Chinese gatherings are all alike; every other party is unique in its own way. Chinese parties, by and large, contain several essential elements: a gut-busting family-style meal, dishes with ingredients cut into small pieces, heart-wrenchingly awful karaoke (because this is the socially acceptable way to display emotion), rice liquor and/or Chinese beer, possibly crappy wine. And Chinese people. These are not optional.

growing up at the table

At the advanced age of 21, I finally seemed to have graduated to the Big Kids tables at these kinds of gatherings. Someone offered me alcohol, but I realized I wanted no part of tipsy festivities. “Your Chinese is superb,” another guest complimented me after I said the equivalent of, “I interned in Shanghai this summer.” I accepted the compliment ungraciously.

red-cooked pork, lined with a sunburst of halved hardboild eggs.

After munching through red-cooked pork and and thousand year old eggs, I realized the real party was where I could speak my unabashed dialect of sarcastic English. I shifted to the kitchen, where the high schoolers were.

A ton of homemade Chinese food porn after the jump.

crab meatballs that were more paste than crab

The elementary school set were enjoying themselves on the XBox. (Possibly converted to karaoke later.)

There was another guest my age, except she was a Real Chinese Girl attending grad school in the states. She introduced herself to the group of high schoolers and myself. Then I began talking and immediately felt how incredibly loud and arrogant my speech sounded in comparison. She smiled politely and did not bare her teeth when she talked, which wasn’t often – her English was slow and accented. The rest of us cheerfully went on a gossip rampage – high school teachers divorced, teachers pregnant, students hooking up in the parking lot/dark room/auditorium, etc. Good to know nothing had changed.

“Don’t do drugs,” I advised the high school freshman. I expected he would eventually attend MIT, Caltech, or in a pinch, Cornell.

The dishes ranged from a thinly sliced beef, a stir fry of thick seaweed strips, cabbage, and cilantro, crab meatballs that were more paste than crab, red cooked pork (topped by an inch of luscious fat), boiled peanuts, celery, and carrots, chicken and chopped lotus root, and my mother’s steamed rolls, with grainy, sweet sesame paste lining its insides. For finicky kids, one mom prepared a dull, overcooked penne tossed in some pesto.

Chicken with chopped lotus root

my mother's steamed rolls, with grainy, sweet sesame paste lining its insides

A Western holdout - penne tossed with pesto

A distinctly Chinese dish of “pi dan” (thousand year old eggs) tossed with soy sauce and soft tofu chunks was also served. What do they taste like? Well, the outer shell is a translucent brown-black, like a firm jello, and doesn’t have much of a flavor. The yolk, a variegated gray, is indescribable – pungent, a little fetid, definitely an acquired taste, but not insurmountable. I ate a few pieces successfully, and felt like I had fulfilled my immigrant duty.

thousand year old eggs

Anyway, I enjoyed the aforementioned gut-busting family feast. The food had its moments, although overall, the spread didn’t rise about mediocre. But it carried connotations of nurturing, of home, of tradition, and sometimes, food is not about what it tastes like, but the people you eat it with and the places you eat it. Then I went home and carved into a carton of coffee ice cream.

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