Clay pot rice with stuff cooked on top. Outdoors with a ton of people walking by at Causeway Bay. Rice is crispy on the bottom. Very, very hot. All flavors are intensified from the huge flames. Everything was exactly the same as when I was 5 years old in HK, down to the clay pots. The smells, the clanging and banging, the Cantonese shouting of orders. Nostalgia, comfort food, happy times. Suddenly, interrupted by Mandarin spoken by mainland Chinese. Brought back to reality.
Today: a tense conversation with the cab driver in Shenzhen on why Communism is a cult and Mao Zedong was a demon. Cabdriver thought that Japan would have invaded China had it not been Mao. I told him Japan fought the KMT, and then surrendered due to the atom bomb. Neither were results of Communism nor Mao. He paused, then kicked me out of the cab. I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately. Debating with cab drivers? In China?
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