When I first read Harol Guerra’s soapbox calling Southside a “food desert”, I was initially struck with a moment of clarity. Each time I’d wander around Southside, I’d find myself feeling a vast emptiness despite the intoxicating smells of the different food vendors wafting into my nose. I could definitely relate to Guerra’s comment about suddenly craving an apple in a space where no such vaguely clean food item could be found.
But as I continued my daily commutes up and down Telegraph Avenue, I found myself craving something else entirely: my mom’s stir-fry vegetable dishes. At first, this confused me. As a Chinese American, there was absolutely zero shortage of my cultural foods in Southside. What was it about what I’d been eating that had made it such an unfulfilling experience? Different sauces? Subtle nuances in recipes or ingredient lists?
The answer struck me as I scrolled through Kimchi Garden’s menu, joking to a friend about how an ostensibly Korean place could be selling milk tea, tonkatsu and horchata — very much not Korean fare.
Obviously, they sell these extraneous items to make money, keeping in mind that their customer base is largely students. I don’t mean to rag on Kimchi Garden specifically. I love their expansive menu and spacious, cozy atmosphere just as much as the next person. However, the profit motive seems to have come at the cost of an authentic cultural immersion experience.
Even if these franchises concretely adopt dishes and recipes of the cultural food they purport to represent, everyone knows that such big chains operating in such a large, industrial fashion will never compare to a small, rundown family-owned business in providing an authentic experience. For instance, no Chinese person will go to Panda Express for Chinese food, no Mexican person will go to Chipotle for Mexican food, etc. Spots such as Kimchi Garden may not be massive, multinational franchises, but considering the sheer size of UC Berkeley’s student body and the massive demand for convenient and familiar comfort food that businesses are working with, the prioritization of profit over authenticity has become especially clear.
Missing my mom’s cooking is likely by no means a unique experience. There will always be a missing special ingredient that no amount of “authenticity” can ever come close to replicating — the taste of her love and care; her desire for my success, prosperity and happiness entwined in each little grain of rice. But it wasn’t until I came to Berkeley that I realized that Panda Express was far from the only place where I could eat “Chinese” food and somehow not feel the Chinese-ness at all.
This feeling of a lack of authenticity has been a common complaint among my friends with first-generation immigrant backgrounds. But students without those backgrounds — while they may recognize that Panda Express is not “real” Chinese food or that Chipotle is not “real” Mexican food — may not have the familiarity to recognize that the same could be said about many of the spots around Berkeley. It’s my hope that this piece can not only perhaps speak to other first-generation immigrant students that share my experience, but also provide some perspective for individuals looking for an authentic cultural immersion experience through food.
Demand will create its own supply. As long as there are tired and lazy students wanting easy and convenient access to vaguely familiar-looking comfort food, businesses that continue to prioritize profit and mass production to serve a large student body will continue to thrive and flourish. But nonetheless, I think we could benefit from having a little more awareness of what exactly we are consuming, and understand that many of our favorite spots have likely been subject to the whitewashing influences of the profit motive.
Recently, I tried Chang Luong — a hidden spot ironically tucked just above Kimchi Garden — that specializes in Northern Chinese fare, where my family happens to hail from. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted sour vegetable soup just like my grandma makes it: the overloaded amount of soft, thinly sliced cabbage swimming in a savory broth just sour enough to still taste hearty and warming. As I gobbled up the dish, I was brought back to each time I’d heat up the leftovers of her sour vegetable soup back home, and for the first time in quite a while, I felt like I was tasting home away from home.
Perhaps a part of that experience was the relative lack of Northern Chinese dishes at most Chinese restaurants; staples such as dim sum tend to originate from further south. My experience is by no means an end-all-be-all judgement. These experiences are inherently deeply subjective and differ vastly from person to person. Nevertheless, in spite of my griping and grumbling, I must also acknowledge that authentic spots nevertheless abound — perhaps they just take more effort to find.
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