Bubble Tea Help

Under the word “ubiquitous” in the Taiwan Picture Dictionary, one would find a snapshot of a tea shop. These purveyors of sweetened potions are surely leading this country to the fat farm, and, with straw and cup in hand, I am at the head of the pack. I am a bubble milk tea addict. This concoction of non-diary creamer, high-fructose corn syrup, black tea and tapioca balls is certainly bad for me, but it’s just too sweet and fun to drink. I always order the smaller pearls, about the size of a pea, because I prefer to let them glide down my gullet as opposed to chewing and choking on the bigger ones. That’s probably why I gulp down a large cup within ten to fifteen minutes, while my wife needs more than an hour.

I have two favorite shops. One of them was the first to introduce the smaller globs years ago, as well as offer fresh milk as opposed to the creamer as a health-conscious choice. The other is just around the corner and uses a mechanism similar to a paint mixer, into which the mixing cup full of ingredients is attached and shakes them to a frothier consistency. Though it is the taste that keeps me coming back for more, the work force at these two establishments also acts as an enticement.

The shaker shop is owned by a young guy in his late twenties. He is probably one of those typical Taiwanese entrepreneurs that worked for a year at one place to learn the ropes and then decided to leave his below-minimum-wage position to be his own boss. Instead of letting his folks buy him a house like typical Taiwanese parents do, it seems likely that he took the money and opened up the shop on a busy intersection, where he staffs it with attractive young women wearing the company shirt and short skirts or shorts underneath. Currently, one of them has long, tri-color hair, with the black roots already grown out to at least six inches, the reddish hue popular among young girls and bleached inch-long tips. Add bangs, pouty lips, and cheetah-pattern Converse hi-tops and you get “Taiwan cute”. In contrast, the other looks like a volleyball player with long tanned arms and legs, which plays well off the co-worker’s look. Whenever I go, there are always young men, ranging from white-collar guys in ties to construction workers in dirty pants waiting for drinks and more pulling up as I leave. The only women I ever see are usually moms picking up an order they have called in. While I try to make myself appear less lecherous by occasionally looking up at the TV silently playing a news station, I have seen a gaggle of gawking adolescents from the junior high down the street crowding the shop after school and drooling on the counter.

As for the other shop, the staff used to represent a counter-culture of Chiayi. The bastion of the Taiwan’s rice basket, Chiayi is very much like the American Midwest in its middle-class mores and values of Taiwanese life. However, whereas the above tea shop employees has a certain “ka-wai-i” (“cute”, but to a sickeningly Hello Kitty level) quality, the workers at this shop would prefer Heavy Metal. The girl taking orders had a hoop going through an eyebrow and a stud in her tongue, which threw me off more visually then orally when she repeated me order back to me. The guy who prepared drinks had dyed his hair brick red, but had shaved the sides of his head about an inch above his ears, giving him the widest mohawk I had ever seen. It also offered a good view of the dozen piercings in his ears. Another guy had a pair of black with white trim half-inch hoops stretching his earlobes, like those Mursi women in Africa or those hill tribeswomen in Thailand, only his hoops matched the rims of his glasses. The manager was a woman with a Sinead O'Connor haircut and tattoos running down both arms. One ear alone would set off a metal detector from ten meters away and made me wonder what else was pierced.

Unfortunately, they are all gone now. I went to the shop the other day was greeted by an over-anxious college boy with a normal haircut, jeans and T-shirt. The guy who made my drink wore Clark Kent glasses and an apron. A thin, slightly homely girl with a ponytail was washing cups. The tea brewer in the back even smiled at me. Maybe upper-management had decided to pursue a customer base that was less into post-punk. I will probably continue to go, as long as they don’t alter the formula. It doesn’t need to be any sweeter.