Mark these last words, ere I succumb to postprandial somnolence.
Tis rare to have a meal that inspires; words bubbling forth uncontrollably, waiting to be spoken. The last time was probably 2 years ago; pickled cabbage fish inducing cyberpunk visions of eating experiences in the future.
Well this one is for you, Hokkien mee.
To me, there are several essentials to a good old plate of Fujian noodles.
I like it wet. The stock is the soul that holds the dish together.
But that’s not what hits you first. It is the aromatic char, borne of the cast iron wok, returning to the heavens after its brief stint on earth.
Then comes the corpus, the duo of round wheat and thin rice noodles, providing a mix of bite and variety, united by the holy raiment: the stock that clings, just barely, like the morning dew. The caramel consistency of the prawn shell stock coats the palate before the next mouthful: a refreshing cleanser of beansprout.
There is a rhythm to the seasons, everything in its time. This applies to Hokkien mee as well. There are places which serve it and all the ingredients are present. But they just fail to come together. The stock is one dimensional. The chili is potent but overpowers the entire dish. Each ingredient sticks to its own corner, leaving a confused dish with disparate components, incapable of communion.
It is not like that here. There is a harmony between the stock, the noodles, bean sprouts and everything else. Like the fried lard waiting patiently for its turn, the craters on its deep fried exterior serving as repositories for stock to pool in, gathering strength, before the imminent bite. An explosion of amino acids that heralds the next performer.
There is cooperation, and sequence. Aroma is followed by texture. First the bite of noodles, then the crunch of beansprouts. In the background, there is heat. It has been there, from the beginning, but does not overwhelm: it is the sun in the dark of winter. Further back in the palate, a tang from the lime, freshly squeezed moments before. Another bite releases the sweetness of prawns, further complementing the stock, heightening each sensation. Before falling back once more, into the savoury pool of delight. A musical fountain of flavours, bedazzling the palate.
Anything that is addictive has power. It is the book which cannot be put down. The performance that makes one forget time itself. It is the gaze of an erstwhile stranger ‘neath the autumn moon. These are all forms of addiction. The mark of addiction is that you cannot stop. Thus begins the fine dance between euphoria and mania. Here is a dish which consumes you, even as you do the same to it. You pick every strand of noodle from the battlefield and drain the broth. When the dust settles. And all falls silent.
Herein lie the spoils of war, as tribute to the food I have partaken, the source of pleasant memories for close to 15 years. My family moved to Queenstown in 2003 but I was only acquainted with Hokkien mee several years later, upon completing the McDonald’s phase and entering the hawker phase of life. It is a great comfort to have this dish, particularly on a cold, stormy afternoon. One of those things which confer an inordinate amount of bliss when I have given so little to deserve it. These are the dishes that give pause. They ground us in the present, in the moment. And there are movies about such moments. And there are people who create such moments, whom we treasure beyond all else. Such is this world that I bear witness.
30 March 2023