Just call me Sleepy McJetlaggington

I grew up in a housefold that didn’t really emphasize cooking.  This may, in fact, be why I am so devoted to food preparation – it represents a break with my past and, for me, a sign of independence.  But back to my idyllic childhood.  There may not have been much cooking going on, but we still had to eat, so we did what any decent Long Island family does – we ordered Chinese food.  A lot of Chinese food.  The fridge would be filled with a multitude of old take-out boxes with dates written on the flaps because really, who can tell the difference between two day old dumplings and three day old dumplings?  I am now faced with three months of Chinese food, and somehow it just feels right.  It feels familiar.  As does Taipei.  It’s kind of like a supersized version of New York’s Chinatown.  Yes, this would all be a delightfully easy transition if I spoke even a tiny, small, fragmented bit of Chinese.  Alas, I do not.  And I fear that, while the cuisine clearly resonates with me on a deep level, the language and I were not meant to be.  I mean, I don’t think I have even slightest affinity for it.  Every word that I’ve learned so far has slipped out of my brain, through my hands, and into the ether.  I find myself craving the cool confidence of German, which I speak at a barely intermediate level.  This is going to be damn interesting.

Nonetheless, I have done fairly well my first week here.  After my billion hour flight from New York, during which I was squished into a hobbit-seat I arrived at Taipei International, managed to get a hotel room, managed to get to the hotel room, and managed to sleep (this would be the last decent night of sleep for the week).  Sadly, the next day I also managed to get lost for 45 minutes while being two blocks away from said hotel, but clearly that’s just part of the joy and wonder of travel.  In my defense, the labeling of Taipei streets puts both Queens and Jersey to shame.  Taipei streets are like a choose-your-own-adventure torture flick.  You start out on a main thoroughfare, for example “Die Stupid White Girl Die” Road (I am, of course, translating from the Chinese).  DSWGD Road will have 4 sections.  Branching off DSWGD Road Sections 1-4 will be DSWGD Streets 1-50.  Each of these braches off into DSWGD Lanes 1-10,000, and finally we reach the last branch, DSWGD Alleys 1 – a gajllion.  Oh, and none of these paths are labeled.  And while trying to navigate this maze angry Taiwanese people on scooters are gleefully trying to run you down.  So, um, yeah.  That’s been fun.

When not wandering the alleys of Taipei weeping and begging for directions, I’ve been eating my weight in street food.  (By the way, remember that whole plan I had to return to NYC as a petite Asian woman?  Yeah, not gonna happen.  I will return the same gigantic, pasty, white girl that I was when I left.  Except with frizzier hair.)  Let me say it now:  I love the food here in a deep, passionate, slightly inappropriate way.  Every time I turn around someone is frying a dumpling or grilling some meat.  And all of it costs a dollar.  And oh my god the smells!  Taipei is pungent.  Half the time I determine what I’m going to eat next by simply following my nose to the source of the latest mouth-watering aroma.  What has satisfied my cravings so far?  Stir fried seafood noodles with a broth of such complexity that I almost expected it to explain the reason for existence on this planet.  A Taiwanese skewered “hotdog” that my roommate succinctly described as meat candy.  Some sort of braised, leafy vegetable in a gingery soy sauce, it’s astringency an excellent complement to a rich garlic chicken.  And more dumplings than you can shake a stick at. 

It’s not all gustatory sunshine and roses, of course.  There’s snake simmered in blood, venom, and semen.  And there’s stinky tofu, which can only be described as one of the most offensively filthy smells on this planet.  Truly, every time I walk past  that scent I want to smack it and tell it to get it’s hand off my ass because I am NOT that kind of girl, no matter what it’s heard to the contrary.   But mostly it’s like my personal culinary amusement park.  And while I’m already missing the artistic vitality of NYC, stumbling upon a Gypsy Jazz Band performing Edith Piaf’s La foule in a local park last night gives me hope that the universe will lead me to even more delightfully incongruous music just as soon as it’s able to. 

You know what the universe hasn’t been able to work out yet?  Getting me to take decent pictures.  I’m still an atrocious photographer.  But I promised you all photos, so here they are, for your viewing enjoyment.  Just remember, you’ve been warned. 

The answer to life, the universe, and everything is not 42.  It's stir-fried seafood noodles.

I tried to order a small bowl of pork stew on rice, but was forced to order garlic chicken, seasonal vegetables, and simmered tofu.  And one does not argue with Formosa Chang.  Luckily the whole feast came to about four dollars.

Grilled beef-on-a-stick makes drunk TPR coworkers very happy.

The entrance to Andi's culinary Shangri-la, aka, a Taipei night market.

Please note, there are no cakes here.

And that's all for now, folks.  I've got more eating to do, and the night market awaits.  Stay tuned for the next post which will detail how to work the Underground Taipei Youth Hostel Network to secure affordable summer housing.  It's surprisingly effective.  We should get on this in New York.

I would say "Bye" in Chinese, but I don't know how to, and it would only cosmically summon a bunch of Taiwanese people on scooters to gather and stare at me skeptically.  So let's just skip that.

Auf wiedersehen!