I’m an international student. When I meet people on campus, one of the first questions they ask me is, “Where are you from?” This question is more troubling to me than a chemistry exam.
I was born in New Jersey. I lived there for three years, before I moved to Stamford, CT. When I was five, I moved to Old Greenwich, CT. At eight, I moved to Hong Kong, where I lived before arriving at Choate. In Hong Kong, I went to two schools and lived in two apartments.
Usually, I answer the question with “I don’t know.” My family has been divided into four corners of the world, eliminating any sense of “home.” However, I recently found respite from this identity crisis in an unlikely source: instant ramen.
I should explain. Ramen is to Hong Kong what pizza is to the U.S.: it’s an ethos, not a product. Here, you walk into a store and stumble upon a dejected-looking cranny with a single flavor of low-quality Cup Noodles. In Hong Kong, entire sections of a supermarket are dedicated to walls upon walls of ramen. However, one variety stands out above the rest: 7-Eleven’s “garlic noodles,” which are prepared fresh from the package in front of the customer.
The thing is, these garlic noodles are almost impossibly delicious. It’s difficult to describe and harder to replicate. Something about the way they’ve been cooked with mechanical perfection and timing allows their gauge and stretch factor to be just perfect for chewing. They are only amplified by their unique taste, the likes of which I have still yet to encounter elsewhere. I’m not even sure what the taste is, though I know it’s not garlic. Although plenty of similar flavors exist, none of them are quite the same, and no one knows the recipe.
These noodles are far more than a snack. They represent security and stability. 7-Eleven will always be a bastion for those poor souls battling with Hong Kong’s merciless hot weather or equally merciless rain. They represent cultural unity. Hong Kong is a heterogeneous amalgam of cultures assimilated through decades under rule by two governments. British, Cantonese, and Chinese settle their differences to enjoy a bowl of garlic noodles. (I am aware that 7-Eleven is an American company; I find that fact wonderfully in sync with my cultural schizophrenia.)
About a week ago, the ramen payload I brought to Choate freshman fall finally ran out. After a series of traumatic experiences with Maruchan ramen, I was determined to mine the Internet for a comprehensive list of the best ramen in the world. To my surprise, I found the very same garlic noodles from Hong Kong topping the list. I decided to see if they were really the same ones I knew and loved.
They arrived in the mail Monday afternoon, and I cooked my first pack Monday night. Let me tell you, I have never missed Hong Kong so much. Something about the simultaneous activation of so many different senses awakened a sort of primordial memory from deep within the recesses of my mind. For pretty much the first time, I longed for my homeland.
I’ve had the exact same meal four more times since then, and I have experienced the same reaction each time. I’m still not quite sure what it is. If you had asked me before, I never would have told you that garlic noodles were what I missed most about Hong Kong. Perhaps they are an echo of the time I devoted with old friends. Perhaps spending those highly formative years in Hong Kong created some sort of link in my subconscious between the island and me. Perhaps they simply taste really, really good.
I may never understand the origins of these passions. I do know, however, that if anyone ever asks me where I’m from now, I’ll proudly answer “Hong Kong” with my bowl of garlic noodles in hand.
