This past weekend, I was eating lunch with Fanfan and her mother when ma chère taiwanaise told her mother that I was "an expert at cooking omelettes." This may not seem that bad, but Fanfan and I have spoken about this several times, because this nomenclature has come to mean "he can't cook anything but" said dish.

I'm not out to give anyone the impression that I'm an outstanding cook, but I'm not bad. Moreover, I can cook a lot of things. I just can't cook anything but omelettes for Fanfan.

When we lived in Paris, I cooked numerous times, things I had made for myself and friends back home, but every time I made something she would take a bite and sigh, "hmm."

"Qu'est-ce que c'est 'hmmm'?"

She'd assure me it's good -- really good -- but it's just a little too salty or sugary -- in other words, too American.

Here, I can't tell you how many things I've eaten that either have (1) no taste at all, (2) very little taste, (3) a downright bitter taste. So, when I'm sauteeing something with lots of spices or making soup with boullion cubes, whatever, it's too much for her delicate tastebuds.

What is the point of all this? Yesterday, it was only fitting that I set out, by myself, of course, to avenge my battered (no pun intended) ego. I went into the kitchen at lunch to make myself a meal that would fill the apartment so potent and flavorsome that people for weeks thereafter our friends would enter the apartment and their mouths would start watering.*

I went through the refrigerator smelling things with labels that I couldn't read. Tasting dabs of sauces and testing mixtures thereof. I was truly a food artist, playing jazz with tofu and vegetables, the popping oils keeping rythm.

Alas, about five minutes into the actual preparation, I started to think maybe I was playing in the wrong key. Smell filling the kitchen wasn't savory. It wasn't even good, or close to it. It was disgusting. Adding to insult to injury, when I added the tofu to the mixture, it smelled exactly like chòu dòufu.

For those of you who don't know me, I have nothing but contempt for this Taiwanese delicacy. "Stinky" is too cute a complement for this trash. It should be called rotting squirrel corps tofu. Every time I smell it on the street I want to vomit all over the people making it. I hate it for existing, I hate the people for making it, and I hate the people eating it for making the people who make it make it.

And now my kitchen was filled with that awful, horrendous smell. I stood, staring at the bubbling concoction, the smell of defeat making my nose curl into a ball.

Apparently, there was some truth to Fanfan's dubbing me the omelette king.

I should have made an omelette. I would have if there had been eggs in my fridge.

I went back to my desk with a bowl full of this slop, and, for 45 minutes, I choked down as much as I could, trying to let articles on webdesign distract me from what was actually distracting me from the articles on webdesign. I was determined not to waste any of this wonderous feast I had prepared. Once I finally gave in, though, I had eaten everything but the stems of the vegetable I put in (those are not beans in the picture, it's some sort of long stemmed leafy thing). I threw the refuse in the trash still waiting to be taken out and ate an apple.

All hail the omelette king.

*Note: Yesterday was not the only day that I have cooked here. I do, however, cook a lot less in Taiwan than I did in Paris, because I work late and it's so cheap to go out to eat here.

Technorati tags:Taiwan, food, life, cuisine, culture, cooking