Just as the car’s front wheels leave the winding blacktop and hit the gravel and-dirt side lane, the two boys in the back seat wake up from their late afternoon nap and start whining. It’s been a long drive through Taipei traffic, but soon they’ll be out of the car and in the midst of a large banquet crowd.
Taking young children out to dinner is usually as welcome a prospect as a night of being stretched on the rack. Parents’ expectations are anything but comforting: visions of food going cold while wrestling to keep the kids at the table, non-stop prayers that nothing gets spilled on carpeted floors, and futile attempts to keep the decibel level lower than an Apache helicopter on a strafing run. But tonight is different, much different. Auntie Lin is having a housewarming at her new place on the far northwestern edge of Taipei. And in typical Taiwan style, she has invited her extended family, business associates, and neighbors to a bando (ban-DOE, the Taiwanese term for a catered dinner) that will be served right outside her front door.
After the car is parked precariously close to an open ditch at roadside, the kids lead the way up a slight grade to the new three-story white-tiled house, jammed next to a traditional single-level brick farmhouse. One glance shows how much Taiwan has changed in the handful of years since the building boom started sweeping the island. Auntie now has more floor space in her living and dining rooms than she had in all of her old home, and her kitchen appliances probably cost more than the original farmhouse. The new structure takes up paddy field land, but the family left rice-farming years ago for more lucrative business pursuits. And like so many of her contemporaries in their fifties and sixties, Auntie made building a new house a top priority for burgeoning family wealth.
She now awaits her guests in what will eventually be her front yard. It is now a jumble of tools, broken tiles, piles of rocks and dirt, and a roughly leveled-off area now covered by large, striped sheets of vinyl to form a rectangular tent. The makeshift structure is about three meters high and is closed at the sides. Several dozen bare light bulbs hang from the bamboo framework holding up its peaked top. Below are more than twenty round tables covered with red-paper tablecloths. Each one is surrounded by a dozen stools, indicating that a major crowd is expected.
The kids are already getting excited. This is a family affair in every sense of the term. Most of the guests have brought their children, and the boys have already found several playmates their own age. About the time their usual shyness with strangers wears off, the yard has filled with a crowd of guests. As people select tables and start munching on the watermelon seeds and candies piled on small plates next to the chopsticks and glasses, the cooks at the far end of the tent look at each other knowingly. Soon the twelve-course meal will be in full swing.
The outdoor kitchen area is set up in typical bando fashion. A circle of tables stacked with pre-chopped meats and vegetables surrounds the heart of the action: five squat gas ranges the size of half-bushel barrels, each with an orange plastic hose leading to a gray, torpedo shaped gas tank. The single-burner ranges are all ringed with roaring flames. Two of the stoves are topped with tall stacks of round bamboo steamers full of breads and dumplings. This caterer is obviously of the old school. He uses bamboo steamers instead of the lighter and cheaper aluminum ones now becoming common at such affairs. And besides the two extra-large cooking woks already sizzling over the flames, one stove is being used to heat cooking stock in a large aluminum basin that everyone Auntie’s age recognizes: for generations in the countryside, such basins functioned as the family bathtub.
The head chef, dressed in shorts and a sleeveless undershirt, is surrounded by several assistant cooks and flanked by a short line of runners with large trays who will serve the dishes as fast as they come off the fire. The kitchen works with military precision, and the dishes lined up by category are as colorful as 19th century British cavalry on parade. But the only utensils this team needs are cleavers, chopping blocks, woks, steamers, and a few oversized spoons, dippers, and chop sticks. Chinese food, despite its incredible variety and complexity, is prepared in minimalist kitchens.
As dinnertime approaches, another time-honored tradition shifts into gear: seating arrangements. Besides the specially honored senior family members who are steered toward the head table, the rest of the guests seem to sit pretty much wherever they please. But actually, Chinese sociology is at work. Even though this feast is more laid-back than formal Chinese banquets, family relationships, age, profession, and friendship ties still play a role when selecting a table and seat. But such strictures lose impact as the meal progresses. Movement is at the heart of bando. Between courses, people shift from table to table with a glass of juice, beer, or rice wine in hand to toast others and have a quick chat. The older men nearly always offer each other cigarettes or betel nuts, although this courtesy is less popular among younger people.
Night has fallen by the time the first platters of cold sliced meats and seafood arrive. The red tablecloths and food glow warmly under the incandescent bulbs, and the sound level increases as the food and drink, mixed with friendship, start taking effect. The clamor has a mellow edge to it because the tent doesn’t reflect sound in the same harsh way as hard restaurant walls. Youngsters are running between the tables, shouting and dodging in the usual kids’ games. The teenagers have congregated into male or female groups and are warily eyeing other tables with newly matured cousins and friends of the opposite sex. And because so many adults are keeping an eye on the darting children, parents have the luxury of being able to speak with each other and friends in complete sentences, unlike most family meals at home. Spills—food or falling kids—are not a serious problem. The ground soaks up soft drinks and a fall in the dirt won’t hurt anyone.
The atmosphere has reached that unique combination of keyed-up relaxation in Chinese social gatherings known as jenao (re-NOW), or “hot and noisy.” This is exactly what Auntie Lin wants. A successful meal is one that is loud and boisterous, rather like a large family barbecue in the United States. Auntie has nothing to worry about tonight, especially because the cooks are demonstrating exceptional skills. A steady flow of succulent dishes is filling the tables.
Bando, like formal banquets, adhere to long-established menus, with certain dishes always served. Taiwan residents have for generations treasured a wide variety of soups, but tonight fewer soups and more costly dishes are being served, a reflection of the island’s soaring standard of living. One soup, however, is almost always served at such gatherings: a rich mixture including sea cucumber, bamboo shoots, black mushrooms, dried shrimp, and pigeon eggs. This is the countryside’s equivalent of the shark’s fin soup served in first-class restaurants.
The dishes are coming quickly now. Huge platters of steamed lobster with the white meat already scooped out, cut into chunks, placed on top a mound of finely chopped cabbage, and smothered with sweet mayonnaise. Next come plates stacked with narrow crispy fried fish, about as long as an adult’s hand, and filled with bright orange roe. The runners bring artfully arranged vegetable dishes with mixed shades of green, yellow, and brown. Leeks, bok choy, mushrooms, Chinese mustard greens, baby corn, and a dozen other vegetables appear separately or as part of other dishes. A deep-sea fish dish arrives, this one served on large oval chafing dishes, with the head jutting over one edge and tail over the other. Next come fried scallops, steamed dumplings, spicy chicken wings, fried balls of minced pork. At about the two-hour mark, everyone is starting to reach capacity. By the time the large tureens with whole chickens in rich broth come to the tables, chopsticks are moving at markedly slower speed.
Finally, the runners start serving a sweet rice ball soup and plates of fruit, an indication that the feast is coming to an end. But Auntie Lin knows her guests well. They don’t like waste. She has already laid out a stack of plastic bags and is urging everyone to take home any leftovers. Nearly everyone eagerly complies. These are country people for the most part, working people. They have all known and survived tough economic times. Their rough hands show it, as do their heavily muscled forearms and legs. “Work hard, play hard” is an orientation to life as deeply embedded in their genes as their straightforward love for family and friends. Although agricultural communities are being swallowed up by urban development, youth are leaving the farms for city jobs, and daily life is becoming more impersonal, a bando restores for an evening the intense family warmth and neighborly closeness of the past.
Reflections on Auntie Lin’s banquet could fill volumes about Taiwan life, but right now everyone is too tired to think much about such things. Wives are steering husbands with alcohol-flushed faces toward the line of automobiles while slipping car keys from their pockets, several teens have broken the ice with members of the opposite sex and are exchanging phone numbers, and the youngest kids are already comatose on their parents’ shoulders.By the time the family car bumps onto the blacktop, no one is awake except the driver.Except for a few more hours of industrial-strength digestion, another successful bando is over.