Salty Fish and Saving Face

I've tender memories of Jia Jia Lok. My first time, I had a dish made more or less of scraps (so my friend told me), a choice delicacy for the unfamiliar Hong Kong palate (i.e., white person). Shanghai noodles is the popular name. White man acclaim is merely its rearticulation. The second time I went it was raining, I had a bowl of congee, and it was love. After that, it was a free for all: spaghetti with Bolognese, spaghetti with a huge steak on top, stir fried mushrooms with rice- surely reminiscent of the earthly flavours of the fungus that grew behind the mountains of Hong Kong, picked by honest, hardworking, calloused hands; cooked with a whole lot of oyster sauce, and a whole lot of Hong Kong cacophony. You know Cantonese people- they're loud. They're not angry. Eating's always a celebration. Maybe that's why I like Jia Jia Lok's so much. Maybe that's why I like the bright orange bristle board menus taped to the place's salmon coloured walls, the old chairs, the lucky cats, the doily curtains, the restaurant's new sign with a smiling, seemingly misplaced dolphin caricature. Why I like the husband and wife duo who've run the place for so long- just like Yuen Wah and Qiu Yuen. They're not yelling at each other; that's love they're speaking. Sure, most of the time it's an order for coca cola. But dig a little deeper. When it's not that, it's Cantonese sweet nothings. For the regular Cantonese diner, it's like a lullaby. I've never minded the lack of television, the lack of music, the surplus shouting. The odd spitting sound here and there would otherwise seem out of place, but I trust the cook.

After four years of neglecting the place, not much had changed (again, except for the sign), and I couldn't have been happier when I came back to visit. I needed something truly Cantonese, truly Hong Kong, I wanted to make a connection. The hostess is never one to deny a patron their choice of meal, no matter how unfamiliar they are with it. In one dive I was turned down a request for cold soup in the winter because my whiteness supposedly couldn't take it. But here, my brevity is always appreciated, as much as my familiar request for a cool glass of yin yang coffee. I wanted to feel like Francis Ng, or Alex Fong, working the beat. It's hot, it's late, I need something with preserve, something salty to match my coffee's bitter sweet.

This time, I opted for something surprisingly more adventurous than I could have guessed. Hong Kong Style Eggplant with Salty Fish. I thought: just stir-fried halibut. Sounds good. But it was better. Not because the portion was deliciously big, not because the fish wasn't a generic, bland white fish- but salty sardines stir-fried with ground pork. But because it was something like I've never eaten in my life. Sure, sure. And I'm talking to you, sole Cantonese reader of this blog. The one who eats stir-fried sardines all the time. I know to you it's nothing. But to me, it was everything. A challenge for face. I've bragged about the kung fu of cooking many times in my life. But the kung fu of eating? Not until this fateful day when the pungent, sea salty aroma of that sauce begged to be mixed with the white rice it covered, and demanded that I eat it with a fork rather than chopsticks (chopsticks aren't really impressive anymore anyway; in my experience, those from Asia only stare because they can't believe I'd even bother eating with chopsticks when utensils are so much more convenient for my bourgeois hands. But I've read Barthes; I can't pierce any anthropomorphized food anymore. All meals have a spirit. Itadakimasu, after all). Never in my life, have I experienced such reflexivity in my food. The meager 8.95 dish humbled me with its face-smashing aroma. I thought I had Asian food down. Apparently I was wrong. Even after I've scraped the flesh off of pig's feet with my teeth, like moss off a rock; even after I've cut up a cow's tongue and stir-fried it with margarine, sugar, oyster sauce and salt, there are still things in this food filled world worth eking out. Even in my own back yard.

Even after all that, and a modest portion of my meal still left, being the stubborn kung foodie that I am. I couldn't lose face. I couldn't let Qiu Yuen down. I told her it was delicious. And asked that it be packed up because I was just too full to finish. Too much coffee and too much tea. Jia Jia Lok was still her dojo (did I just mix cultural metaphors?). And me, the humble student looking to best my old food master. If only I were in Hong Kong right now I could train my palette even harder. Alas, I'll have to live vicariously through Jia Jia Lok's mom and pop duo. Duo of the most sincere, moving, realistic Hong Kong eatery in town (as far as this young master is concerned).

		He's eating beef soup. Just so you know.

Jia Jia Lok
(519) 888-9926
King Street North
Waterloo, ON N2J 4V2 

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