My Bane and Gregor Mendel's Life's Work

One day, when I was about five years old, my mom counted out fifteen peas for my dinner. This was the minimum intake if any of the children at the McGlinchey table wanted dessert. My little brothers got more because they loved those disgusting, roly-poly green balls, but I made it up by eating more than my fair share of spinach. After finishing my pork chops and apple sauce, as well as my mashed potatoes, I would push five of the alien-puke-colored orbs on to my spoon, using my fork because I didn’t even want to touch those vile critters. With my left hand on my glass of milk and my right hand holding the spoon unsteadily, I would, in quick succession, toss those putrid pellets to the back of my throat and then force them down my gullet with a cleansing mouthful of milk. The process would be repeated two more times, at least once a week, for the next thirteen years.

Once I moved out of home, one of the most liberating feelings for me was to be able to leave the peas on the plate. Not that I ordered them, but they would occasionally show up as the veggie side dish that came with the order. Or I would segregate them from the rest of a beef stew, leaving a dozen of them crowded into a corner of the plate. If anyone asked, I was man enough to admit my aversion to the emerald globules and confident that if that if any derision followed, I could probably name off half a dozen vegetables, from asparagus to zucchini, that the insulting party despised.

Seven months in Wales gave a whole new dimension to my disgust for peas. Every Wednesday, lunch was mutton with mint sauce (a vile dish in and of itself) and mushy peas served with an ice cream scooper. It was explained to me how the proper consistency was reached by one of the cooks, but since I was trying to suppress the gag reflex the whole time, I didn’t remember what was said afterwards.

Arriving on Taiwan, I was introduce to more varieties of vegetables, legumes, fungi and lichen with only bitter melon entering that “No-entry” group. Thanks to the freshness of the veggies, I have grown to like previous foods that were on my “Don’t Eat!” list, like broccoli, string beans and eggplant. In fact, the only food from childhood that remains verboten are peas.

Enter the concept of presentation. When I was young, a slab of meat to the right, some greens to the left and some form of potato at the top of the plate was Mom’s idea of presentation. If you didn’t like the veggies and/or their juices skirting along the edges of the scalloped taters, well, then eat faster. Nowadays, the words “wonderful presentation” is like a name brand sticker on a pair of jeans or a T-shirt. You could probably get the same dish for a quarter of the price at a New Jersey diner. And with the savings, you could leave nice tip without getting a service charge.

Chinese cooking has always made presentation a cornerstone of its cuisine, especially with the use of colors. A gray-skinned fish, complete with the head and tail, is covered in orange-tinted sweet-and-sour sauce with green shredded scallions thrown on top. Chicken soup, complete with the head and claws floating inside, is served in a colorful ceramic pot. White lobster meat is laid out on a bed of lettuce on one side of a long serving dish next to the head, antennae and tail of the boiled crimson crustacean.

Peas, due to their beryl color, are often used to add colorful contrasts to a dish. They are sometimes thrown into fried rice, along with corn and chopped-up slices of ham. Sweet and sour or spicy sauce is occasionally laced with peas. I have seen the meat fillings of steamed dumplings containing peas.

So, it just seems natural for Costco, in order to cater to the Taiwanese palate and sense of presentation, to serve a combo pizza with not only peas and corn, but also pieces of carrot. Whatever happened to onions, mushrooms and green peppers? 

Fengshui, or How Earth, Wind, and Fire Dropped Water From the Group

Fengshui. Sounds like some rare tropical fungus found under the toenails. Apparently I have been battling fengshui most of my life. At least that’s what the Asians wearing those exquisite silk jackets on various shows on different “science” channels say. Heck, if “history” channels can run shows about gator hunters and pawn shops, I guess an ancient Chinese belief can be considered science. My first experience with it was seeing a huge mirror at the entrance of the largest Daoist temple in Chiayi, the Jiuhuashan Dizang Temple. I was told that it was placed there not for narcissistic parishioners, but to prevent bad spirits from strolling into the temple. One can still see blank, shiny CD’s taped or glued to the backs of cars to prevent any gremlins from throwing a spiritual wrench into the vehicle, while scooters sometimes highlight their “NO KISS” mud flaps with an old “Best of the 80’s” as well. Graves are placed near water, like rivers, wells or even rice paddies, to be conducive to the spiritual flow. I was told that prayer rooms in private residences with shrines to a god or ancestors cannot face west, evidently the unluckiest direction of them all. It’s understandable, considering how the “west” meant desert and warring steppes tribes that, at one point, went on to rule most of Asia, including the Chinese, in spite of the Great Wall.

The design of my house has an important fengshui element: there is no clear line of sight from the front door to the back. However, since the large window next to the entrance allows a perfect view down the hall to not only the back door beyond the kitchen, but also the bathroom window at the rear of the house, curtains hang at the doorways to both rooms to prevent (or, when considering the flimsiness of the partitions, simply hinder) any good energy flow from going out the back. Unfortunately, these barriers occasionally come crashing down on my head when they get hooked on class binders I may have or a button on my cuff. I assume that this occurs when there is a build-up of non-auspicious fengshui at the curtains, thus acting as a release valve for the negative energy, though it does bother me that it always seems to happen to me and not my wife.

A few years ago, all of the clocks in the house were pointed to the south, thus allowing the hands to proceed in a westerly direction, which was supposed to be good for the position of our home. Apparently that rule about the west being unlucky is conditional, as with most things with fengshui. When I pointed out how the hands would be going towards the east at the top of the hour, I was told that I didn’t understand the concept. I didn’t dare ask about the digital timepieces

I have always wanted to go to the house of the fengshui “expert” my wife occasionally visits to see if he has followed his own advice and captured the essence (and the riches) of fengshui. Somehow, I think I would be disappointed, but then I would probably be told that such “gifted” people dispense such knowledge not for personal gain, but for the benefit of others. I wonder how such an attitude would transform Wall Street.

So, when I noticed that my wife was putting the covers down on all the toilets in the school and the house for the last few weeks, I naturally assumed that it was another “recommendation” (“order”?) from her local “advisor”. The need to prevent water, that conduit of all things spiritual, from taking away our home’s fortune seemed obvious enough. I asked her about it and, to my surprise, her actions were based on science, albeit from the Internet. One of her friends had posted a video that showed how wet and wild whirlpool created by flushing toilets spews lots of unhealthy things into the atmosphere of one’s home. So, now, I not only have to pick up both the cover and the seat when I need to urinate (Sorry, but, while I still can, I refuse to sit to pee.), but now I have to put them back down when I’m done. From now on, I’m going to hold it until I go downstairs and can use the urinals in the school’s restrooms. And since I’ll be facing south, I can rest assured that I’m not pissing away any good fortune.

Pork Fluff: the Flavor of the Beach in Your Mouth

One of the first Taiwanese words I learned was for that Taiwanese pseudo-condiment, bah-hú, or pork fluff. Dried, salted, shredded meat sold in cans and jars used to flavor congee (rice porridge) and stuff cheap sashimi. The way it seems to melt into sand in my mouth makes me want to eat any winter morning breakfast congee (gruel, if you ask me) simply plain. I learned the word after the first time I visited a Taiwanese bakery. Greasy donuts rolled in granulated sugar, like what one sprinkles on cereal, were next to some rolls that had been baked with scallions in the dough. They would have probably gone great with a steak, but not as the sweet snack I was looking for. The Taiwanese Danish were filled with an unappetizing pale purple paste that I later discovered to be taro. On a lower shelf, I saw what looked like a jelly-filled doughnut, though it was lacking any powdered sugar coating. However, it had that non-descript shape, not quite an oval, not quite a rectangle, almost trapezoidal that I remembered from the pastries my hometown German bakery used to have. This Taiwanese delicacy even had similar indentations left by the cooling rack.

So, using the tongs and the tray provided to me by a cute, tittering shop assistant, I selected my pastry and took it to the counter, where it was placed in a paper pocket and then a small plastic bag. Once outside the shop, I removed it from its wrapping, took a huge bite and promptly spit it out. As I looked inside this vile creation, I saw what seemed to be bits of chopped up jute string. Had the shop sold me a donut in which the filling had already dried out, though the bread surrounding it seemed fresh? I considered taking another bite, but instead pinched some of the fibers that simply remained motionless in the donut, another unsettling image when one expects jelly to be oozing out. The gritty sensation between my fingers was far from pleasant and when I licked them, the almost briny flavor made me gag. Once I learned how to say bah-hú, I never had to experience such bitter disappointment in my pastry selection again.

The one thing I do not understand is why the Taiwanese eat this stuff. Taiwanese cuisine is not only delicious, but usually good for you. I can’t imagine any nutritional benefits remaining in this overly processed food. So, I have come to the opinion that pork fluff may not be actually made from pigs. Old woven plastic tarps, the red, white and blue ones used at roadside banquets, on building scaffolding and as funeral tents, are recycled to make this savory treat. First, the tarps are placed at entrances of cement plants and building sites so that construction vehicles and gravel trucks can run over them repeatedly to get the proper texture. Next, they are soaked in typhoon-swollen rivers for that appealing hue. Then, they are placed on the roofs of buildings so that the particle-filled air of various city-centers can add that extra degree of grittiness so detested by most foreigners. Thrown into huge shredders, these once useless vestiges of Taiwan’s plastic society are transformed into an edible parch pulp to be canned and sold. Bon appétit!

Costco and Driving Skill

Costco, that bastion of American consumerism, with it bulk shopping and large carts to accommodate it, has finally reached Chiayi. The mega-store’s newest branch opened just last week to huge crowds and manic shopping. For a country whose staple crop is rice, it was amazing seeing a nearly empty bagel table at mid-afternoon on Sunday. Muffins were flying off the shelves. Fifty people in line waiting for a roasted chicken. However, the sad part is that this palace of produce and products is now the big attraction of our fair city.

Unlike our bigger neighbors to the south and north, Chiayi lacks intellectual stimulus. The Kaohsiung Museum of Art has established itself as the southern purveyor of whatever the Taipei museums exhibit, while the Taiwan Museum of Fine Art in Taichung services central Taiwan. Both cities also boast small artist areas as well science museums worth a day-trip. Tainan has the National Literature Museum, along with Fort Zeelandia and other relics from when the Dutch tried to set up a colony.

Chiayi does have a museum, the first floor of which details earthquakes that have devastated the city and the country. The second floor has fossils of seashells and some stuffed animals, while the third floor often exhibits the local talent, including preschoolers. If you take the time to read the names and titles of the works of art, you could probably go through the whole museum in an hour, but since there were no translations, I did it in twenty-five minutes.

The now defunct prison has been designated as a historical building due to its unique Japanese-era architecture, as have some refurbished buildings connected with the Alishan Railway, which as of now doesn’t go to Alishan. At the Culture Center, there is a room full of Koji pottery, a style unique to Chiayi, as well as statues of Chiayi monkeys, made famous by an artist decades ago and copied by many. Then there is the 2-28 Memorial Hall, which commemorates those who died during the White Terror, though the pictures of a famous murdered artist and other Taiwanese leaders make for a depressing walk-through.

Costco, on the other hand, can offer one a first-hand look at a part of Taiwanese culture that frustrates and flabbergasts most foreigners, albeit at a slower and much safer speed. The way Taiwanese operate the carts throughout the store reflects their driving habits in many facets. At the entrance, it’s similar to the (c)rush of cars heading to popular sites during a holiday weekend. Carts attempt to merge into a stream of tailgating traffic that flows with a small hint of organization and hardly any respect for lane markers. One needs to be somewhat forceful in letting others know of one’s intention to enter the current. When a shopper turns off into a side aisle, there is a dash to fill the void created. Occasionally, a daring, usually younger driver will attempt to circumnavigate the crowd by quickly entering a space in the oncoming traffic lane, only to find his way block and the need to reenter the tide.

The way the store sets up the taste-testing stands imitates how farmers in blue trucks full of produce set up shop on a busy corner. What follows are shoppers stopping to enjoy a piece of ham or a paper shot glass of clam chowder oblivious of others trying to proceed down an aisle. The same occurs when friends see each other and instead of simply waving and continuing on, they linger in the middle of the way catching up on what the other has done since the last time they met, again unaware of the blockade that they have created until someone (usually me, because the Taiwanese are too timid in such situations) barks out “Duὶbuqĭ. Yào guò qu!”, literally, “Excuse me. Want to pass”. Though I would love to shout, “Could ya move ya party to the side”, it would be lost on the audience and I would get no pleasure from it.

When I first arrived in Taiwan, truck mud flaps, car trunks and scooter taillights would have “Don’t kiss!” written on them. I soon found out that it was not a government program on cutting down teenage pregnancy but a sincere desire of the drivers for some respect from fellow road warriors. This aptly applies to the notion that Taiwanese drivers don’t pay attention to what’s behind them, that they concentrate on what’s in front of the windshield and let those in the rear take care of (fend for?) themselves. If only the same applied at Costco. I have been to the Taichung branch at least a half dozen times and had someone run into the back of my ankles every time. One time, it happened at the entrance of the escalator going up when a schmuck behind me apparently didn’t want to let too much space open up between us. To a certain extent, this lack of focus is understandable, with all the goodies the store has to offer for the eye. Thank goodness Taiwanese highways don’t have so many billboards distracting drivers. Still, I couldn’t believe it when, at the end of my first visit to Costco’s newest emporium, as I was handing the receipt to the receipt checker (How do they do what they do?), a young couple pushed their cart right into my butt. I turned to see him raising a hand, bowing his head and saying “Saurry!” She put on a nervous smile, like most Taiwanese do in uncomfortable circumstances when they think finding the humor in it will alleviate any pain inflicted or embarrassment felt. When I said “Don’t kiss” and pointed to my buttocks, they giggled, as if they got the joke. I didn’t smile back.

Turkey Rice: Taiwan's Comfort Food

A recent month-long on-line poll conducted by the government’s Council of Agriculture named Chiayi chicken rice as the tastiest rice dish in all of Taiwan, garnering over 400,000 votes. For those who don’t know, the moniker “chicken rice” is a misnomer since it is actually made from turkey meat. This is due to the Chinese word for turkey, literally “fire chicken”. Anyway, winning first place does make a lot of sense. It is a simple meal that is eaten anytime of the day, consisting of slices or shredded chunks of boiled turkey breast served on top of a bowl of rice with grease and some other “sauce” spread over it to add flavor. Different shops offer various side dishes, such as sautéed cabbage, tofu stewed in soy sauce and my favorite, pidan doufu, or thousand-year-old-egg with tofu. There is also soup, including fish balls in clear broth or miso, or bean paste, soup, a dish borrowed from the Japanese.

Though I have never been to it, the Fountain Chicken Rice Shop in the center of the city is the most famous in town and is always packed from morning to night, with tourists and regulars alike. A shop previously located near my old house has that rustic quality that would make American health inspectors cringe, but there was always a line at lunch time. I personally prefer a small shop on Chueiyang Road owned by the parents of one of my son’s old classmates. The clientele are office workers or students, usually male, in for some Taiwanese fast food, only cheaper and better for you than a Mickey Dee’s meal. Whenever my Taipei in-laws come down for the holidays, they always have one meal of chicken rice.

My sister-in-law ran a chicken rice shop for a few years and did rather well with it. Shortly after she had opened shop, however, the city government had instituted a one-way street law and stationed police on corners to enforce the new ordinance. The problem was that my sister-in-law’s shop was merely ten meters from the corner, but in order to get to it, even a scooter driver would have to go around the block. Within six months, businesses, including my sister-in-law’s, had successfully petitioned the city government to make scooters exempt from the one-way traffic code, making Chiayi apparently the only major city in Taiwan to have such a privilege.

These accolades are a reward for the government’s efforts last year in declaring one month “Chicken Rice Month”. (I think it was August.) There were taste-testing contests and educational events giving the public a greater appreciation of this ultimate Taiwanese comfort food. However, I wonder how popular it will remain. With seven McDonald’s, a half dozen KFC’s, three Starbucks, as well as Domino’s and Pizza Hut, how many of today’s youth in Chiayi will one day think back on their Saturday lunches and remember turkey and rice or burgers and toys. Even when I heard about the survey from a TV news report, I was in a small Italian restaurant woofing down some spaghetti carbonara.

Almost Au Naturel in Yilan

The Japanese, thanks to their appetite for building materials, created Taiwan’s logging industry almost overnight by constructing six railways around the island. However, by the mid-eighties, lack of upkeep and restrictions on logging had reduced the system to one line still in extensive use, the Alishan Railway, which transported tourists to the national park. I remember seeing tractor trailers hauling two or three huge trees cut down somewhere in the Central Mountain Range to lumberyards in Chiayi when I first arrived. However, most of these lumberyards to the north of the city are shutdown now as a result of the above mentioned prohibitions on timber. On the flip-side, there has been a marked increase in forested areas across the island over the last two decades, from government-protected parks and reserves to privately-owned recreational areas, complete with hotels, restaurants and special exhibitions areas.

One of the attractions of Cilan Forest Recreation Area in Yilan County is a bungalow at which former ROC President Chiang Kai-shek stayed twice, sort of making it his Camp David. There are pictures of “this extraordinary person” looking admiringly at his wife’s ink and paper art. Other enlargements have him holding the hand of his “beloved” as they leave a village home on Kinmen Island. Why there was a picture of the First Couple hundreds of kilometers away is beyond me, but the pieces of original furniture in the CKS Villa give the visitor that homey feeling of a loving couple enjoying a weekend away from the affairs of state, right down to their separate bedrooms.

Though this trip down history lane is interesting, Cilan’s main attraction is a two hour trail above the bungalow that provides spectacular views of a valley at the confluence of three rivers. The flora includes large red cypress and Japanese cypress trees providing a canopy under which soft ferns and vines with inch-long needles thrive. Butterflies flutter, caterpillars crawl and birds fly from branch to branch, but the best was a small tribe of macaques we came upon seconds after my son said, “I wish we could see some monkeys.” It sounded like two dozen simians scurried down the mountainside, but in retrospect, there were probably no more than six that ran away. Meanwhile, a mother and her baby had hid under a branch just beyond the trail edge and waited until my wife passed before I saw it putting some fruit in its mouth. Tina was able to return and get some photos of the pair.

And then big daddy arrived. At one point, he got up on some branches and shook them violently, but otherwise, he was as calm as I was nervous and excited. He lowered himself onto the trail and followed us by only a few meters, close enough for us to wonder how he survived the summertime heat in such thick fur. While I was staring at him, he would ignore me and look off into the forest, probably keeping an eye on his little harem of two females and their infants that had not followed the retreating stampede. However, I always had the feeling that he was watching us out of the corner of his eye, just making sure we kept going.

In contrast, the Sin Liao Waterfall Nature Trail is a newer “eco-trail”, one of many paths created by local governments around the island offering recreational and learning experiences, ranging from an extensive system of trails in mountainous Chiayi County to this kilometer-long walk through a lush green valley in Yilan County. With no betel nut trees in sight, the hills had the feeling of an area untouched by civilization. These kind of easy trails have proved popular by granting access to natural beauty unknown in urban Taiwan.

The path ends at a scenic waterfall that empties into a jade green pool. The cool water flowed down a boulder-strewn stream, in which several middle-aged couples were wading up to their knees. I myself splashed some refreshing water on my head, face and neck to get a break from the noonday sun. When I looked at the waders again, I noticed that one of them was actually sitting, fully-clothed, in a pool created behind a pair of large rocks, between which a small meter-high cascade had formed. I was surprised to see this since we were a kilometer from the parking lot and the nearby public restroom where she could change. And then she started lathering up her hair. I hadn't seen any bottle of shampoo, but she was foaming at the top of her head. After a few minutes, she leaned back into the mini-niagara between the rocks and rinsed. She then rose out of the pool, walked past the waders, grabbed a plastic shopping bag and proceeded out of the stream to some trees on a different path with, I guess, her husband. Five minutes later, she emerged in a warm-up suit and was combing her wet hair while her man lugged the bag now filled with her wet clothes.

Two things struck me. First, the planning involved to bring the hair care products needed for her all-natural treatment, as well as towels and a change of clothes, was in stark contrast to the dozens of “eco-tourists” rambling along the Sin Liao Waterfall Nature Trail in flip-flops or high-heel shoes and mini-skirts. Second, since the great outdoors of Taiwan are never so isolated that you can’t run into someone, the sheer audacity of stripping in the great outdoors was so un-Taiwanese. Again, kudos to her planning because she must have realized that by meeting her beauty needs at around noon, the path on which she changed clothes was all but empty.

In the past two and a half decades, the Taiwanese have become more ecologically responsible. Though they still have a long way to go, it is amazing the lengths some of them will go to embrace the natural beauty of their country.  

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.