Words » Gemini Castle
The Great Dumpling Hunter
After about three days in town, I had to venture out and get something to eat on my own. I possessed a remarkably useless vocabulary consisting of: Wo-yao (I want), ni-hao (hello), duo-hsiao chien (how much), lao-ban (boss), hsiao-jieh (miss), suei-jiow (boiled dumplings), and the numbers one through ten. Armed with this veritable fortress of nouns, I set out on my first solo adventure: Dumplings.
Tracking down the perfect dumpling requires a well layed out plan of action. First, location is of utmost importance. I knew by instinct to avoid highway underpasses and department store food courts. My ideal location was a side street market near a corner where I could survey the area through wafting clouds of steam rising up from boiling dumpling water. Second, cold beer. Cold beer is a necessity with hot dumplings. Unfortunately, most vendors added ice to the beer, watering down its natural beer-ness. A big no no. Third, transparent, smooth, and supple dumpling skin. A good dumpling will slowly melt in your mouth. If the skin is too thin, it will break apart before you can dip it in its sauce. If the skin is too thick, you might as well buy the frozen kind. As with beautiful women, dumplings also require good skin. Fourth, properly heated dumpling water. Underheated water tends to build up an oily residue at the top, resulting in greasy and inferior dumplings. A reputable dumpling stand will be easily recognizable by the volumes of steam rising out of it. And finally, fifth, the proper ingredients. Too much funny green stuff can result in bad burps, and too much ground meat will take away from the flavor. It is a delicate balance between taste and tasteless.
Possessed with this list of specifications, I, the Great Dumpling Hunter, set out on my mission.
Cut to Scene 1:
A hopeless looking foreign man trying to cross a 27 lane intersection, and no one is willing to stop.
Cut to Scene 2:
A troop of small wild dogs chasing hopeless looking foreign man up a footbridge.
Cut to Scene 3:
A tired, sweating, hopeless looking foreign man, slowly shuffling past old ladies in orange rubber boots peeling shrimp in the gutter.
Hours had passed, and I had seen everything BUT the perfect dumpling. I saw a rat. I was chased by blood thirsty dogs. I saw two lovers in an Austin Healy trying to swallow each other's tonsils. I saw strange red illuminations coming out of darkened apartment buildings. I heard someone practicing the piano. I thought I saw a man in a window, but when I looked again, he turned into a shirt. I heard a tomcat wail. I heard water splashing.
I was beginning to doubt my sanity. My new NT$50 blue plastic slippers were widening the gap between my big toe and the smart second toe to the point of excruciating localized pain. (Did you know that if your second toe is longer than your first toe, it is a sign of intelligence?) As I pondered this, I tripped over an old lady in orange rubber boots peeling shrimp in the gutter. My intelligent toe quickly deduced that: Old lady peeling shrimp = possibility of food nearby = possibility of market = possibility of the elusive dumpling. I used the first of my stored up vocabulary words (ni-hao) on the shrimp lady, and quickened my pace.
Within moments, I was engulfed in a dizzying scene of kumquats, fish heads, white intestines, guavas, eels in styrofoam containers, pigs' blood popsicles, chicken feet, candied cherries, umbrellas, ladies' undergarments, and a chorus of vendors shouting at me in unison, "Hello! Hello!" I passed by their small crowded stalls, desparately searching for any signs of steam.
Suddenly, as if in some cheap movie, I was there. Surrounded in steam. Luxuriating in steam. And I eagerly poked my way through the stainless steel carts, careful not to bump against any bare light bulbs hanging from the blue and red striped awnings, until I arrived at a stall where Mom, Pop, and teenage daughter, were wrapping dumplings on a powdered wooden board. I scrutinized the quality of the boiling water, assessed the thickness of the skin, and glanced about the surroundings. Perfect. A corner shop, good location, plenty of steam, skin looks good, and to top it off, a small refrigerator stocked with beer.
Camera #1:
Hopeless looking foreigner swaggers up to boss in funny John Wayne imitation, "Boss, gimme dumplings." (Lao-ban, wo yao suei-jiao)
Camera #2:
Boss's face: Oh, God, a foreigner speaking Chinese. What did he say? He want's to sleep?!
Camera #3:
Boss motions over shoulder with thumb, "You can go sleep next doors at the hotel. Now get out of here."
Camera #1:
Foreigner looks confused. Wrinkles eyes, thinks. Says again in different tone. "Boss, gimme ten dumplings." (Lao-ban, wo yao shih-geh hsiao-jieh)
Camera #2:
Boss walks over to foreigner, and pokes him in the chest three times. "If you want a prostitute go next door to the hotel! NOW GET OUT YOU WOLF!"
Camera #3:
Woman and teenage daughter cower behind steam. Father has hands on hips, cleaver in hand.
Camera #1:
Foreigner begins to panic, desparately looks around at other customers, hiding in their food. He points to a plate of dumplings. "Boss, gimme ten dumplings."
Camera #2:
A long silence, then Boss's face lights up, nodding. "Ohhhh, you want ten dumplings." Ha ha. Smiles.
Camera #3:
Everyone nodding and smiling.
Epilogue:
Showing off my impressive command of the Chinese language, I, The Great Dumpling Hunter, had engaged in an effortless cultural exchange, successfully tracking down and eating the most elusive of noctunal beasts.
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I've never figured out whether it's pronounced "Moe's (like owned by one of three stooges) or Moss (like that guy out of Bonanza), but the one down the hill from me is open until 2am most days, which means that if I get out of the club early enough, I can catch the best burger in town, the muo si la bao or the Spicy Mos Burger. They have lots of jalapenos and 
