“Go down three blocks on 4th Ave. The hole in the wall place is called Good Taste. My co-worker from Beijing said it’s the best,” said the helpful lady at the door, who sold us tickets to Portland’s famous Chinese Garden.
After visiting the stunningly beautiful courtyard and gardens, all in traditional Chinese style, we decided to forgo their elegant tea house for the recommended “Good Taste.”
“Good Taste” was indeed a small family establishment. We each ordered wonton soup. My first bite reminded me that I was not in San Francisco. Second bite told me the seasoning was all wrong. When I looked up from my bowl I found my daughter Julia and her boyfriend Brent wolfing down their portions like there was no tomorrow.
“It’s delicious!” cooed Julia. And Brent nodded eagerly in agreement.
The little cloud-like morsels with shrimp and ground pork filling are probably one of the easiest things to make. Yet in this restaurant they tasted like wet Italian meatballs.
“It’s because you’ve forgotten the taste of good wontons,” I said to them. But the real reason, to me, was that they had neglected to put in the secret ingredient: love.
Photo by Arthur Che.
