菜心

A few days after I cast my vote, I went to the other universe to teach a course for some postgraduate students.

I shall not elaborate on what happened, or my view on our alternative universe. But the dinner was remarkable. In the evening after the first day of the course, the host brought the three overseas speakers - me included - to a local restaurant somewhere 10-minute walk away from their hospital campus.

The place looked like an ordinary Cantonese restaurant you find in any public housing estate of Hong Kong. The menu was also a humble one - no shark fin or abalone. Oh, there was a good dish of pan-fried foie gras, but it seemed the residual material from a place famous for roast goose.

The climax came towards the end, when the green was served. (For those not familiar with the custom of a Canton banquet, a dish of green is usually served towards the end of the menu, generally before some carbohydrate - rice or noodles - and then the dessert.)

It was a large bowel of choy sum (菜心) in a clear broth.

I shall not describe how good it was - words fail me. Supposedly it was a delicate mixture of freshness, crispness, and sweetness - or the pleasure of stimulating the taste buds paradoxically by the absence of any stimuli.

"This is gorgeous. What's the secret in it?" One of the overseas speakers asked.

"Oh, nothing. It's just fresh from the garden of our consultant." The host said, blushing a little.