Sorry for the cryptic title, but you'll note that I respect your intelligence enough not to have spelled "some" as "s-u-m". (If you're still not with me, today I speak of a Childhood of Devouring Dim Sum.)
Only one food grips me with a deep-rooted compulsion when it's spoken of in my presence, or when a nearby scent triggers a connection, or when it crosses my mind for any other reason. That, my friends, is dim sum. (Just having written that sentence, I am now emotionally committed to securing at least some har gow and shaomai at lunch today. Probably some sticky rice. Seriously.)
Aside: In case you're wondering, I'm using Wikipedia spellings in the absence of any other 'right' way to spell the various dishes of which I speak. I would otherwise have used "stikee rhyse".
My family knows that when they really want to treat me - Birthday, Father's Day, every-day-is-Father's-Day, etc. - the destination of choice is our favourite (only?) local dim sum option: Summit Garden. But, on the weekends, if you're not there by about 11:15, you must wait and wait and wait to get a table. And if there's anything that I hate more than denying a dim sum compulsion, it's waiting.
My daughters will probably tell you that if you look up the word "inconsolable" in the dictionary, you will see a picture of me walking away from Summit Garden with an out-the-door lineup in the background. They will also tell you that when daddy is inconsolable you don't want to be around him. And when it's your fault that daddy is inconsolable because you didn't get out of bed fast enough, your best move is to silently weather the storm. I'm not proud of these times, but a compulsion's a compulsion.
So why dim sum? You know me as a pretty healthy eater and a guy who works out. Dim sum is hardly health food.
It's a childhood thing. I blame my parents (and thank them) every time the compulsion takes hold. When I was still in my fussy years - taking peanut butter and jam to school every day (yes, peanut butter - allergies weren't invented yet) - for whatever reason I would willingly eat slimy, unrecognizable dim sum delectables. Shaomai, char siu baao and spring rolls were my first love and over the years, with an increasing sense of daring, I slowly added the rest of it.
Dim sum with my parents and sisters was a weekly adventure: A long ride to downtown Toronto; a beautifully staged and executed dance between my parents as they navigated the menu and made our selections ("ARTHUR! You've got enough food here for 20!", "We can always order more if this isn't enough", etc.); my dad diligently mispronouncing dish names as he placed the order; our waitress slowly shaking her head back and forth saying "it's too muuuuch" (to which dad would inevitably reply with something like "watch us"); another dance when the food arrived, this time related to the pace of dining; my dad emptying bowl after bowl of chili sauce; my mom pulling tendons on her chicken feet so they made a fist; and little David taking it all in and developing a life-long love affair.
My mom and dad don't eat pork or shrimp anymore. I suppose they could still go for real dim sum and order chicken feet and bok choi (and use the feet to lift the vegetable to their mouths), but that would be sad. Instead, they've discovered a veggie dim sum restaurant that they love. My personal experience is that veggie dim sum is the Cinderella of food - if you don't eat it before it starts to get cold, you will suddenly find yourself chewing on something eerily similar to a slipper as it reverts to whatever gummy, foul tasting guck it started as.
So all I've got is my Field of Dreams: the family is back downtown enjoying dim sum when my dad appears from out behind a bamboo screen (surrounded by mist generated from steamed grease), lightly tossing a sesame black-bean ball up and down in his hand. My mom's there too - affectionately yelling at him that he's splattering his shirt...we sit down together and eat until we can't eat anymore.
Enough said. I love the stuff.
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