When I first heard the description, I thought that one simply had to pick the newest leaves from a jute branch and throw them into boiling water. The reality was far more complex.

First, there was the task of breaking off the upper stem—the part that had yet to harden into stiff fibre—and picking off the edible leaves. While experienced jute pickers could distinguish the usable, tender leaves at a glance, novices could not necessarily tell the difference even when touching them. Even in a new leaf, the mid rib took up most of the surface area, and the actual tender areas were scant. By the time the rib was extracted, only two small half moons of leaf remained. Only a quarter or so of the original jute remained by the end of this process.

But the true test of one’s skills was only just beginning.

The first tools required were clean water and a woven bamboo pan. A very specific amount of force was required for crushing the leaves into small pieces against the pan; water was then poured across the bamboo to wash away the bitter sap. This process continued for quite a while, with the goal of ridding the leaves of their bitterest juices without destroying their taste and nutrition. Applying too much force would overpulverize the leaves, and they would wash away with the water, leaving behind only sparse veins.

Chi-chan spent roughly twenty minutes on this kneading process. Rather, I should say that she only spent twenty minutes, whereas someone as clumsy as I would conceivably have spent an hour or more. The task was considered complete when a large, blue- green ball of crushed leaf formed at the bottom of the bamboo pan. The volume had decreased again, but we were at last ready for the cooking stage.

We heated a large vat of water and added as many cubed yams as we wished. After it reached boil, we loosened the leaf ball with our fingers and placed it in the pot, where the jade chunks immediately dissolved. We kept up the high heat, stirred clockwise occasionally, and removed any white foam that formed on the surface. The unique and refreshing scent of jute grew gradually denser. Here, we added anchovies and a pinch of salt.

Oh, yes—we also washed and cooked rice while all this was taking place. One curious tip was that one had to add more water than usual when making the rice, even at the expense of diluting the taste, for it was necessary to collect a few spoons of the semiwhite water that formed on top. Adding the rice water to the muâ-ínn-thng made it smoother and sweeter.

“It might be called ‘poor people’s food,’” I cried, plopping down on the wooden floor and stretching out my feet on the cool stepping stone, “but the number of steps it takes to make muâ-ínn-thng is no less involved than a banquet dish!” Chi-chan, without responding, passed me a towel that she’d cooled with water from the well. The towel, pressed to my face, was a lifesaver.

Muâ-ínn-thng was a summer dish, but the picking, kneading, boiling, and stewing had taken over two hours in the heat of Taiwan’s July. My nails were blue, green, and black from the effort, and sweat had been pouring from my head ever since the boiling phase began. The ordeal of transforming jute into jute soup had proven both mentally and physically draining.

Chi-chan checked on the soup. “About five more minutes will do. Muâ-ínn-thng is excellent for cooling down the body, and some people prefer to drink it after leaving it out to cool. Aoyamasan can try the hot version first and the cooled version later.”

“Whoever came up with muâ-ínn-thng must have been quite the gourmet!”

“Chi-chan, we must have been destined to meet!”
I jumped to my feet, raising my voice. “We must eat our way across all of Taiwan Island!”

Taiwan is home to 16 officially recognised Austronesian indigenous groups. 400 years of successive colonial rule: Dutch, Spanish, Kingdom of Tungning, Qing, Japanese, and Kuomintang have created a fraught and complex history. The indigenous population today numbers around 600,000, or roughly 3% of the country.

She smiled. “As far as I know, you are the first Mainlander ever to taste this soup. I warn you—it’s very, very bitter. Please do not expect anything delicious.”

She began taking bowls out of the cupboard and I jumped up to help. We scooped ourselves large bowls of rice and drizzled the muâ-ínn-thng onto the rice.

Yes, two large bowls. Mine—and Chi-chan’s.

Earlier, while we were just beginning to pick the jute leaves off their stalks, I’d asked her more about the meal she shared with her fiancé.

“Was it one-on-one?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s strange.”

“What do you mean?”

“How come you can share a table with your fiancé but not with me?”

I’d assumed she would simply deflect the question, but no. To the contrary.

“Ah— so you’ve found me out.”

“So it is intentional! But why, Chi-chan?”

“Well . . .”

“I want to hear the whole truth!”

Her hands stopped working.

“I decided from the beginning that I wouldn’t presume to explain
if Aoyama-san didn’t ask. But now that you have asked, I will
answer honestly.”

“So? What is it?”

“No matter Aoyama-san’s stance on the matter, as an Islander interpreter, I am expected to act as your personal assistant. In this sense, I am subordinate staff, and it would not be appropriate for me to dine at the same table as a Mainlander writer.”

Seeing her solemn expression, I tried my best to suppress my emotions until she finished speaking.

“I am unwilling to dine at the same table with you as an inferior. People should eat at the same table only if they are of equal rank. This is why I can eat with my fiancé, and can eat at a large banquet where there are people of all ranks, but cannot eat one-on-one with you.”

I slowly exhaled the breath I’d been holding.

“Perhaps not with Aoyama-sensei the Mainlander writer, but what about with Aoyama Chizuko the human being?”

Chi-chan laughed. “That is true. We can dine together now that you are Aoyama-san, not Aoyama-sensei.”

And so there we were, with two large bowls of muâ-ínn-thng over rice for lunch.

For the side dishes, we had the large variety of meatballs and taro balls that we’d bought in Rokkō, which we reheated by steaming them in a pot. In addition, we had kiâm-lâ-á clams and some pickled radish that Chi-chan had brought along with the jute.

We opened all the shōji sliding doors in the cottage to let in fresh air, making the dining room brighter and breezier than usual. We then loaded the table with pots, bowls, plates, chopsticks, and spoons. The meatballs and taro balls we divided evenly between us. Inside the large bowls, the white rice looked like small hills, surrounded by a greenish sea in which yam and anchovies swam.

“Chi-chan, is this too much food for you?”

“I’m more worried about you, Aoyama-san. You still haven’t tasted the bitter soup.

I immediately delivered a spoonful into my mouth.

How should I describe this taste?

Another spoonful, followed by another.

Another, then another.

“Please don’t force yourself.”

I finished the final piece of yam and raised the bowl to drain the rest of the soup, then let out a long exhale. “The bitterness has a sweet aftertaste, so in that sense it’s quite similar to tea. This one bowl probably isn’t enough for me to truly understand the taste of muâ-ínn-thng, but no matter—I can have multiple bowls of this!”

Chi-chan said, in a low voice, “Now I feel that I mustn’t lose to you.”

“Yes, it’s your turn! It’s like that poem: ‘Gift me a sweet fruit, and
I shall give you jade—not merely to reciprocate, but to feel our
shared affection’!”

We’d bought five types of meatballs in Rokkō: one had pork filling on the inside and a skin made from yucca starch and potato starch, which turned semi translucent when it was cooked; the second kind had a skin- of- pork paste; the third had no skin and was made from pork marinated in sauce; the fourth had pieces of minced fruit mixed into the ground pork; the fifth was made from shaved taro, marinated pork, and starch— they were the size of a toddler’s fist and had to be cut into pieces.

Chi-chan picked up her chopsticks. Beginning with the translucent meatballs, she ate one of each in the order I described. Then she went for round two. Then round three. She sipped some soup, ate some pickled vegetables, then went for round four, then five, then six . . .

My jaw dropped.

Somehow maintaining both speed and grace, Chi-chan cleared her entire plate of meatballs.

A monster’s appetite.

And to think I’d sometimes wondered: Where in the world would I find a fellow monster?

“Chi-chan, we must have been destined to meet!” I jumped
to my feet, raising my voice. “We must eat our way across all of
Taiwan Island!”

At first, she only blinked in surprise. But, the next moment, she nodded and grinned.

Sunshine set the room aglow.

Ah, the Southern Country! Ah, the Island! Ah, Taiwan! .

Jute is primarily cultivated for its fibres, used in burlap and rope, but its leaves became a dietary staple for poorer rural families, sustaining themselves from crops already being grown. In Taichung’s Nantun District, jute soup became a cherished summer speciality, bound to the communal memory of generations gathering to strip the tough veins from the leaves.