A Gringo at the Asian Market

Officially it is the coldest day on record for this date in Durham.  It is probably a record-breaking day in most of America.  Lucky for me it is not snowy or icy, just freezing.  Cold days like this are a two-soup day for me.

I started my day being fitted for a new crown on my back molar so the idea of chewing was a little daunting since I could hardly speak normally with half a numbed up face.  After the joy of drilling and impression creating biting I decided to stop at the Asian Superstore to get a few items to make a Japanese hotpot soup for dinner.  Carter had given me a Wagamama’s cook book for dinner and the last time I was this cold was last March in London with Carter eating at Wagamama’s – it all made sense in my mind.

Bundled in my 30 year old full-length mink coat, big scarf and gloves with only half a moveable face from Novocain I ventured alone into the Asian Market.  The place was practically empty since the rest of the world was heeding the don’t-freeze-your-face-off-warnings and stayed home.

Most of the stuff I needed to buy I could figure out by sight, oyster mushrooms, Napa cabbage, snow peas, scallions, cilantro.  In the vegetable section I was a pro.  I went next to find fish sauce, Miran, a sweet rice wine and dashi no moto, to make a broth with.  The Asian market is divided into nationality sections.  All the Japanese in one place, Korean, Chinese, Vietnamese, but they are not marked in English.

Every aisle has soy sauce, hundreds of kinds; thank goodness I was not buying that.  Many aisles had noodles, good luck finding the ramen I was buying for Carter.  I eventually found the sushi vinegar and figured I was in the Japanese section.

I found fish sauce, and Miran, but Dashi which was my whole reason for going to the Asian market was nowhere to be found.  I searched for someone who worked at the store, but they must have stayed home, no one to ask.

Eventually another human came by, a nice Mexican woman who looked as lost as I did.  She saw the fish sauce in my cart and pointed at it as if to ask where I got that.  I pointed to it on the bottom shelf.  I took a chance and showed her the word Dashi on my list.  She looked me in the eye and then just over my shoulder and pointed it out right behind me.  I could have been in that store all day and missed the tiny jar since it was called HonDashi, sounds like a car to me.

Now my stock is simmering on the stove.  I hope this tiny jar of instant dashi is good since my mouth knows what a Wagamama’s real hot pot is supposed to taste like.  Even if it is different it will at least be warm and I think that is what counts on a day like this.