Diana Parkyn
Guildford, Yennora, Fairfield, Canley Vale. The stations flickered by in a monotonous progression of 1950s suburbia; of blue and cream fibro boxes, a landscape punctuated only occasionally by the elegant spire of a mosque or wat. Once there, I quickly made my way up and over the footbridge and into Cabramatta Mall. I paid no heed to the shifty-eyed youths lounging outside the small shops that lined Railway Parade, but rather, headed straight into St John’s Road and the seething mass of pedestrians. I glanced at the clock tower high above Bing Lee’s: nearly noon and the adjacent streets were already crowded, the traffic, shuddering to a crawl.
I manoeuvred past the policemen who had stopped two caucasian men; the officers were gloved up, ready to search an assortment of carry bags lying on the ground. A constant stream of shoppers filed past, their eyes glazed over, choosing not to see the two Gwailo junkies. This dirty, unshaven pair was part of the constant influx of white parasites flowing in for the ‘twenty dollar a cap’ heroin, in pure and plentiful supply. They stood out, like blowflies on a sheep’s back, to be shrugged away for an all too brief instant, only to return and settle again. I felt uncomfortable watching the little drama unfold; after all, I wasn’t one of them.
‘I wonder,’ I silently pondered, ‘do I look like I’m here to score or eat?’
Anticipation, my constant companion, matched my every step through the crowded mall. Finally reaching my destination, I entered the Bien Vinh Restaurant and was immediately assailed by noise and confusion. A waiter appeared and steered me quickly to a small table adjacent to the bustling kitchen. ‘You sit here, yes?’ The question was barked; an order.
In one swift movement, the waiter, a sharp-eyed little rodent of a man, snatched up the sheets of paper covering the table, littered with the detritus of previous diners, and replaced them with fresh ones. Plastic chopsticks and a bowl appeared, along with a steaming pot of fragrant, jasmine tea and a small ceramic beaker. But this was not why I had come.
Every inch of space in the sizeable room was in use, large round tables were filled with extended families, and all were intent on the array of food in front of them. Girls wheeling trolleys laden with steaming baskets circulated rapidly around the room, weaving in and out of the maze of tables, stopping long enough for choices to be made. I was good-naturedly tempted and cajoled in turn by each passing girl. I made a choice just to stop their constant badgering.
Gradually, the girls simply ignored me; if I didn’t want to eat, there were plenty of other patrons who did. Ratty, who had been orchestrating the procession, glared in my direction and shouted something in Vietnamese. This was highlighted by a vicious stab of his head in my direction. The non-too-subtle message was unmistakable. I looked over at the swiftly growing crowd at the front door; my table was obviously needed by other, faster diners.
I made one last attempt to get what I came for, but the waitress didn’t understand my absurd mixture of pidgin and hand signals as I continued to whisper, over and over. ‘Grandmother, GRANDMOTHER! G … rrr … aaa … Oh, for God’s sake.’
‘No. No grandmother here, you leave now please.’ I picked up my bag and pushed my way to the front counter, stopping just long enough to throw down a twenty for the untouched spring roll and tea.
— — —
I looked up from my seat on the deserted platform with a start. Seeing the two leather-clad feet planted on the hot pavement gave me a fluttering, unpleasant feeling in the pit of my stomach. My eyes automatically followed the line upward to the owner of the feet; black stovepipe polyester, shiny with wear; hair cropped, very close to the scalp.
It was Ratty and he was standing way too close, purposefully invading my personal space. There was no escape; I could feel my face tightening, my mouth pursing into what my sister always referred to as my ‘cat’s bum’ expression. Like the prey of a cobra, I was mesmerised, unable to move. I was nearing hysteria, releasing little coughs of nervous laughter. My stomach clenched into a ropy knot of muscle fibre, cords so tight they might snap.
After what seemed an eternity, Ratty spoke. ‘Pardon me, yes? You want Grandmother Chen? You follow me. Over here, not too far, yes?’
— — —
The first white-hot rush of searing pain hit my mouth, tongue and throat with unexpected intensity. Almost gagging, I jerked my head backwards violently in a seizure of pleasure and pain; a loud moan erupted from deep within my belly. Just as the first stinging heat was subsiding, I broke into a cold, clammy sweat, and mopped my brow with jittery hands.
There was no stopping it now; its weight pressed down around my shoulders, blanketing me in a thick velvety fog, closing in, and hugging me tight in its fierce grip. I could feel Grandmother Chen’s magical elixir trickling its way through veins and arteries to distil and pool in vital organs where it would stay, igniting occasionally into little bonfires of ecstasy.
— — —
It had been March 1987 and I had been staying in a cavernous, Russian-built hotel in Xian in the Chinese Province of Chengdu, when I first tasted Ma Po Dofu or Pock-marked Grandmother’s Beancurd for the first time. The incendiary dish consisted of cubes of beancurd, bathed in a broth of stock, fresh chillies, Sichuan peppercorns and hot bean paste, and was named after its creator with such distinguishing features—Grandmother Chen.
It had had the very same effect on me then as now. So, hopelessly addicted, I have been desperately searching for it ever since.