Ninth of July Barbecue

July 4, 2016

A typhoon is heading this way; it could be here in four days, by Friday. Right now, the sky is beautiful. I was planning to take a bike ride with Mr. Moe on Friday morning and we were planning to have a barbecue on the patio Saturday, July 9.

 July 6, 2016 

     The skies are clear with a milky lilt over the eastern mountain range. The wind is gentle. The humidity is low. The sun is hot. The coconut palm tree I see west of the patio has its leaves bunched upward like it is praying in anticipation. This can mean only one thing: a typhoon is coming. This may be the last peaceful day until it passes Saturday, hopefully in time for our July 9th barbecue.

July 8, 2016

      I was awakened at 4 am this morning, not by the typhoon, but by Leona talking in her sleep. When I looked out the window, there was no rain or a smidgen of wind. Now, three and a half hours later, there is hardly any wind but a little spotty drizzle. The sky has tightened up to a solid gray from its spotty dark and white mix at dawn. The typhoon is imminent, but slowing down. Yesterday, we took the car out for a drive thinking the typhoon, which was moving at 20 kph (12 mph) would bring rain, but it slowed to 10 kph (6 mph) as it approached the east coast. It was the third time in a week we took the car out.

July 11, 2016 

 

We had a very successful barbecue on Saturday evening with 21 guests over; Mrs. Shu with husband and son, Leona’s female cousin with her son, daughter, and mom, Leona’s brother with his wife and three children, Jenny and son, Huai-Ya with her husband and son, “Big Cow,” Julian, a married couple of Leona’s college friends, and Jack without his wife. I made deviled eggs, potato latkes, and stuffed portabella mushroom caps, took out the bottled chow-chow, beet-eggs, and pickled beets from Lancaster, sour cream dip with three kinds of chips, Joya halvah, French caviar with thin sliced Finga’s sourdough and rye, fried Italian prosciutto, Costco-bought barbecue chicken and frozen pork ribs, while Ken barbecued beef tongue and pork from the hibachi place he works at, along with the traditional Taiwan-style barbecue pork on white bread, smoked Brats, and asparagus and water cress. Huai-Ya’s husband brought more beef along with Pu-er tea, and other guests brought soda, kiwi, dragon fruit, wine, bread, and beer; the guests (mostly Jack) drank 48 cans. Leona and I also had a great time. She made avocado salad and I put out some European cheeses. I played Nora Jones on the patio and Shih-Dong’s family watched TV in the living room. 

Julian played guitar and there was a karaoke around the dining area table. I sang “Hotel California” with him as he played and then took out my blues harp to play “Roadhouse Blues,” though he couldn’t quite get the blues progression. I showed Mrs. Shu’s son how to play Battleship with Jia-Huai, and Huai-Ya’s son fiddled with his smart phone including showing me how to join Instagram. The party lasted from 6 pm until past 11 pm. Leona and I cleaned up and didn’t get to bed until past 1 am. 

 

"Play Ball!" in Taichung

Friday Jul 1, 2016 6:35 PM Rhinos at Brothers Taichung –

      This was the next local professional Taiwan baseball game in Taichung. I could ride my bike and be there in twenty minutes. I would probably have to go alone since no one I knew was interested in baseball. There is a great China Professional Baseball League (CPBL) English website (http://www.cpblenglish.com/?m=0) so I can  follow the players in the league. I have a beautiful scorebook I got at an Eslite clearance sale that I'm dying to use. I will ask my wife's nephews to go with me.

      The boys were very happy to spend the evening with their American uncle. The day of the game came, but it wasn't very good weather. There had been thunder showers all day so I decided to drive the car there instead of riding the bicycle as I had with my son to last year's All-Star game. The Taichung International Baseball Stadium near highway #74 off Chung-De Road is about twenty-five minutes away by bike and fifteen minutes by car.  I picked up my wife's nephews and we were off.

     The parking lot charge was 50 NT- $1.50 but we found a spot on the street outside near the large cement domed building that they painted to look like a baseball. We had to buy tickets so we walked around to the front of the stadium. We got seats in the second row, just behind the catcher, for 350 NT-$12! Wow, what a view! 

     There were plenty of empty seats for the first game of the second half of the season between the Brothers and Rhinos. Mayor Lin of Taichung attended the game. He was sitting right behind us but I didn't know it until my wife's nephew told me a week later. With the cute cheerleaders dancing in place on the dugouts and the line-ups announced, it was time to "Play Ball!"

     I took out the score book and went to work copying the anglicized names of the players in the line-up. I left a space to write their names later in Chinese. For now, it was the game that mattered;I didn't want to miss a pitch. Back in New York, I had seen a few professional games with my children each season until the tickets, parking, and stadium food became so overpriced, I stopped going to games. Then, in Coney Island, not far from my home, the Mets single 'A' affiliate, The Cyclones, started playing in  Keystone Park. It was a pleasure to sit close up at a ball game again. Their stadium was similar to the Taichung Stadium for coziness, convenience, and price, not to mention the caliber of play, though I must say, most players in the Taiwan professional league (I hate to call it "China Professional Baseball League" since baseball isn't so popular in China, and this is Taiwan, yo) are better than American single 'A' players. 

     Things were getting exciting, the PA announcer shouting out the players names, starting chants with the crowd, even during the play, something that doesn't happen in the U.S. It was the bottom of the third. The visiting team, Rhinos, had just scored three more runs to add to the one they had in the second when the rain began to fall, lightly at first. Our seat near the field had no roof over it so we moved back up under cover. That lasted for one out and one walk when the sky opened up and the umpire signaled to get the tarpaulin out to cover the infield. You know what this means? Time for dinner!!!
     

     There is a choice of American and Taiwanese snack foods at the ballpark. There is even a 7-11 on the premises. The nicest thing is that, unlike at American ballparks, they allow you to bring in your own food and beverages. Most of the Taiwanese food is near the ramp outside under tents and inaccessible during a rain delay unless you have an umbrella. In the rotunda, there is a stand for KFC, Pizza Hut, but my beeline for dinner went straight to Jimmy's Hot Dogs! For 110 NT -$3.43, I got the most delicious, grilled dog, substantial bun chili-cheese dog topped with a spoon of minced onion. Lo and behold, they even had Mountain Dew soda, back on the market with a new formula from a Taiwan distributor after the American version was pulled from the shelves last year for containing an illegal ingredient; the food standards in Taiwan are actually higher than they are in the U.S. in many cases. 
    I was the first one in the rain delay crowd of the rotunda to figure out that it would be more comfortable to wait while seated on the cement floor. My wife's nephews and found a clean spot to park ourselves and eat though one of the nephews was reluctant to sit with us. It is taboo in Taiwan to sit on the floor but after the natives saw this crazy American do it, they figured it must be okay. Finally the three of us sat and ate. One nephew even ate the second chili-cheese dog I had prepared so I bought some KFC instead. 
     While we waited, I took the opportunity to contact my son in New York City on the smartphone and send him some photos of the ballgame. He inherited his love of baseball from me; read my Taiwan Journal story about his visit to Taiwan last-summer: https://taichungjournal.blogspot.tw/2015/08/dong-shan-hs-baseball-field-of-dreams.html. Ariel had just been to a game at the new Yankee Stadium with his friend and had photos to message back. Even he would admit that the grandiose Yankees had lost their luster, the stadium is so cold and impersonal; more like a shrine than a ballpark, but he just had to go. Somewhere I went wrong in my child rearing and bred a Yankee fan.  

     Looking out in the flood lights of the field, I could see the rain tapering into a drizzle. It was almost time to resume the game, I thought. Then, inexplicably, I could see the players from both teams line up down the base paths and kowtow to the meager crowd. I heard a PA announcement I didn't understand. I asked my nephew. "He said the game will continue tomorrow at two o'clock." Keep the tickets for a rain check. We bought cellophane parkas from 7-11 and walked through the drizzle to the car. On the way home, both nephews informed me they would be unable to accompany me to the resumed game if I chose to return. I had three rain checks and an incomplete scorecard. 
     Leona to the rescue! My wife loves baseball but she would rather enjoy it on a TV from a sofa. She had a bad taste in her mouthy from a Met game I brought her to at Shea Stadium years ago; the wait into and out of the parking lot, not to mention the cost of parking, made her hate going. The nosebleed seats in the upper deck made the players look like white ants. However, she wasn't going to let three 350 NT tickets go to waste. She drove me to the ballpark that Saturday on her scooter and we parked, for free, on the sidewalk outside the ticket booth. I drooled at the chance of getting another set of Jimmy's chili-cheese dogs! 
     We were loving watching the game, rooting for the home team. A note about our home team: the Chinatrust Brothers are not the "home" team per se but since the Rhinos have a base in Tao-Yuan, that makes our floaters the "home" team, even though they play most of their games on the road. When a Brother pitcher named Chou Lei came on in the eighth to strike out one, and give up four walks, two hits, and one error resulting in four runs, the late afternoon rain that was starting to creep in again from the west was looking like our cue to go. 
     We left with one one and one out in the top of the ninth. But the baseball gods were angry at me for not staying until the last out and sent a deluge of rain on us as we rode home on the scooter. Luckily, I had prepared a plastic pouch to keep my scorebook in safe and dry. 

Swimming Like a Fish Out Of Water

6-26-16 Sunday 

      I went to the Country Side swimming pool in the Tai-ping section of Taichung this Sunday morning, but I didn’t go swimming. A foreigner, or anyone who has lived in a developed nation, must remember to ride with the tide in Taiwan; there is nothing that can be changed here because there happens to be a “better way”; most people here, as elsewhere, don’t pay attention to “better ways.” They are used to the current habit, be it good or bad. In Taiwan, many habits are bad if you value efficiency and respect. I couldn’t go swimming because the pool staff and clients displayed neither.

      The pool opens at 7 am on weekend mornings so I knew I was already in hot water when I left the condo on my bike at 9 am. I was ready to take my chances after the fifteen minute ride. The parking lot was full; about a dozen cars and scooters. Still, there was a space enough to park a bicycle near the stairs to the entrance. While chaining the bike, an old habit that I picked up from New York City where any bicycle not chained down (and even some that are) will not be there when the owner returns to ride it away, I overheard a cleaning woman mumbling to herself about a car parked against her maintenance room door. I asked if it was okay for me to park the bike where I was and she said no problem, so I went up the stairs to check in at the counter, and get my locker key.

A young man stood alone behind the counter. It was par for the course in Taiwan that someone after me ignored me and went ahead to be served. I gave the clerk my ID card when he was ready. He asked me for ten dollars, the equivalent of thirty-one cents. I asked, in Mandarin, what it was for, and he said to get a locker key. When I told him I had a pre-paid locker for a year he looked incredulously at me and asked for ten dollars again. On my ID card, there is no mention of my being a pre-paid yearly member or that my membership includes a private large locker. Despite explaining to him why I didn’t need to pay for a locker key on a one-time basis, we were both stuck in the mud; though cheap enough, it was a matter of principle to me. I don’t know what territorial pissing he was doing in the pool house. Perhaps my wife, a native who speaks Mandarin fluently, could talk with this part-timer who was obviously wet behind the ears, so I called her. He didn’t know that he was swimming in dangerous waters.

After getting through to my wife on my cell phone, I waited while the lone shark devoured other’s payments and raised his head above water to see me. I handed him the phone, slippery with sweat, and held it to his ear. How did he know, my wife later said he asked, if I really had a pre-paid membership? He thought I was lying? Why would I lie? She told him I had a pre-paid locker but he wanted to see the receipt; I only had the ID card. With squawking middle-aged ladies talking nearby, and youngsters gleefully playing with the tubes as their parents tried to get through, it was becoming a nightmare, not a wet dream. The purser, or “pusser” according to Wikipedia, was being a real pussy, and tried to find evidence of my membership in an on-board computer; his lifeboat, so to speak. But he was treading water and sinking fast. The sharks were circling, so he threw me a lifesaver, handing me a random key to my treasure chest of goggles, earplugs, skull cap, towel and swimming trunks. Ahoy, mate; it was the wrong locker number key.

I told him “Number 26, please,” so he took it back and asked for my ID in exchange. He went to put my ID in the #26 slot but found someone else’s ID there. No matter; he put mine in front of it and handed me the key. Mayday! I called back my wife to let her know there was the possibility that he had given me the key to someone else’s private locker and to hold the line until I checked. Sure enough, the key on an elastic string, looking nothing like the one I used previously, didn’t fit.

Before I left the locker area, the gangway before the steps down to the pool, I noticed that at least there were still two swimming lanes that weren’t occupied. I went through the male latrine and shower areas back out to the front desk to exchange keys. As my wife had thought, there were two #26 lockers on board, a smaller locker and Davy’s own. Without an apology or smile, he exchanged keys. Finally, I was seeing daylight over the stormy seas.

Going through the procedure to prepare myself for the morning swim, I went through steps one through ten. There were ten lanes. When I cleaned my feet wet in the little puddle at the stairs’ bottom, I knew to walk, not run to a lane to begin my ten laps. Alas, by the time I had adjusted my goggles and plugged in my earplugs, all the lanes were occupied with swimmers, some swimming, and some leaning against the pool wall. I went and sat on a bench to wait for an open lane. A heavy young man came by, tested the water with a fat toe, and waited too. I saw my chance: lane one was emptying out of two of three young ladies who had been bobbing up and down. I was on my final approach with the ladder in sight when I noticed the dingy boy going overboard into the coveted lane. I could have argued with him; I could have screamed, but I chose not to. The winds were not blowing in the right direction for me this morning and I decided it was better to just be a landlubber and ride the bike on the next wave home.

I said nothing to the rude young clerk who had unbeknownst ruined my morning chances of a swim, and heard no apology from him or questioning why I had finished swimming and was leaving already. I texted my wife saying I was leaving before I hurt someone and to tell her not to call me Ishmael from the widow’s watch when she sees my ship coming in. She said she is going to call tomorrow to complain but I would just as well not turn this sun shower into a typhoon. If I want to merrily row my boat down the Taiwan stream, I must remember that life here is not always a dream, on the weekend. 

China University of Science and Technology Graduation

We waited for my wife's cousin to pick us up and drive us to her son's graduation ceremony in Hsinchu, but we got a call that Pinky, her niece’s cat, had just run through the open door. We had to wait until she was found; it really would have ruined the day. Luckily, she was found. We were picked up to head north to Hsinchu. We got to the out-of-the-way  college in plenty of time, just in time for a cloudburst.

My Dad was an airplane mechanic for many years, so I had to see nephew Ken graduating from China University of Science and Technology having studied aeronautical electrical systems 

The college, in the hills near Hsinchu, is rather small, smaller than most high schools in Taiwan. With a pig farm nearby, the smell of pig feces fills the air. It has got to be better inside. 

 We waited in an air-conditioned classroom a 

few hours for the outdoor ceremony to begin.

I entertained myself taking photos with the smart phone of the airplane engines, simulators, metal shop vices, and model airplanes, not to mention the few private planes and one small cargo parked on display in little hangers outside. They even have a spinning radar tower with the school’s name atop, like a McDonald’s sign; a nice touch for an aeronautical college.

My wife's nephew studied aircraft electrical systems but heaven knows if he can make that his career. There are not too many airline jobs around in Taiwan, and I heard that you have to have connections to get one of them. 

Ken was given an internship with a Japanese company doing business in Taiwan in a related field. He had to work there for a year, with no pay, late into the evening. Before the year was through, Ken had had enough; his part-time job at a local barbecue restaurant was putting him past his capacity. 

His girlfriend also graduated from the college and was finishing her internship. She hopes to get a job in the airline industry. Ken will do his four-month military service. I wonder if he had completed his internship, if he could have been assigned to an air force position, but that probably requires connections, too. 

   The obligatory ceremony, MC’ed by an air force WAC, went through its paces. Mercifully, the ceremony didn’t include the nasty American habit of reading each graduate’s name and handing out fake diplomas to them while shaking hands with dignitaries on stage. 

CONGRATULATIONS KEN !!!!!!

(Watch the video of the end of the ceremony on the link below:)

https://www.facebook.com/david.b.temple/videos/10209616977600714/

Hsinchu: Yakiniku-Futago: Best Barbecue

   It takes an hour drive north of Taichung to get there, but you will have more cuts of beef than you have ever had at one sitting in this dive: F.T.G Company; I think it stands for FuTaGo. There are Futagos in cities all over Japan, in the U.S., Hong Kong, and in three Taiwan cities, including three in Taipei, one we sat at in Hsinchu (http://yakiniku-futago.com) but not in Taichung, yet. It is a tiny restaurant, with tiny booth seats, suitable for four little Asians but two typical Westerners. Each booth has a black, five-foot long, 6” diameter periscope-like air duct, hanging from the ceiling with safety valves, sucking up smoke from the meat a few inches underneath, on a gas flame hibachi grill the size of a book, on the middle of the table.

   The operation of bringing the raw cuts, placing them on the grill, roasting them right, cutting them into edible morsels with utility scissors, and placing them on your small, round, aluminum plate was not left to chance; the waiter handles it all with tiny tongs, and then removes and replaces the soiled grill top after each selection. With a tall ice-cold mug of draft Asahi beer, and sides of garlic roasting in butter oil, noodles in spicy garlic beef broth, and condiments, you will be in beef heaven.

      Mostly from Australia and Japan, all the beef,  was sublime, marinated well, and succulent. From the tenderloin to the flank, tongue, even beef heart and tripe, top of the rib, bottom of the rib, keep the dishes coming until you are dizzy and your shirt buttons start popping. Avoid the chewy large intestine though and don’t deviate with the pork melted cheese or grilled prawns; stick with the beef till the taste marinates your mouth, the fragrance coats your inner nostrils, and you can't find your way home through the alleys full of ladies of the night, to reflect on what you have done, you carnivorous devil! 

     This I will say for Futago; the waiter is as important as the chef for the right preparation, and keeping the action of the meat on the grill going, so much so that you will want to break the Taiwan code of not tipping; do it! Tip him or her, or leave with a guilty conscience and a bad taste in your mouth. Show appreciation for the best, non-stop delivery of the juiciest cuts of barbecue meats in Taiwan.

      It can take a while off Freeway #1 to get there, winding through the complicated streets of Hsinchu, the old downtown area, to the Futago Restaurant. If you do go by car, use a GPS. However, the restaurant is only a five-minute walk from the classic Japanese-built station of Taiwan Rail. Take the train. 

     Here’s a tip: Once a month they have a 50% discount; call to find out the date and make a reservation, but expect a long line outside if you go. They'll give you a coupon for the discount on your next visit. Keep your eye out for a new location in Taichung similar to Futago to be started by a former Futago associate.