with no distinguishing music talent, but plenty of time and enthusiasm. The choir practiced every Saturday afternoon, and sang in front of the Chinese congregation on Sunday morning. The music we produced was forgettable, but the memories and bonds we forged were enduring.
Sometime during 1984, we went on an evangelical choir tour across Costa Rica through the arrangement of Baptist evangelical network. Costa Rica had a relatively homogenous racial mix, and an Asian Christian choir, the only one in the country I am sure, was a small novelty. Okay, we were not filling the stadium exactly. Most of the churches we visited were small; one of them could barely fit the whole choir. We traveled via a van and several cars, chaperoned by the American couple and a handful of moms, mine included. Food and lodging were provided either through local churches or purchased through our own purse. One night, the choir gave a concert in a remote coffee plantation, and then spent the night on same church pews that our audience sat on.
The choir offered our listener a repertoire of 8-10 hymns with English, Spanish and Chinese mixture. Every member of the choir got to sing a solo or duet. The singing was followed by short sermons from local pastors. We were not very spiritually inspiring judging by the lack of “converts” until our last concert. The higher call of the tour was mostly lost to me. I was immersed in the friendship and comadrie of my fellow choir mates, while getting a close and personal look at the country that offered us refuge at a time of uncertainty.
Years later, I do not fit the mode of a born again Christian anymore. I still have boundless gratitude for the Costa Rican church and its choir. They were important anchors and positive guiding force in my young, unsettled immigrant life.
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