It was the 1970’s. There was a dumpling shop that my father used to go often for late supper. He would take us kids with him sometimes, when we didn’t need to go to school the next day. The shop was located in a big square that used to be a Japanese shrine. I remember we had to pass through a dark lane carefully for a short while. Then a wide open square was pulling us in, where more than 30 tables were seated under yellow street lamps, full of crowded talking voices. The hot summer night smelled of boiled dumplings, damp yet delightful.
Other than dumplings, my father would order some side dishes like cucumber salad, boiled peanuts, dried tofu slices and crispy deep fried pork chops. The shop would also provide a bowl of free dumpling flour soup for each table. We kids all loved this dumpling shop because it was a time we could stay out late with my father. Another reason was dumplings were not our regular food at home. Kids always love something not regular.
The owner would come to say hello, and my father would tell the owner that their dumplings were the best he had ever tasted. Both of them would then laugh happily. One time, the owner introduced us to the cook who was in charge of making dumplings. That cook said something to us with a proud smile on his face, but I could not catch a word. After he left, I asked my father about this. He said that cook was a mainlander from China like the owner and other staff. I had more questions in my mind. Just when I was about to ask, my father said, “He’s good at making dumplings. Only that matters. And now eat your dumplings.” Then he put one dumpling into his mouth, chewing in satisfaction.
Time passed to the late 1990’s. My father had moved to southern Taiwan a few years before due to his personal financial loses. One day he came to Taipei for some errands and stayed with me for couple of days. He asked if that dumpling shop was still there. I said it seemed that that square belonged to the Taipei city government, so the shop had been moved to a much smaller place not far from the old. He frowned and said he would like to go there to eat the dumplings he missed the most in the south.
We were seated at a small table outside the kitchen. “The shop is run by owner’s children now, I guess,” I said to my father when I found him looking around searching. He said nothing and ate his dumplings, head low.
“Mr. Wei?” following the voice, I saw a man walking out from the back of the shop slowly. My father looked back, then turned excitedly and said ” You remember me?” That’s the owner of the shop. ” Sure, I do,” he replied. They smiled at each other and moved to an empty table to catch up. I heard the owner in a low voice, saying that one of his cooks had moved back to China as soon as the Chinese government allowed. One of his cooks passed away. He himself could not work as much as before. I saw my father wiping his eyes and nodding his head. The owner asked my father if he still liked the dumplings. I heard my father reply firmly, “Sure, your dumplings are the best as always!”
They said good bye by shaking hands and wishing each other good health. My father was quiet and looked like he was deep into his memory on the bus on our way back to my place. I had questions in my mind while sitting beside him. Instead of asking, I decided to look out of the bus window and watch the summer breeze on the tree tops.
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