Banner photo courtesy of Philtography
“榨菜” and Grilled Cheese
By: Jesse Wang
My mother added the julienne pork and tofu to the hot oil. As a cloud of steam rose from the pan, I inhaled the aroma combined with the scents of the scallions and garlic. After a quick toss, the dish was ready; she walked over to a pot of rice porridge that had cooled overnight and added a ladle full of the gooey, white substance into a plastic Tupperware container.
Retrieving a wooden spoon from the cupboard, my mother returned to the stove and portioned out a hearty serving of pork-and-tofu stir-fry on top of the pool of porridge. “One more thing” she quickly muttered under her breath, as she went over to the cabinet to grab a shiny plastic bag painted with flashy Chinese characters and a picture of a plate of what looked like a pile of green, wilted French fries. The final touch to a well-balanced lunch was “Zha cai”(榨菜), which literally translates to “pressed vegetable;” it’s a type of mustard plant stem that has been fermented to attain a distinctly salty and sour taste. It’s a simple ingredient native to Sichuan, China, the city my parents grew up in.
She took a pair of chopsticks and deftly removed several pieces of the fermented vegetable, delicately placing them to the far side of the almost full container. I stared in awe of the culinary creation sitting before me, eager for time to fast forward to noon. Each piece of my meal sat in harmony. The bland tofu balanced out the salted pork; the sour “Zha cai” providing contrast in texture to the leek and scallions. I didn’t just like the dish; I loved it.
Fifth grade begins their lunch before any other grade. Usually I would get in line with the rest of my classmates to buy our lunches from the cafeteria, but today was different; today was a great day. Instead, I walked directly to the tables and waited for my friends. As they sat down, I commented on how good today’s special of grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup looked, but secretly I just wanted to comfort them before I unveiled my gourmet meal that would put theirs to shame. Since I had been telling them about my mom’s stir-fry all day, my friends were also eager and excited; I suppose they were expecting something off the menu of Giant Panda. Little did I know that what would happen that day would leave an indelible mark on my psyche and haunt me for the next decade.
As soon as I opened the lid to the Tupperware container, they immediately reacted with disgust. Some covered their noses; others pretended to gag. I looked down in horror at the dish my mother had so carefully created, which had turned into a discolored sludge. The beautiful setup of pork, leek, and zha cai had been ruined from the shaking of my backpack. Furthermore, the foreign odor of zha cai wafted throughout the room, causing people to turn around in confusion and make snide comments like “who farted?” and “Did someone puke?” What had originally been my favorite dish became something that even I found alien. I quickly packed up my lunch and tossed it into a nearby trashcan, container and all.
Later in the day, some of my classmates apologized to me, while others felt that their reactions were valid, claiming it was my fault for bringing something so foul to school. Even my teacher had a mixed response, telling me perhaps it was best to just buy my lunches from now on. I felt like there was a stone in my stomach weighing me down. Even though I knew I had done nothing wrong I felt guilty, but at the same time indignant. I didn’t know how to comprehend my feelings.
By 1:00 p.m., I was so hungry that my teacher sent me back to the lunchroom to get food. As I sat at an empty table, I stared down at the greasy grilled cheese sandwich and unnaturally red tomato soup in front of me, thinking to myself: “What’s so great about this?” I attempted to justify how melted cheese might be eschewed by students in China, or how the tomato soup had a gritty texture. Yet, I still ate the sandwich and soup because I was hungry and there was nothing else to eat.
From then on, I didn’t fight back or feel cross about my classmates’ behavior. In fact, if anyone I knew were to bring up the topic of Asiatic cuisine, I would immediately react by wrinkling my nose in disgust and saying “Asian food is so gross! I bet its all made from dog.” My outbursts seemed to appease some of my friends who in turn said I was “a cool Asian” and I “wasn’t like the rest of them.” I assumed by “them”, they meant my other Chinese classmates. When the topic of China came up in our geography class, and everyone looked at me to see any modicum of a reaction from seeing the Great Wall of China on a slideshow, I deliberately averted my gaze. As time passed and I entered middle school, I felt myself feeling more comfortable around my classmates. Despite the occasional racist comments in math class, I was able to shrug them off more easily. It was a numbing, yet satisfying period of time that would last up until my senior year of high school.
During my freshman year at Emory when I visited home for the first time in four months, I noticed little idiosyncrasies around my house that I hadn’t observed before. I saw empty glass jars labeled “fermented sweet rice” that my mom now used to bring Kirkland Signature green tea to work each day. When I opened the refrigerator, I saw a small plastic container on the top shelf. Since my mother wasn’t on break yet, she had packed herself a lunch of chicken salad with ranch and tomatoes, with a strange wilted pile of vegetable sitting on top. Upon closer inspection, I discovered it was actually a layer of zha cai.
I reacted with disgust because I found the combination of zha cai and ranch off-putting. Then after a few seconds, I began recalling the memories of elementary school and became emotional. I’m not sure if there is anyone else I know who can say they have ever been in tears over fermented vegetable, but I can. Seeing my mom’s lunch made me realize that she too had been under the same scrutiny from her coworkers as I was from my classmates. Yet, she still continued packing zha cai. After almost two decades, I finally realized, from looking at a salad, that my culture and the food my parents grew up on are not something I can simply toss in the garbage; they are invaluable pieces that constitute my identity.
Today I log onto social media and see photos posted by my peers from elementary school of their gastronomic adventures to obscure Vietnamese restaurants and Chinese food trucks in New York. I see the same people who used to ridicule my culture stealing my fifth grade lunch, adding a filter, and calling it “art.” Sometimes I feel frustrated and resentful; a part of me tells me to move on, yet another part tells me my anger is justified. Now I question whether it was the food that was off-putting to my classmates, or if it was actually me that made them want to gag. Would they have reacted the same if one of my non-Asian friends had brought the lunch?
I continue to struggle with understanding the borders between "Asian" and "American," and have yet to fully accept the spheres of myself that I had drifted far away from and forgotten as a child. Yet, as I stood in my empty kitchen staring at a pile of green, wilted French fries, I realized then how much I appreciate the sour taste of zha cai and the aroma of my mother’s tofu-and-pork stir-fry; I know now that I will always prefer the container of discolored sludge over grilled cheese and tomato soup.
Retrieving a wooden spoon from the cupboard, my mother returned to the stove and portioned out a hearty serving of pork-and-tofu stir-fry on top of the pool of porridge. “One more thing” she quickly muttered under her breath, as she went over to the cabinet to grab a shiny plastic bag painted with flashy Chinese characters and a picture of a plate of what looked like a pile of green, wilted French fries. The final touch to a well-balanced lunch was “Zha cai”(榨菜), which literally translates to “pressed vegetable;” it’s a type of mustard plant stem that has been fermented to attain a distinctly salty and sour taste. It’s a simple ingredient native to Sichuan, China, the city my parents grew up in.
She took a pair of chopsticks and deftly removed several pieces of the fermented vegetable, delicately placing them to the far side of the almost full container. I stared in awe of the culinary creation sitting before me, eager for time to fast forward to noon. Each piece of my meal sat in harmony. The bland tofu balanced out the salted pork; the sour “Zha cai” providing contrast in texture to the leek and scallions. I didn’t just like the dish; I loved it.
Fifth grade begins their lunch before any other grade. Usually I would get in line with the rest of my classmates to buy our lunches from the cafeteria, but today was different; today was a great day. Instead, I walked directly to the tables and waited for my friends. As they sat down, I commented on how good today’s special of grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup looked, but secretly I just wanted to comfort them before I unveiled my gourmet meal that would put theirs to shame. Since I had been telling them about my mom’s stir-fry all day, my friends were also eager and excited; I suppose they were expecting something off the menu of Giant Panda. Little did I know that what would happen that day would leave an indelible mark on my psyche and haunt me for the next decade.
As soon as I opened the lid to the Tupperware container, they immediately reacted with disgust. Some covered their noses; others pretended to gag. I looked down in horror at the dish my mother had so carefully created, which had turned into a discolored sludge. The beautiful setup of pork, leek, and zha cai had been ruined from the shaking of my backpack. Furthermore, the foreign odor of zha cai wafted throughout the room, causing people to turn around in confusion and make snide comments like “who farted?” and “Did someone puke?” What had originally been my favorite dish became something that even I found alien. I quickly packed up my lunch and tossed it into a nearby trashcan, container and all.
Later in the day, some of my classmates apologized to me, while others felt that their reactions were valid, claiming it was my fault for bringing something so foul to school. Even my teacher had a mixed response, telling me perhaps it was best to just buy my lunches from now on. I felt like there was a stone in my stomach weighing me down. Even though I knew I had done nothing wrong I felt guilty, but at the same time indignant. I didn’t know how to comprehend my feelings.
By 1:00 p.m., I was so hungry that my teacher sent me back to the lunchroom to get food. As I sat at an empty table, I stared down at the greasy grilled cheese sandwich and unnaturally red tomato soup in front of me, thinking to myself: “What’s so great about this?” I attempted to justify how melted cheese might be eschewed by students in China, or how the tomato soup had a gritty texture. Yet, I still ate the sandwich and soup because I was hungry and there was nothing else to eat.
From then on, I didn’t fight back or feel cross about my classmates’ behavior. In fact, if anyone I knew were to bring up the topic of Asiatic cuisine, I would immediately react by wrinkling my nose in disgust and saying “Asian food is so gross! I bet its all made from dog.” My outbursts seemed to appease some of my friends who in turn said I was “a cool Asian” and I “wasn’t like the rest of them.” I assumed by “them”, they meant my other Chinese classmates. When the topic of China came up in our geography class, and everyone looked at me to see any modicum of a reaction from seeing the Great Wall of China on a slideshow, I deliberately averted my gaze. As time passed and I entered middle school, I felt myself feeling more comfortable around my classmates. Despite the occasional racist comments in math class, I was able to shrug them off more easily. It was a numbing, yet satisfying period of time that would last up until my senior year of high school.
During my freshman year at Emory when I visited home for the first time in four months, I noticed little idiosyncrasies around my house that I hadn’t observed before. I saw empty glass jars labeled “fermented sweet rice” that my mom now used to bring Kirkland Signature green tea to work each day. When I opened the refrigerator, I saw a small plastic container on the top shelf. Since my mother wasn’t on break yet, she had packed herself a lunch of chicken salad with ranch and tomatoes, with a strange wilted pile of vegetable sitting on top. Upon closer inspection, I discovered it was actually a layer of zha cai.
I reacted with disgust because I found the combination of zha cai and ranch off-putting. Then after a few seconds, I began recalling the memories of elementary school and became emotional. I’m not sure if there is anyone else I know who can say they have ever been in tears over fermented vegetable, but I can. Seeing my mom’s lunch made me realize that she too had been under the same scrutiny from her coworkers as I was from my classmates. Yet, she still continued packing zha cai. After almost two decades, I finally realized, from looking at a salad, that my culture and the food my parents grew up on are not something I can simply toss in the garbage; they are invaluable pieces that constitute my identity.
Today I log onto social media and see photos posted by my peers from elementary school of their gastronomic adventures to obscure Vietnamese restaurants and Chinese food trucks in New York. I see the same people who used to ridicule my culture stealing my fifth grade lunch, adding a filter, and calling it “art.” Sometimes I feel frustrated and resentful; a part of me tells me to move on, yet another part tells me my anger is justified. Now I question whether it was the food that was off-putting to my classmates, or if it was actually me that made them want to gag. Would they have reacted the same if one of my non-Asian friends had brought the lunch?
I continue to struggle with understanding the borders between "Asian" and "American," and have yet to fully accept the spheres of myself that I had drifted far away from and forgotten as a child. Yet, as I stood in my empty kitchen staring at a pile of green, wilted French fries, I realized then how much I appreciate the sour taste of zha cai and the aroma of my mother’s tofu-and-pork stir-fry; I know now that I will always prefer the container of discolored sludge over grilled cheese and tomato soup.
My Multilingual Experience by Jesse Wang is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.