A Tiger in the Kitchen (27 page)

Flying out of Xiamen a few days later, I vowed to return. I promised to find my great-grandfather’s village.

When I started cooking with them, Auntie Khar Imm and her sisters had offered some help, pointing me in the direction of the Tan clan association in Singapore that had organized my Tanglin ah-ma’s funeral. “They’ll know which is the right place,” she had told me. And when I’d visited the association headquarters, barging into the tidy row house near Singapore’s Chinatown that it occupied, ablaze with questions about my ancestral village, the gaggle of men playing mah-jongg and smoking cigarettes had looked bemused. “Women can join also,” Michael, the president, noted in between puffs when he saw me looking around, wondering if I was actually allowed in the building. Even so, I thought it was a pretty clear signal.

Clan members would make their annual trip to the ancestral village in December 2009, Michael had noted. Would I like to come?

My father was slightly reluctant the second time. We’d been to the area, we’d tried to find the village. What could we gain from trying once more? In his early sixties, my father was slowly wrapping up his affairs at the moving company he now owned, preparing it for sale. Between entertaining potential buyers and going over the assets of the company, he was especially busy. Did we really need to be making this trip? “But, Daddo,” I said. “We’ve been talking about going to Gong-Gong’s village together since I was young! We have to do this.”

With that, my father and I booked tickets and found ourselves hugging our hellos in the Shantou airport, nervous with anticipation. Michael had invited us to dinner with some villagers that first night, but my dad and I were too hungry to wait. The moment we checked into our hotel in the afternoon, we began craving
meepok
, the noodles tossed with bits of crunchy fried pork lard in a chili-soy–black vinegar sauce and topped with fish balls, fish cakes, and bits of minced or sliced pork, that Uncle Ah Tuang had mentioned. It’s a simple dish made by the Teochews that we’d eat for breakfast in Singapore every day if we could. (More important, if our bodies could handle it.)

The noodles are not hard to find in Shantou, as you can imagine. Just half a block from our hotel, the Golden Gulf, we stumbled upon a promising display of fish balls in a refrigerated glass case on the sidewalk. When we peeked in the storefront, we spotted another promising sign: a massive banner that proclaimed its fish balls and noodles a “famous snack for long history in China.” Now I’m not one for hyperbole, but I do admire chutzpah.

So Dad and I sat down for an afternoon snack, and the dishes began arriving. First, there was an assortment of fish balls that we’d picked out in the display case. They generally tasted the same—which was to say they were all good—mainly varying in degrees of springiness and density. (I preferred the lighter, springier ones.) We also had a few lovely fish “dumplings,” in which the dumpling wrapper was made out of minced fish pounded with flour and then rolled flat. These were cut into squares, filled with scallions or minced pork, rolled up, and boiled—just delicious. Next up, we had regular dumplings filled with minced pork and chives and topped with a vinegar-pepper sauce that was slightly peanutty. And, of course, there was
meepok
.

Now, this version tasted very different from the
meepok
you’ll find in Singapore. Instead of a salty, vinegary sauce, this was tossed in a peppery, peanut-based gravy that was similar to satay dipping sauces. Not that we were complaining—the noodles were tasty and very comforting. The perfect panacea for a rather long flight. As the eating wound down and we gauchely licked our spoons and chopsticks, I thought about the days ahead. We would travel to my ancestral village, take part in a ceremony commemorating the first Tans from centuries ago. We would meet our very distant cousins. We would be going home.

We paid our bill and wandered into the gray Shantou street. Outside, we flagged a cab. We were to meet Michael and the villagers in a restaurant near the village.

Our first meal with the villagers would be like all our other meals—filled with men. And me. We entered the private dining room of the restaurant to find ourselves penetrating a plume of cigarette smoke. Michael introduced us as fellow Tans—family—from Singapore and New York. I leapt into action, firmly shaking everyone’s hand and telling them my name in Mandarin, Rulian. The village chief was there, a stout, comfortable-looking man who appeared to be in his sixties but had a full head of hair that looked dyed to unnatural blackness and the belly of someone who did not want for much. He gestured for us to take a seat at the dinner table. I headed straight for the chair in a corner at the farthest end, thinking nothing of it. The meal was a several-courser—fried tofu, fish, a heaping plate of noodles. We’d brought bottles of wine as a gift for the village head, so we shared several toasts. I was surprised they’d poured me a glass, too, and merrily drank along, clinking glasses with my new uncles.

They spoke Mandarin, yes, but were most comfortable with Teochew, a dialect I barely understood. By the end of dinner, however, I felt I was starting to get the hang of it. As we stood around outside the restaurant, the men embroiled in deep conversation, I nodded, listened, and smiled along.

“Do you know what they’re saying?” my dad asked, looking amused.

“They’re talking about the dinner tonight, right?”

“No lah! They’re talking about what we’re going to do tomorrow!”

I was suddenly glad I hadn’t tried to say anything—not that I really would have known what to say in Teochew. (In fact, my Mandarin, which I rarely speak in New York or Singapore, wasn’t functioning very well either. Shortly after, when I wanted to borrow a pen to write something down, it was fortunate that I thought to check with Dad about the wording. I had been about to ask the village chief if I could borrow his
bizi,
or “nose,” instead of a
bi.
)

Just when I was starting to feel a little morose about the days ahead, however, one of the villagers asked, “Have you heard of this phrase, ‘
Teochew nang, paxi bo xiang gang
’?” Now, I’d heard one saying regarding
Teochew nang,
which means “Teochew people,” and it was
Teochew nang, kacherng ang ang.
It’s a popular saying in Singapore—a school yard taunt at times—that basically means “Teochew people have red backsides.” I wondered if this saying was popular in China as well. I wondered if I should ask. But I decided it might not be the best question on the very first night.

“No,” I said instead. “What does it mean?”

“It basically means that Teochew people, you beat them until they’re close to death but they’ll still survive,” he said. “We’re strong.”

I liked that—perhaps not as much as my red-behind saying, but I felt I was learning something about my people, about me.

In the car ride back to our hotel in Chaozhou, a picturesque historic city on the water, our driver said, “You see this car in the front? No license plate also can still drive.” It was true; among the cars madly zigzagging across the intersection, this one had absolutely no identification. “Here,” he said, proudly, “anything can happen. You want to do something, you can just do it.”

I was beginning to like the sound of my people. It was starting to explain some things about my family and, perhaps, me. Shortly after, our driver slowed to a crawl. In the dusty blackness, I saw that a lorry had halted just before us. Not wanting to wait for the crowd to clear, the driver swung his steering wheel and darted around the lorry. As we slowly passed, we saw a flash of bright red and understood what had happened. The lorry had struck a girl in a red parka. Two young men had run onto the road—one grabbed her hands, one, her feet. Together, they were hoisting the wide-eyed, terrified girl like a limp doll as they hurried back to the side of the road. Our car barely missed hitting them.

Before we had gone to China, we had been warned about the “gifts” we’d likely have to give. Both my grandmothers had made pilgrimages to their ancestral villages before, and both had come back with little more than the clothes on their backs; once a reasonably well-off overseas Chinese person goes back to visit less well-off relatives, the pressure to shower them with money and gifts like refrigerators and microwave ovens is intense. So my father and I were prepared when Michael took us aside and said, “You should give something—nothing big, just a token.” We should give a small cash donation to the village chief, he said—“the amount, up to you”—as well as a few cartons of cigarettes. And he knew just the place to buy them—the little tea and cigarette store the village chief owned.

My father and I looked at each other; we had expected this. And a small donation and a few cartons of cigarettes seemed appropriate.

The next morning, the chief’s son came to the hotel to give us a ride into the village. On the way there, Michael filled us in on our people. “Sanitary ware is the big business here,” he said, pointing to giant billboards that advertised bathtubs and toilet bowls.

“Our people are famous for making toilet bowls?” I whispered to my dad. “Eew.”

He stared straight ahead, trying not to laugh. “Well, it’s a good business, you know,” he whispered back. “Everybody has to shit.”

It was hard to ignore the poverty that was all around us, however. Streets were in dismal condition, filled with potholes, and all along these streets were buildings that had been half constructed and then abandoned. Toilet bowls didn’t seem to be creating a real business boom for our people.

After about forty minutes of lurching through traffic, just after we passed a gaggle of women squatting in a canal by the side of the large main road, ankle deep in water as they scrubbed away at clothing, we pulled up to a familiar tiny road, a narrow sliver that would wend its way to the heart of my ancestral village. My dad and I looked at each other—we had been here before. This was the exact same village we’d come to the year before. We had been right all along!

This time, however, we had an English-speaking guide whom the villagers had found to help us. “My name is Fiona,” this young woman said tentatively. “Hello, I am Rulian,” I volunteered. “I can speak Mandarin.” She looked a little relieved.

The next day the village would hold its annual celebration to honor its ancestors—the reason Michael and other clan members from Singapore were in town. As the chief and the elders got down to the business of planning the festivities, Fiona, my dad, and I set about exploring the town.

“Do you know much Teochew?” Fiona asked. I confessed that I didn’t.

“Well,” she added, “the Teochew that’s spoken in your village is known as a particular kind of Teochew. It’s very soft and tender. People say it’s like listening to lovers’ whispers.”

I thought back to the Teochew I’d grown up learning. I knew how to wish my parents happy new year, and I knew how to swear. Neither of these sounded remotely like lovers’ whispers to me. I decided I would try to speak as little Teochew as possible while I was there.

Lovers’ whispers or not, the village scene was heartbreaking. Dirt and trash cluttered the streets. Too-skinny chickens scratched and pecked at invisible bits of food in thick layers of dirt and mud. Several generations of families crammed into one or two tiny rooms, with the women holding tubs and squatting over drains to wash vegetables or fish for dinner. Within minutes, we found the village market; the vegetable aunties lay wan produce on plastic sheets on the dirt, sitting on stools and propping their bare feet up right next to their greens. Butchers and fishmongers set out their meats on wooden tables; flies descended on everything. The local candy merchant had a prominent display of “Kemt” and “Marlbovo” brand cigarette-shaped sticks of chewing gum.

Soon enough, it was time for lunch. Back into the village chief’s car we got. I found myself suddenly resentful of his relative wealth. (And girth.) And our meal turned out to be another several-courser featuring pricey soups, fish, and seafood in a private room on the outskirts of town. We piled into a restaurant’s private room, exhausted after a long morning walking around the dusty village. The village head gestured to us to seat ourselves. I started toward a chair in a corner, a seat I usually prefer, when my father pulled me aside.

“You know,” he whispered, “in China, the most senior person at the meal sits facing the door.”

Now, in all the meals we’d had thus far in China—two of which the village head himself had attended—that prime seat had been the one I’d taken. In fact, it was the one I had been making a beeline for before my father saved me.

Shamed, I vowed instantly to be more sensitive, more subservient, as an obedient Chinese daughter should be—for the remainder of the trip, anyway.

When a platter of salmon sashimi hit the table, I was a little surprised. We were, after all, in a restaurant that served traditional Teochew food.

I picked up my chopsticks, snagged a slice, dipped it in soy sauce, and lifted it to my mouth. That’s when I noticed everyone around me averting their eyes as they picked up pieces of salmon; piled on slivers of fresh garlic, ginger, and chili; and carefully dunked the mounds into a bowl of soybean dip.

I was beginning to feel that I wasn’t quite fitting in. Earlier that day, in fact, Michael had taken me aside. “Today ah,” he said, “you must call everyone Ah-Chek or Lau-Chek, okay?”

Uncle and senior uncle, of course. I was chagrined that I’d forgotten such basic niceties. It turned out I also needed to tame the outgoing journalist in me, fade into the background a little, and let my father be the first to shake everyone’s hand.

Also at lunch that day, a bottle of whiskey was opened and shared. Even Fiona and I were offered small amounts. There was much laughter, storytelling, and many, many toasts.

I thought things were going well. I raised my glass several times, merrily clinking it with my ah-cheks and lau-cheks. Once again, however, my father whispered to me. “When you toast someone older than you, your glass needs to be lower than his as a sign of respect.” Of course, in the many toasts I’d shared, this had not been the case.