“Lái yīgè căoyào shé tāng.”
My mother spoke quickly to the waiter, her words slightly flattened by her Shanghainese accent. We were sitting in a small restaurant in Montreal’s Chinatown, despite my older sister’s numerous attempts to sway my parents towards more local cuisine. “Think of the poutine we could be eating! Or crepes! Tim Hortons? ...” she had begged. But no, unfortunately for us, our parents held steadfast in their desire for “home-cooking” after a long week of travel with two whiny children.
My mother, though her home cooking parallels none other, has a tendency to veer towards the weird and exotic in her choice of restaurant dishes. In particular, she seems to take delight in the strange ancient-herbal-remedy-type foods she experienced while growing up in China. At 8 years old, however, I had not yet learned this lesson and still obediently ate every spoonful that she presented to me.
The dish sounded innocuous -- though this was probably due to my limited understanding of Mandarin, which had no reason to include snakes up to that point. Thus, I was blissfully unaware as my mother smiled at the table and proclaimed that it was a surprise for all of us, one that the whole family blindly promised to try.
I was first alerted by the funky boiled-cabbage smell and then the thunk as the waiter unceremoniously dropped the dish onto the table. A small splash of broth spilled over the side of the bowl, marring the tablecloth with a greasy yellow splotch. My mother, gleeful as ever, explained that it was an herbal snake soup. A tremendously exciting find -- and great for the skin and eyesight to boot! Even my father, dubbed “the garbage can” for his willingness to eat almost anything, looked concerned at first sight of the dish.
The soup was a sickly grayish green, a sharp contrast to the bright and cheerful patterns on the bowl it was served in. Floating beige strips with wisps of scaly skin and mucous trails of something dotted the surface. Any sane person would have graciously declined a bite at this point, but we were bound by our promises.
It was bad. One shaky spoonful later, I realized that the soup somehow tasted even worse than it looked. The snake meat was as tough as mummified leather. The broth was acrid. It was like well-used, lukewarm bathwater after a football game: bitter, sour, and almost gritty. The scallions, normally a bright finishing garnish, were overcooked and slithered down my throat. Honestly, the snake was the most palatable part – chewy, yes, but miraculously devoid of any flavor.
I have no shame in admitting that I did not finish swallowing that bite. I dropped my spoon and immediately bolted to the restroom as quickly as my little legs could run, tongue tingling and eyes tearing. My sister and father followed closely behind.
My mother, on the other hand, remained in her seat and calmly slurped away, albeit mildly perplexed by our reactions. After finishing a particularly joyous spoonful, she called after us, “Come back quickly! You still need to try the pig ears!”
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