All around, alien food that looks like it’s more likely to eat me than me it.
How about this place, says Akemi, pointing at a stall with plastic tables and chairs set out in front. The sign above is a big blue winking fish.
I say, Yeah, okay.
I don’t eat seafood, have never eaten seafood. I eat like a little kid and my diet consists mainly of white foods like chips, and bread, and maybe the occasional chicken nugget.
Right here in front of me now though, is a huge bowl of yellow–brown liquid with what looks like intestines floating inside.
Inside the yellow–brown liquid of our bowl, a big black fish head pokes out the side like it’s trying to jump on out of there.
If I take even one bite of this, I will be adding my own special liquid seasoning to the stew, soup, whatever it is.
Had this before? says Akemi, picking up a pair of red chopsticks.
Ha, I say. Have I had this before.
Want the eye? she says.
Do I want the eye, I say.
I say, Of course I want the eye. That’s the best bit.
Right now, all I can think about is my agong’s face folding in on itself when he realized I didn’t speak Taiwanese.
My parents shrugging their shoulders like, What can we do?
Right now, I’m wishing I took more interest when my parents tried to introduce me to their food.
I’m wishing I didn’t quit Chinese school on Sundays after one day so I could go and play footie with the white boys in my neighbourhood.
I’m wishing I was a kid who inhaled goddamn fish eyes like they were Chomps, Curly Wurlys and Push Pops.
Akemi says, Are you okay?
Right now, I don’t want to feel like a failure in front of this girl, so what I do is I grab me some chopsticks (I can use those, at least), pluck out the eye from the fish head and put it in my mouth.
Mmm, delicious, I say.
My favourite part of the fish, I say.
The doughy, chalky eye squishes between my teeth, explodes all over the right side of my mouth.
It doesn’t even taste of anything, really, but the thick texture makes me want to hurl.
A little bit of puke comes up, but I swallow it back down along with the eye.
And now there’s a thick, fish eye coating all over the back of my tongue, and I can’t get rid of it.
Don’t they put water on the tables here?
For sure, I will never eat another stinking fish eye, ever again.
Have the other one if you want, says Akemi, smiling.
And like an idiot, I pluck the other eye out and put it in my mouth.
F
OURTEEN
For the second time since I’ve been here, I’m doubled over.
Puking my guts out.
My diaphragm aches with the effort, my throat burns as the acid ejects.
The fish head intestine stew didn’t spend too much time in my stomach, but I did chug a lot of it, so there’s little chunks of it splattered all over this guy’s shop stall.
All over his neat display of purses and handbags.
The river of night market punters slows to investigate, giggling and crowding forward to get me on video. Hey, good for you guys.
The stall owner is talking at me, but Taiwanese people sound angry all the time, even when they’re not, so I can’t tell if he’s actually pissed off. Me? I’d be shitting rusty nails if some kid came and barfed all over my absorbent, un-wipeable, home-made goods.
I can’t help but laugh. This is what happens when you pretend to like things you don’t like.
What’s he saying, I ask Akemi, blocking a sick belch with my fist.
