A Hong Kong Food Oddessy

I couldnt know if it was the nerves, the annual relapse of giardia oir the side effects from the fundraising medical trial, but a queezy stomach had set in, the very day of my departure fro Hong Kong. I could live with the stomach cramps, what was of real concern however, was the loss of appetite, what of this foreign sensation of not wanting to eat! it had me packing myself (almost litteraly). I wrestled my way through my airplane meals forcing myself to finish them all and along the way convince myself that i was enjoying them and actually enjoying them-unsucessfully.

Half way between arrival and customs I had to duck into the airport facilities. I was reminded of a cartoon that i had watched as a child in which thousands of lemmings followed each other over a cliff into the sea, ¨´the lemmings are comming, the lemings are comming´¨ was running through my head as they were gushing over the cliff and into the drink. This affirmation was a terrible dissapointment and my excited images of Hong Kong street food dissolved infront of me. But i was here now. All i could do was take inspiration from Burt Munro´s detirmination, i felt my stomach harden as I recalled watching ´the world´s fastest indian´ on the plane (while double chewing my food). I´ve come half way around the world to eat fermented sea cucumbers and stir fried cat´s paws; i´m not giving in that easily! Always twist the negative to the positive.It´s nearly always possible to view the glass (or belly) as half full. If my belly has a bug in it then putting another bug in there can surely only bugger that bug thus un buggering my belly. I resolved to defend with offense. My first mission was to find the most offending of delicacies that I'd read about–the skewered pig intestines. You think you have worries now Mr belly, you think you're in a bad way, well get a load of this. Stop your grumbling and farting, you could be wrapped around a stick and fried, thats what happens to weak intestines.

I passes through the airport as easy as a lemming, it is getting to easy this traveling caper or probably the fact that for the first time i'd actually organised my accomodation before arriving. It really takes the challenge out of it. But still, it was a good thing on this occasion as stuck in the middle of massive foreign city with a huge pack is all well and good, but when the lemmings are coming it's not so fun. So i promptly found my hostle and was shown to the toilet and then to my room. A moments kip and then it was off and search off the inside of a chinese pig. 

It was great getting back in a proper big plane again, the departure gate loaded full of all sorts. I can't help but look about and scan the crowd, wondering who i'm going to be seated next to for the next twelve hours. Without even meeting anyone there i find myself prefering the company of some over others. But wondering down the isle of the plane to my seat the positive state of mind that worked myself into never seems to matter; think seamo, this time it's going to be Catherine Zeta Jones, who has decided to fly economy because she's accutaly such a cool chick. The same thoughts, everytime the same result. This time not even a window seat, instead of a window it was a family and directly next to me was the mother - slightly on the wider side of not being skinny and in the process of breast feeding. Now don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of breastfeeding, there was just something odd about having my mouth almost as close as the babie's. She obviously felt a some sense of peculiarity about the situation too and this was shortly transmitted through a sharp blast to my ear drums from the baby. The shock was almost instantly forgotten as the other todler blasted into my shins forcing his way under my legs...bugger; this was as ominous as the lemmings gathering in my belly. But help was soon at hand, luck was turned on it's heel as the steward appeared. 'The captain has just said to secure the doors, you can move across to the window seat there if you want'. The lady, the baby and I all smiled, and i spend the rest of the journey with three consecutive of seats to myself - Aahhhhhhh luxury.

So now it was game on. I got myself out of bed after two hours recouperation and jumped into the shower, washed the smell and sleep out of me and the positivity into me. By the time i was dressed and out of the door i'd pretty much convinced myself that i was feeling great and my belly fine. Ready to hunt down these intestines! Hong Kong is a bloody big place. On the descent into it night was disguising all but some silhouetted, rugged looking hills and clusters of lights; the first of which were boats, surrounding the coast, fishing boats i had thought to myself. They were evenly spaced with about seven or eight both lengths between but as the plane drew closer it became apparent that they were not fishing boats, but whopping great freight liners, the type that you see one a month of Lyttleton. In and out of Hong Kong they were cueing like lemmings in a traffic jam.

So it's a big place...I got myself walking. After about an hour and a half I found it; six rounds of coiled intestine threaded onto a skewer, like a six headed pig gut lollypop nestled amongst an exciting assortment of semi-recognisable goodies all threaded in the same fashion. It's odd seeing things like nostrills detatched from the rest of the body - they have a faint distance familiarity that you can't quite put your finger on...think elderly women behind the counter in a small town. But i had recognised the intestines, they seemed to be staring definetly at my belly from behing the glass. I ordered them up and as the lady nonchalantly tossed the skewer into a violently bubbling bath of oil. I began to think about guts, moreover, the peculiarity of us stupid buggers eating it - the edible paradox - the very apparatus nature has designed for us to break things down; we are breaking down - just, how? And apparently a pig's insides are as close as it comes to humans'...my guts is in for a challenge. It's already weak, what if it looses the battle, will the pig's fried intestine just valiantly slot itself into place and take over the duties like a lion after succesfully challenging for leadership of the pride. My mind was definately wondering. I pulled it back with an investigation of what else was behind there with this madame of ghouly treats. My eyes were beaconed a cross to a trough where my intestines (well not mine, but soon to be mine) It was a glorious sight, like the pig had been directly guttered into the stagnant trough all twisted and semi-lifelike. An organic plumming experiment gone wrong...I was excited!

All this time my skewer of intestines was still bubbling away in the oil. The lady, emotionlessly threading bits of former life onto sticks, was giving my belly every chance in the eminent battle, a good 5 mins it was getting worked over by the hot oil. Eventually she pulled it out, bathed it quickly in some sort of soy bath and slapped it on a wee steel tray in front of me. I thanked her with more glee than i felt and went on my way.

Having a rule that you don't turn anything down is at times daunting, particularly when you live life in fear of hipocracy. I have to admit that i would have binned the intestines after batteling through the first of the 6 coils, but for this fear of hipocracy. Its like i'm still trying to impress someone even when there's no one there... I could be on the way here to figuring out why I talk to myself? Anyway, i pushed on with the determination of an ultramarathon.
Its one thing for something to taste repulsive but when coupled with an indominable chewyness it can have some strange effects on your swallowing mechinism, a sort of conflict of interests. Three or four attempts to swallow were refused by myself (without the dialogue) At times i felt in danger of having the intestine half swallowed and half still in my mouth, looped over my throat with the same repulsion of a fat man drying between his legs using the towel in a pully motion. I made it through 5 and couldn`t face the sixth. But I considered that i'd broken its back. It was beaten, I'd had victory on the front but the real battle was still to come as my digestive system prepared to continue the onslaught. Meanwhile I was left to ponder wether I had just lucked out with a bad example of this famed Hong Kong favourite - would i have to give it another chance?

The most striking thing about Hong Kong was the juxtoposition of new and old. Often directly from a rotting appartment block dressed in aireils, air conditioning units and laundry in an intricate mosaic of poverty's disregard for aesthitics, and next door a brand spanker, the shiny, sharp, balanced, clean pattern of modern design. The contrast is apparent everywhere you look here. Unlike the strict division so common in european cities with their old and new towns. Hong Kong has it beautifully mangled together, an immaculate Prada store with a rusty stinking caart being pushed infront of it. Every city has a Chinatown, imagine if that Chinatown spread itself out over the whole city. Turning your head is like turning the page in a Where's Wally book.

I awoke in the early hours to more grumbling from my belly and the feeling of only border-line control, I could see a midnight dash to the tiolet brewing. I sat up and prepared myself. Looking around the room i could make out a small tubular object in the darkness. It was an empty toilet roll next to the croaking flu-ridden sweedish girls - the only toilet roll. I lay back down, doomed to a night of concentrated clenching, the feeling passed and i made it through to daylight.

I set off in the morning obviously on the backfoot in the battle. I thought I'd get procedings underway with an easy going and unobtrusive breakfast. I continued in this tender and tentative vein right through to dinner, by which time i was begining to get the guilts for denying myself the very pleasures/challenges I was here for. Enough of this pussy-footing about in bakeries and western tainted eateries; time for another attack, I hadn't encountered a squadron of lemmings since before lunch. I made for a sufficiently filthy district marked by wholesome wofts of dead animals in stagnant water and roaming dogs. I soon found a roadside seat and table in the usual pale green plastic and got a menu. I came across it almost instantly, the perfect solution and the final chance for tripe - the goose's intestine on noodles. Surely goose's guts can`t be that distressing - nothing of particular concern could fit inside a goose? The noodles were of the thin ramen type, I thought it interesting to get intestines served on noodles; they compliment each other in that noodles have the distinct appearance of worms. Infact, of all the various types of worm I could recall seeing vomited up by my dog Bridie, there was a chinese noodle to imitate it; from the fat udons to the wide flat ones. So not only was i about to be served up the guts of a goose but, it would seem, I was geting it along with its contents.

As it turns out, geese are not at all disimilar to pigs on the inside, when it comes to eating them that is. They arrived at the table as a twisted array of curly ribbons between 1 and 2cm wide. When eating intestines it pays not to start looking too hard. Not only to avoid seeing those vaguely recognisable bits, but I found that I would start to convince myself that they were moving by their own accord. It occurs to me that tv has a lot to answer for.

These were was an improvement on the skewered pig`s tripe but I'm now quite assured in my distaste for tripe. It has had its chance. It would take Yan Can Cook to serve it up for me were I to give it another shot.

My last night in Hong Kong, i wasn't done yet, I could fit in more experimentation. I had to keep the pressure on the belly, I felt I was begining to gain the upper hand. I'd heard a lot about the fish balls and felt that I hadn't yet given them a fair chance. I found a lady with a deep fat fryer and an inspirational array of fryable goodies so I went for it. I asked if they were fish and she made a motion with her hand that may have been more indicitive of squid, either way it had taken the form of round balls now whatever it used to be. These were very good and renewed my confidence after the tripe, I walked on with an upward pointed chin and eagerness in search of a beer. I found an ideal wee outdoor resturant that was nice and busy with locals. I took a seat and ordered my Tsingtao. Then felt it only manners to consult the menu. Something cheap and light, good to nibble on with a beer, kind of hors d'oeuvres like. And there it was, the perfect thing. 'local snails in chillie and pepper'. There was a photo next to it; a small plate full of small black shells. On arrival it turned out that it was the photo that was small, not the snails. A big plate full of big snails was set down in front of me. I'd once eaten snails in Italy, the flesh was retrieved from the shell with a tooth pick - the waitress set down a kebeb stick for me.I selected a medium sized one and stabed down with my kebeb stick on the foot that was peering out at me from inside the hole. I began to pull it out. I continued to pull it out. Kept on pulling... the more I pulled, the uglier it got. It was, on a rather more positive note, quite satisfying, that same satisfaction you get from pulling one of those bogies that come from the back of your brain somewhere. By the time it was fully out it it was proudly quivering its full 1cm girth and 4cm length tantalisingly on the end of my kebab stick. And in it goes. It was chewey, slimy and of a very diverse texture but supprisingly good, in a bold rustic asian way. The flavourings were very good: a healthy dose of chillie for China, pepper and salty black beans.

Around my 4th snail I got confirmation that these were indeed sea snails, very similar to those that we call Bull's Eyes in New Zealand, only bigger. The give away was the 'Bull's Eye' itself still sealing off the hole. I flicked it off with my stick to get at the morsel beneath, it released itself with a forcefull projection hurling across my table and towards the gorking passers by. It was nimbly side-stepped by the pedestrians, to whom it must have seemed I clipping my toe nails rather than eating snails. The snail 'hatch' was, infact, not disimilar to a toe nail; say the entire blackened, gnarled nail of your Grandfather`s big toe. I went on to finish them with plenty more gorking from the passers by as they wondered who was clipping their nails in a resturant. I was even appreciating admirable stares from the Chinese passers by. People would look at my plate, then look at me, then look at my plate, then tap their partner and both look back at me and my plate... then dodge a toe nail.

I was finally getting some sense of satisfaction set in, and along with it, my belly was not to bother me again. - Victory! until next time.