![]() ![]() I never had the chance to eat at any of his restaurants. I struggle to imagine what life was like for gung gung beyond generalities. Did they bring iced water right away? Were the vegetables fresh? Was there chicken in the sweet and sour balls, or was it all fried batter? Were the dishes steaming or did they arrive lukewarm? Were the portions generous? Did you get complimentary rice? He couldn’t help but closely observe the world he had occupied for over 30 years. When we went to Chinese restaurants, he would always comment on the establishment’s customer service and food quality. When he died, I saved one from the donation pile-beige linen with tortoiseshell buttons. His shock of white hair was neatly combed to the side. My grandfather, Ken Gain Sui Louie (whom I called gung gung), had a particular way of carrying himself-posture straight, hands clasped behind his back, and step buoyant. She tilts her head and pouts her lips, a look that I’ve come to know as her feeling-sorry-for-me face. I don’t know what I’m expecting, maybe some kind of revelation or a forgotten memory of her father finally come to the surface. I ask Mom if eating the dish is conjuring any feelings for her. It is not especially remarkable, but it does taste good. It goes down easy-I keep taking piping hot gulps of this mild, yet comforting mixture. The dry rice has been soaked in thick salty gravy, the chicken is tender and sweet, and the vegetables satisfyingly crunch. Hunched over my bowl, letting the steam touch my face, I take a bite. We carry our bowls of rice laden with generous scoops of chop suey to the kitchen table. ![]() A sprinkle of bean sprouts is added at the last minute. Mom gets a little overzealous with the spices and drops in more bouillon, pepper, and various powders from our cabinet. After blanching the vegetables, we mix them together with aromatics and the meat with liberal swigs of soy sauce. We heat a large pan with oil and when it starts to bubble around the edges, add the chicken. Tracing the dish’s history offers an outline to understand early Chinese immigration and the path my family took to create a new home.Īfter finishing chopping the vegetables, we slice chicken breasts and marinate the wisps of meat in sugar, soy sauce, chicken bouillon, oil, salt, white pepper, and cornstarch. But by the middle of the 20th century, it was a staple at North American Chinese restaurants, including my late grandfather’s. (System of a Down’s bassist admitted that the band wanted to call their song “Suicide,” but to avoid controversy used chop suey because “it was suicide cut in half.”) History’s long game of telephone has altered, erased, and appropriated chop suey, to reach the ultimate sign of age-obscurity. Or your closest reference might be from musical artists ranging from Louis Armstrong to the Ramones to System of a Down, who have all included “Chop Suey” in their song titles, none with any clear connection to the dish. Unless you are over the age of fifty, you probably have never heard of it. But I’m learning that chop suey does not conform to finite instructions. We’ve consulted family members and plumbed Mom’s memories to cobble together what we think is an accurate recipe. I thought that making this dish would somehow enable me to feel, taste, and smell a piece of this distant past, and come closer to drawing a portrait of my fading family history. Together we are trying to recreate chop suey, a dish I’ve never tasted, but one that my late grandfather prepared thousands of times in his restaurants in Canada. … It reminds me of Dad’s restaurants.” Gung gung in 1967 “So, are you at all excited about this… or not?” I ask. We’re both getting fatigued from the chopping. ![]() “Really, the dish to me is not that appealing, it’s just shredded vegetables,” she says. For a while we work in silence, piling up the cut vegetables into small mountains. To make chop suey right, every element must be finely slivered. “You want to use a sharper knife?” she asks. “I would cut them into thin slices and then in half…” She watches me begin to cut a fat mushroom into half-centimeter thick slices. I’m staring at my mom’s kitchen counter, which has been overtaken by ingredients: onions, celery, carrots, bean sprouts, cremini mushrooms, chicken breasts, green onions, and a brimming bowl of su choy. ![]() The hyphen always seems to demand negotiation. ![]()
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