Most of us have fielded the question: “So where are you from?” To say I’m not a fan of this question would be an understatement, considering how my response – “I’m Chinese” – is often met with palpable disappointment. Unfortunately, I don’t have a rare nationality, like Bruneian, nor am I a fun Korean. But before I can spiral into an identity crisis, my appetite always anchors me in the comfort of being Chinese.
My Chineseness surfaced in embodied and reassuring ways when I first moved overseas a good decade ago. It was in how I instinctively rejected iced water, obsessed over fresh-cut fruits and cooked leafy greens, and made a weekly pilgrimage to Manhattan’s Chinatown for dim sum and groceries.
In a somewhat unexpected way, New York introduced me to more Chinese delicacies than I could count, from roujiamo, the Chinese answer to a burger popularised by the now ubiquitous Xi’an Famous Foods, to tieguodun, a generous Northeastern stew cooked in a massive wok, corn bread lining its sides.
