Nostalgia can be the darnedest thing. Growing up a young Chinese American in a household that favored Chinese culinary etiquette, I often wondered aloud whether I was getting the short thrift on what, back then, I considered to be my sole birthright: home cooked Western meals. That should’ve meant lasagna nights. More pizza. Even the occasional steak and eggs for breakfast. Of course, my mother’s wholehearted attempts to mollify me generally resulted in even louder groans of dismay.

“Mom, why does the spaghetti taste exactly like your zha jiang mian?” I was a whiny, ungrateful lout with an unrefined palate and little to no appreciation for the impenetrable cultural fortress I felt I had been so undeservedly held in against my will. For that, I loved my friend’s mother’s meatloaf like it was Turkish delight, when in fact it was reserved only for the company of children whose own mothers had enough common sense to keep their kitchens meatloaf-free.

I’m not going to say that hot pot changed my life. Or that it serves as some catch-all metaphor for the Chinese sense of community and the melding of cultures. Still, when I think back to my childhood, it’s hard to recollect a more singularly unifying image than the family hot pot dinner, a cornucopia of fresh greens, tender and not-so-tender tofu, boiled meats and fishballs, the light, the heat, the completion of a celebration with so little fanfare that it hardly felt like a celebration at all. In other words, hotpot was business as usual in the Tung household, where every day is Thanksgiving, as far as the Tung boys (all three of us, including my dad) and our insatiable appetites were concerned.

The end of this November marked the third consecutive Thanksgiving that I’ve spent far, far away from home. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out that celebrating Thanksgiving in Shanghai is far from the travesty one might expect. Several Western dining establishments feature T-day massacres, complete with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, and mulled wine that even your grandmother wouldn’t dare turn her nose at.

Purist or not, my sensibilities tend to skew toward the familiar, and in my house, turkey is redundant – like gravy when you’ve already run out of mashed potatoes. In my house, you get a few ladles, the kind with holes in them, and get to scooping. That’s right: We have hot pot on Thanksgiving – and on Christmas, and on Chinese New Year’s, too. When the weather is cold, stay in for some hot pot. When it’s scalding hot outside… well, let ‘em see me sweat.

Hotpot places in Shanghai are not exactly what you would call slim pickings. But curry-based hot pot is a different story. There are many reasons to be thankful for Guo Bee Pen Da, Shanghai’s finest curry hot pot joint, and I dare you to suggest otherwise. I’m thankful that it’s right around the corner of my house, because if Thanksgiving teaches us anything, it’s that there’s nothing wrong with convenience helping dictate your dining rotation. I’m thankful that the phenomenon of curry hot pot exists, with a soup base so thick, creamy, and flavorful that it’s bound to – poor pun alert – curry favor with even non-hot pot aficionados. I’m thankful that looking over the bountiful sauce selection is a little like waking up on Christmas day, and finding your tree littered with gifts all wrapped so differently that you just know Santa read your list and checked everything twice.

I’m thankful that all my years of growing up in a household favoring Chinese culinary etiquette taught me what to put in my sauce, and how much of it, too. I’m thankful that most of the time, the restaurant manages to run out of my favorite vegetable, hardened tofu, but when it really, truly counts – on Thanksgiving day – they have it in ample supply. I’m thankful that I have friends who don’t live by the turkey, and are willing to double and triple-dip in a pot filled with probably far more, uh, variables, than a shared bowl of salsa.

Most of all, I’m thankful for a nostalgia that stays frighteningly simple. I’m not going to say that hot pot changed my life, because like most of the memorable culinary experiences of my life, it was there all along. Growing up has taught me a few things about that once-coveted meatloaf, no matter how delicious it was (and may still be). Cultural history is a slippery slope that we all stumble down sometimes, but more often than we all may be willing to admit, your own mother really does know best.

Guo Bee Pen Da
No. 301 Huashan Rd. (near Changshu Rd.)
Shanghai, China

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This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 1st, 2009 at 8:26 pm and is filed under Shanghai.