Competitions to find the most “disgusting” or “weirdest” food in the world seem to be held every now and then, and more often than not traditional Taiwanese snacks are to be found somewhere on the list.
In years past it was “stinky tofu,” more recently it has been “pig’s blood cake.” The latest example of such a food is the “Chinese century egg,” also known as the “thousand-year egg.” All three have managed to put Taiwan on the map.
One thing lists of “weird foods” have in common is that the people behind them very rarely come from Asian countries. In other words, the lists they compile invariably demonstrate a pronounced Western culinary taste. Perhaps there is also a degree of commercial calculation involved, because such reports certainly generate great stories and sell newspapers.
What exactly is it about these foods that Westerners find so off-putting in the first place? Could it be that something has simply been lost in translation?
Traditional Chinese culinary theory focuses on three aspects of food: color, aroma and flavor. Modern food marketing techniques favor stories and allusions about food, but how exactly should foods be marketed from one culture to another without something getting misunderstood or confused in the process?
It is of course all about grabbing the customers’ attention with the name of each dish. Using an alluring name suggests it will be a tasty treat rather than cause for a hasty retreat. A perfect example: Why say “chicken butts” when you can use “fragrant for seven miles” (七里香) instead? The associations that translations conjure up in the mind somehow alter our perception of taste, using language to seduce the taste buds and leaving the rest to the imagination.
The persuasive power of the purely psychological over the physical lies behind the phrase “quenching one’s thirst by looking at plums,” an allusion to a story in which the Chinese general Cao Cao (曹操) tried to boost the morale of his thirst-wracked troops. Sometimes perception is more important than reality. If you go to Shilin night market, you will see literal translations of ingredients such as “blood” and “intestines.” If these foods were to be marketed in Western countries, a little more tact would be in order.
I wonder how many of us will react to this slight in a rational manner and seek to understand the crux of the problem. Certain sectors of society are bound to play the “respect the tastes of other people” card, oblivious to the fact that the problem here has nothing to do with differences in tastes — it is about packaging, not preference; aesthetics with maybe a little bit of politics thrown into the mix.
Gourmets will be initially dismissive, saying that “foreigners just don’t get it,” before elucidating on the finer points of seasoning and the importance of painstaking preparation. Academics will comb through the cultural history of food, claiming that the problem is born of ignorance and that there is nothing to get upset about. Others will say simply: “But it tastes great.”
Food is about more than just health and pleasant flavors, it also involves cultural identity, communal memory and a way of life. In this context, when a cuisine crosses national borders, it is also something of an ambassador for the culture of origin.
If we want Taiwanese food to be accepted in the West, we will have to think more carefully how we present it to the outside world.
Liu Chien-cheng is a postgraduate student at National Taiwan University’s Graduate Institute of Taiwanese Literature.
TRANSLATED BY PAUL COOPER
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