The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [26]
While Ben got drinks for Richard and Sam and comforted them with stories of how Dracula had also tried to kill him, I went back to work in the kitchen.
San bei gi is a decidedly simple dish, reflected in the way its name sounds almost like a bare-bones recipe itself. One cup of this, one cup of that ... Like most Chinese stir-fries, it takes a short time to make, although longer in my case since I didn’t hack the chicken to small pieces. But with the three even portions of liquids, it comes out looking more like a stew than a stir-fry, and the deep hue of the soy sauce stains everything reddish brown. Once the dish was cooked, it was almost impossible to tell a whole, softened garlic clove from a chunk of chicken that had fallen off the bone.
My first encounter with the dish was at a hole-in-the-wall Taiwanese restaurant in Boston, at the beginning of college. Little did I know at that time that I’d go on to spend several months in Taiwan a couple of years later, for my last semester. I had already taken one semester abroad, in the Netherlands, and from there I traveled throughout Europe. During my time in Taiwan, I traveled to China for a while, too, but mostly took the opportunity to explore the country where my mother grew up. The university I attended was in Taipei, the island’s capital, and it was my mother’s native city I’d been there once before, to visit relatives when I was six. I can’t remember much of that trip, but by the end of my semester in Taipei, I felt much more connected with the culture—especially the food—of my mother’s side of the family
There are many signatures of Taiwanese cuisine, but san bei gi just might be the most famous. I didn’t know quite how to describe to Ben what I was making that night, except that it was “really good.” (He seemed satisfied with that.) Unlike some of my favorite Taiwanese foods, it wasn’t spicy, either, and since I wasn’t sure how Sam and Richard felt about spiciness, I figured it was a safe bet. Richard had a passion for grilling the perfect burger; Sam was gifted at making delicious salsas (which she claimed had no secret to them); my forte would be this complex balance of assertive Eastern flavors.
Glancing at the clock, I hoped that this might make up for a bit of wait time. I realized then I hadn’t thought to prepare any appetizers.
I lowered the heat on the stove. The chicken pieces had seared and were now impenetrably bound to the bottom of the pan. Pushing them around would only mean ripping the half-cooked flesh from the bones. So I decided to add the garlic, the ginger, and the liquids, and let those kick around for a while, loosening the pan’s grip on the chicken. Over the pan I upended a bowl of thick, unpeeled ginger slices and whole garlic cloves that I’d prepared. Guesstimating, I poured in what seemed like equal portions of soy sauce and rice wine.
The oil sputtered, protesting. Then, the pungent, slightly spicy smell of the aromatics softly dissolving in hot oil began to waft throughout the kitchen. I stirred as I waited for the liquid to reach a boil.
I reached into the freezer for one of the beer bottles I’d put on quick-cool. I needed some cooling down myself. Using the hem of my sweater, I twisted off the cap. It clattered onto the floor, and when I reached down to grab it, I noticed Dracula a few feet away, lifting his tail in alert.
Under normal circumstances, I’d have put on a pair of tall boots. These at least protected my lower shins from his claws. I had grown so accustomed to cooking while wearing my tall cowboy boots that Erin had even picked out a floor mat for the kitchen emblazoned with an image of a sultry cartoon cowgirl tipping her hat. Even so, Dracula’s claws had a way of striking straight through whatever cloth I happened to be wearing on my upper shins, above the boots—corduroys, jeans, or the short-lived