WEAST

Well, it’s been ages since the last post, and of course tons of eating has been done.

As an extention of procrastination, I suddenly remembered the little Chinese version of pancakes/waffles, affectionately known as Gai Dan Zai, and translated to Chicken Eggs, which really doesn’t say much. It’s a batter that is poured into molds like a waffle maker, which is closed, allowed to cook, and flipped about half way so that the batter can cook both sides. The result is a sheet of bubbles, usually semi hollow on the inside, or almost like a lighter version of a muffin. The outside should be crispy. And it must be eaten hot.

When we were in Hong Kong over the summer, I dragged my sister around wandering the streets of North Point on Hong Kong Island with nowhere in mind. After falling asleep half way through the cable car ride and arriving at the end, we hopped off and walked around the street market, through some creamatorium, into another indoor market, through a very old-style mall with low ceilings and small little shops and back out onto the street.

Somewhere along the way, we stumbled upon a line up. The golden culinary rule in Hong Kong is to flock where others go. The attraction this time: the Chinese waffles. We looked a bit, gawked at the newspaper articles proudly taped along the wall of the window that looked like a cut out from the wall that miraculously fitted some 4 busy bodies endlessly churning out the same products to the line that never got any shorter (but never any longer either).

So, we walked on, thinking we might as well see as much as we can. After boiling for another hour or so, inching our way through the area, we turned back. And of course we, like many obsessed street food Hong Kongers, caved in to the temptation of trying the best Gai Dan Zai in Hong Kong, the land of its origin.

The lineup took at least 30 minutes, where we inched some 12 feet total. In front of us there was a man who yapped the entire time about how this place must be overrated, but nonetheless wanted to buy a batch for his nephew or some other to try. And just in front of him was a woman who was bored enough to entertain arguing with him the entire wait, and even offered to double with him to buy the batch (it was $20 for 2 and something like $11 for one). Of course the $1 or $2 must be saved. We doubled with the much quieter girl behind us.

And when we finally arrived at the window, we learned a few lessons about the art of buying Gai Dan Zai as well: 1) be very fast and precise with your order; 2) pay; 3) do not ask for a plastic bag, because the workers will glare at you and say that it ruins the crispy texture (the woman in front did because she argued she had to carry it to a friend’s place).

So, after starving for a good half hour, we chowed our batch down by the time we crossed the street. It was indeed crispy on the outside, and soft and moist on the inside. It was sweet and rich. And there were just enough to entertain the thrill of snapping each piece apart before plopping it into the mouth. They were indeed the best we’d ever had when we recalled past disappointments: too sweet, strange textures on the inside, inconsistency, a fully filled and mushy “egg”, a crispy but hollow “egg”.

We had a batch in Vancouver some weeks after returning. They were still crispy, fragrant, moist, sweet. And they came in the same paper bag. Yes, they were pale cream coloured instead of the yellow-orange of the Hong Kong ones. And yes, they still have to be eaten instantly. But no, thankfully Gai Dan Zai are one of the few things we don’t need to fly across the Pacific just to eat.

And for fear of line ups growing ever longer, or the quality of the places gradually worse, I regretfully will not add any more to their fame….Unless perhaps it slips my mouth in heated conversation or best-food-experience contests.