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.
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.
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.
I like subversive shit.
The creativity required to make pepperoni pizza without any bread, pepperoni, or cheese seems like nothing short of magic. I love mental gymnastics.
I was first introduced to raw food when I had dinner at Mary’s house. Mary was a vegan chef who cut an imposing figure by anyone’s standard: she was 6’3″ with blue eyes, a buzz cut, and a very open, matter of fact speech. We had a friend in common (who eventually ended up going to Romania to translate a novel). On Mary’s calendar: a trip to Burning Man.
On the menu that night: raw tiramisu, raw ice cream (made from soaked and ground cashews), and vegan kim chi pizza. On the side, Mary tried to make a batch of vegan marshmallows, which failed, and had me sample some pickled daikon, a kind of Asian radish.