The Blue-Eyed Sinophile
“Ugh… uuuuugh.”
I have to admit it. I overdid it—way too much.
To be honest, at first I was only exaggerating a little, inhaling the mala on purpose so I could plant in Wenxiang’s mind the idea that I was a Westerner profoundly versed in Chinese civilization. The moment that first bite hit my tongue, however, the long-dormant thirst for heat buried deep in my soul detonated like a bomb.
Anyone who has lived abroad for a long stretch knows the sudden, ferocious craving for ramen or kimchi; most Koreans have felt it at least once, so I won’t bother explaining. Bluntly put, after years of nothing but American Southern cooking, the fiery, numbing punch of real Eastern spice was more than nostalgia for me. It was salvation.
So it was only natural that Wenxiang, a high-ranking official in Beijing, sat there completely stunned while I devoured everything in sight.
A little research told me that malatang did not yet exist in Beijing, and that the proper way to eat hotpot was still in a clear, elegant qingtang broth rather than the raging red sea I had just demolished. The half-and-half hotpot familiar to modern Koreans would not become popular until the late nineteenth or early twentieth century. In other words, even the locals had almost no tolerance for Sichuan cuisine yet. And here was a blue-eyed foreigner from the far side of the Pacific loudly declaring mapo tofu the greatest thing on earth while vacuuming up Sichuan peppercorns by the handful. The sheer absurdity must have been staggering.
By the time the meal ended, Wenxiang had formally recognized me as an honorary Sichuan native. He even recorded the exact quantity of every dish I had consumed so he could report the figures to His Highness Prince Gong.
On the surface, everything had gone perfectly. There was, however, a price.
“Uuuugh… uuuuugh.”
“Chairman, if the pain persists, shall I summon a physician?”
“No, no. It’s just a stomach upset…”
My soul might be a perfect hybrid of Korean and American, but this body was one hundred percent pure American stock. The delicate frame of James Serget had no defense against the spicy assault of mala and chili. My intestines staged a full-scale revolt with enough force to threaten the structural integrity of the toilet.
I had heard that Western pancreases were supposedly far stronger than Asian ones, yet they clearly possessed zero resistance to this particular form of torture.
“Kugh… aaaaagh!”
“Chairman, in the future please exercise moderation. Even from a distance that bubbling red broth looks positively infernal…”
“Impossible. Once I return to America, who knows when I’ll taste this again?”
“Is it truly that delicious?”
Curious about the mysterious substance that could drive their chairman to such extremes, Leo, Ben, and Henry cautiously placed the mapo tofu Wenxiang had set aside for them onto beds of white rice and gave it a wary sniff.
“I believe the proper way is to eat it like this…”
“The Chairman kept eating until he reached that state, so it must be excellent, correct?”
The universal law that anything done by a respected superior automatically looks admirable was in full effect. As though following a prearranged signal, all three men lifted their spoons in unison.
“Mm… it is edible… urk!”
“Grrrrk!”
“Aaaaagh! Water! Waaaaater!”
They began gulping water in near-convulsive panic.
It was hardly surprising. These were Americans who often found even convenience-store udon too spicy; of course their first encounter with genuine mapo tofu would end in disaster.
“To consume such a dish with perfect composure… As expected of the Chairman.”
“It is demonic. Food of the devil himself…”
“I am moved beyond words, Chairman! So you forced yourself to inhale that hellish concoction purely to win their favor!”
Well, that was how it must look to Western eyes.
Regardless of the truth, I resolved to bring a supply of mapo tofu back to America as evidence. I would feed it to the politicians in Washington and casually mention that James Serget had scraped every last bowl clean in order to secure a successful negotiation.
Incidentally, after so long without it, the way that spicy, savory oil coated my tongue reminded me once again how vitally important food really is. The craving was so strong I even caught myself thinking I should visit Joseon just to eat kimchi jjigae.
Even if the modern version didn’t exist yet, I could simply make it myself, couldn’t I? I would give them cotton in exchange for kimchi; they would hardly refuse. I was still entertaining these idle fantasies when a voice rang out.
An Invitation from the True Power of This Nation
“Xiao Daren! His Highness Prince Gong wishes to meet with Xiao Daren!”