It’s funny how food, our memories and our experiences with it, are
so intricately interwoven into who we are. Over dinner tonight, my son and I
were talking about the first time we tried oxtail soup.
Q and I had
made a trip out to San Francisco when he was 10 or 11 years of age. It was a
sunny day in early June so we decided to explore the city. In late afternoon,
we came upon Chinatown and were instantly bombarded by the unfamiliar sights
and sounds. It was literally as if we had entered a foreign land, in the best
sense.
We were ravenous, our appetites whetted by the delicious smells
emanating from the surrounding eateries. We spontaneously entered a small,
narrow-ish restaurant. I would like to say that it was due to our
extensive knowledge of authentic Chinese cuisine, but this was not the
case. Truth be told, the restaurant was a few steps away, was not crowded
and the smells coming from within were both exotic yet somehow familiar.
The menu was in Chinese only, but thankfully for us had pictures of the
foods offered. We chose quickly as we followed our stomach’s
demands: niú wěi tang/oxtail soup. Meat of a cow’s tail.
