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From The Asian Reporter, V36, #5 (May 4, 2026), page 6.
A Tale of two cities … and two cuisines
Opposites attract. After 34 years of marriage, I can confidently make that claim. Heck, we’re living proof of that.
My wife Maya loves taking walks. I would rather drive there — even if it’s only two blocks away.
She likes to dance; I prefer to sit. She likes to read books; I prefer to listen to a podcast. She’s gregarious and very social; I prefer to listen to a podcast.
She’s petite and beautiful. I’m … uh … I think I’m going on a tangent here.
Let me try to explain our differences another way. A few years ago, we went on a trip to Asia — Taiwan and South Korea, specifically. We’re both foodies, which is one thing we do have in common. But what we like to eat puts us on opposite ends of the spectrum.
Our first stop was Taiwan — Maya’s birthplace. Beyond seeing friends and family, the one thing she was craving was to eat some of her favorite Taiwanese dishes. This is where our tastes diverge.
Strolling down one street, Maya saw a vendor selling food. Her eyes opened wide. She saw the sign where they sell Taiwanese Mian Xian (pronounced me-en shen) — kind of a noodle soup.
I’ve had Mian Xian before, and what can I say? I’d rather listen to a podcast.
For those who haven’t had it before, it’s a soup noodle where the noodles are very fine, kind of glistening in a dark brown broth, with vegetables and sometimes bite-size morsels of oysters. Every time Maya has it, it brings back memories from her childhood, and she revels in the familiar flavors of the noodles and broth.
For me? It’s something about the texture. What’s the best adjective I can come up with? Gloopy? Gloppy? The consistency of the soup is more like a heavy gravy than actual soup. I don’t hate it, but let’s just say it’s not on my top-ten list of well, anything.
Our next meal didn’t get much better, at least for me.
After walking through one of Taiwan’s famous street markets, we happened upon a shop that sold one of Taiwan’s signature dishes, O Ah Jian (pronounced oh wah jian), which is basically an oyster omelet.
It’s essentially a flat omelet mixed with a starchy liquid along with small oysters and greens topped off with a reddish-pink sauce.
How would I describe O Ah Jian? Mucus-like? Squishy? Slightly sludgy?
To each, their own, right? Obviously, this is a very popular dish in Taiwan. In fact, it’s one of Maya’s favorites. It’s just not my cup of tea (or plate of squishy), as the case may be.
So, while my culinary travails in Taiwan may not have been my favorite, the tables were turned in South Korea.
Why? Two words — Korean barbeque.
My niece, Melody, was in charge of selecting all the restaurants in South Korea. Korea has a wide variety of cuisine — seafood, kimchi, dumplings, hot pot. But for some incredibly tasty reason, we had Korean BBQ four nights out of the seven we were there. And it was glorious.
Plates of fresh beef, chicken, pork, seafood, and vegetables covered in a variety of sauces cooked on specially designed grills. I was in heaven.
Maya, on the other hand, was not as pleased.
"There’s just too much meat! I can’t eat any more meat!"
I didn’t really hear any of her comments. I was focused on the meat. They actually had skewers of chicken skin basting over hot coals until they were scrumptiously crispy with just the perfect amount of seasoning. I was eating fried chicken skin as an entrée! What’s not to love?
After our fourth night of carnivorous feasts, Maya had had enough.
"I just want a salad!" Maya insisted.
We made it home, both of us unscathed. After a few days of being in a meat coma, I was good as new.
I was thinking of getting some Texas BBQ spareribs tonight. What do you think?
Humor writer Wayne Chan lives in the San Diego area; cartoonist Wayne Chan is based in the Bay Area.
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