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First-Hand Review: Me vs. Sea Grouper the Size of My Face – A CNY Love Story
It starts the way all epic love stories do:
With me, mouth open, drooling like a dog in front of a butcher shop, watching my mom—my saintly, Leo, scholar of a mother—float out of the kitchen like a culinary goddess cradling what looks like Poseidon’s personal pet in a giant platter.
A. Whole. SEA. GROUPER.
Bigger than my face.
Bigger than my problems.
Bigger than the mountain of trauma I carry from being the family‘s former “princess” turned disabled hobo.
The moment I lay eyes on it, my knees buckle. Not because I’m weak (okay, maybe also that), but because childhood flashbacks slam into me like a freight train of fishy love.
Suddenly, I’m five again.
Scrawny, dramatic, and utterly impossible to feed.
The type of kid who’d rather starve into an Oscar-worthy fainting act than eat three grains of rice. My parents? Saints in human form. They used to mouth-feed me, spoon by spoon, like I’m some Michelin-star pet hamster. TWO HOURS per meal, y’all. Two hours. That’s not a mealtime. That’s a full-length theatrical production.
But if there was fish?
Just one bite of silky, flaky, umami-packed fish?
Boom. I turn into a bottomless pit with rice refilling faster than a cheat day buffet.
Two bowls? Minimum. Three? If there is my beloved “fish jello.”
Yes, fish-jello.
A magical, gelatinous leftover dish my parents used to make just to trick my picky little behind into eating: Refrigerated fish leftovers swimming in natural fish jelly. It’s cold, gooey, and oddly divine. Think aspic, but the Asian and emotionally manipulative version, where the jelly is not just a culinary technique but a tool to coax a child into eating nutritious food.
So, back to this sea grouper.
My mom sets it down on the table. The room tilts, and a beam of holy light shines on it.
It’s steamed to perfection, crowned with julienned ginger, scallions, a golden drizzle of soy sauce, and just the right amount of sizzling oil to make angels cry.
I stare.
I whimper.
I almost tear up.
Then I grab my spoon, dip it into the mother lode of tender, jiggly cheek meat, and shovel it into my mouth. The taste, the texture, the memories-all come flooding back in a rush, overwhelming me with a mix of happiness, comfort, and nostalgia for those days gone by.
And then—BOOM.
It happens.
My spirit leaves my body.
This is not just food. It’s a time machine.
I am five years old. I’m being babyed. I’m being fed, loved, and full of fish. It’s a joyous rediscovery of my childhood, all thanks to this sea grouper.
But now I’m 38, still a drama queen, still broke, still emotionally allergic to adulting—but with working chopsticks and just enough motor skills to demolish this bad boy on my own. The contrast between my childhood antics and my adult capabilities is both humorous and entertaining.
And demolish, I do.
With every bite, I get more unhinged. I’m in a fugue state of fish-lust.
The texture? It’s like butter making love to the ocean. Silky, melty, and with zero bones to ruin the vibe.
The taste? Pure umami. That deep, soulful, clean fish flavour that doesn’t smack you in the face but whispers sweet, salty nothings down your throat.
The sauce? Salty. Gingery. A little punch of spring onion sass.
Together? Orchestra of sexy fish notes.
I slurp. I groan. I moan. I shovel rice like a possessed rice demon.
My mom side-eyes me like, “Where was this appetite when you were a kid?”
I grunt. I’m too deep in Grouper Heaven to answer.
And then, somewhere around the tailfin, I snap out of my trance.
There’s nothing left but bones. And silence. And a bowl of rice I don’t even remember finishing.
My stomach is full. My heart is contented. My inner child is, at long last, satisfied. Adding it all up: That sea grouper in our Chinese New Year dinner set is not a fish. It is a comfort food, a happiness, and a reminder that the best things in life are really simple.
My heart is content.
My inner child is finally, finally fed.
In conclusion:
That sea grouper from our CNY dish set wasn’t just a fish.
It was therapy.
It was nostalgia.
It was childhood, validation, and gluttony all wrapped in steamed perfection.
Would I eat it again?
Please.
I’d sell a kidney for it.
10/10. Would down it face-first in front of strangers without shame.
Because deep down, I’m still that spoiled little fish-jello girl.
Only now, I come with an adult digestive system and no shame.
And Mama—
you always said I had a good food mouth and a nose too sensitive for bargain basement lies.
So let me tell you something that makes me smile even when I am crying:
Taiwan… oh, this island that we call home—
She’s a gem, yes. A jade nestled in the Pacific, dripping with treasures and buzzing with scooters.
She’s filled with mountains, hot springs, and night markets that smell like nostalgia mixed with deep-fried regret.
But Mama… can we talk about how people here proudly say,
“We’re going to the sea today!”
and then end up in Tamsui—which, let’s be honest—isn’t the ocean at all; it’s a river with big dreams.
A river in drag, passing itself off as the Pacific in a fresh coat of sunset color.
And don’t even get me started about the “seafood.”
What they are so proudly offering—
the clams, the shrimp, the itsy-bitsy crabs you need to use a magnifying glass to shell—
are really just river creatures impersonating ocean monarchs.
So when a person sets down a plate and tells you it’s a precious seafood banquet,
what they’re really saying is:
“This river gave us its finest. Respect the hustle.”
And I do, Mama. Because that’s exactly how I see you.
Not raised in luxury, but in resilience.
Not from palaces, but from perseverance.
And yet—what you gave me was nothing short of royal.
You served me life on chipped plates, and it still tasted like a five-star banquet.
You built a palace with your hands, and somehow, I grew up feeling like a princess—
even when all we had was rice, laughter, and your tired smile at the end of the day.
So when I sit by that river, slurping “seafood” and pretending it’s a coastal delicacy,
I laugh.
Because even if it’s just a river in costume,
it reminds me of how you made something out of nothing,
and turned this insignificant life of mine into something precious.
Just like that dish.
Just like this island.
Just like you.
And Mama—
I say this now as a woman somewhere between a quarter-life epiphany and a full-blown midlife crisis—
a crisis with creaky knees, pillow marks that take hours to fade,
and an existential dread that politely knocks every time I open the fridge.
But here I am, sitting across from you,
watching your trembling hands try to cut into that fish—
that collagen-thick, slippery-skinned miracle
that refuse to surrender to even the sharpest blade.
It jiggles like it has something to say.
It bounces back like it is mocking us both.
I stare at it—the skin so rich with gelatin it looks like it can moonlight as anti-aging cream—
and without missing a beat, I turn to you and say,
“There’s no excuse for Taiwanese people to age,
every bite you take is filled with collagen！”
You laugh so hard you nearly choke on a fish bone,
and for a moment, we aren’t women fighting time—
we are just two girls in a kitchen filled with steam and inside jokes.
That fish, Mama…
isn’t just food.
It is hope in edible form.
It is Botox without the needles.
It is nature’s cruel little way of saying,
“You can try to grow old, but not while I’m here on this plate.”
And yet—despite all the collagen,
despite all the Taiwanese “anti-aging secrets” boiled in soy sauce and scallions—
I see your hands shake.
I see your breath shorten.
I see time gently unbraiding you.
And it breaks me.
Because I would trade every wrinkle of mine,
every soft line that creeps in while I pretend not to care,
just to give you back your strength.
But still, we laugh.
Because what else can we do but laugh and eat fish with skin so thick it mocks our skincare routines?
Kfan Taiwan sea grouper CNY dish
