/ This blog is the English version of the travel blog; for the Chinese travel blog, please click on the link below )：-
Watch Our YouTube Open-box Mukbang Video First:
Chaotic First-Person Review of Tongxiang Old Treasure Si Shen Tang, from Night Market to Freezer
I am staring at my phone screen like a kid under the Christmas tree at 3 AM, my eyes heavy but my heart wired on caffeine. In our VIP members-only group buying group chat (with all the other night-market hustlers collapsed around a plastic table), a new image pops up: a steaming bowl labelled Ah Tong Ah Bao Sishen soup – “Four Deities Soup“. My heart is doing push-ups as my Western-raised brain tries to translate: Sishen soup? Four God Soup? Is this like ordering Thor’s breakfast?
I feel skeptical, nauseous and blissful all at once because I’m genuinely about to consume pig intestines to keep myself “grounded” in the sights of rediscovering my roots. It is a journey of self-discovery and embracing the unknown, and what is more, I feel a sense of excitement. I am pushing myself to type “count me in” in the chat, my thumbs shaking with unsiblings excitement. I never thought I’d text Chinese characters with such swagger (hey, I’m more fluent in ketchup packets than Chinese, LOL).
My chest is tight; I remind myself that I ran away from home to prove I could survive on my own. But right now, I need guidance from this clan: “Add one order of Sishen soup, pls!” The group chat pings back with fire emojis and thumbs-ups (of course, we’re all shameless night owls at 3 AM). My face is a ridiculous cocktail of pride, panic, and holy crap, I actually did that. I catch myself wondering — am I proving something? For what, really? Maybe that even a left-behind banana can handle Taiwanese witchcraft soup.
I’m pacing my makeshift kitchen (aka the neon-lit back-alley stall) as I prepare the frozen block of Si Shen soup. I tear open the frosty bag with sweaty palms (did I just commit a crime against this sacred elixir?). Steam hisses out immediately, painting ghost stories in the dim light. I gently plop the sealed pouch into my electric rice cooker on “steam” mode — think high-tech Chinese grandma cooking ritual. The label on the bag (half in Chinese) promises “no thaw needed, just steam 20–30 minutes.” Great, I’m basically throwing an iced potion into a cauldron and hoping it doesn’t backfire.
The room fills with anticipation, and the faint tinkle of noodle-cart music drifts in from outside. My bao-brothers are loitering nearby, ribs-heavy dumplings in hand, giving me the side-eye and crackling jokes: “What’s the whisper, banana boy?” I’m here mixing feverish excitement with terror. Okay, let’s do this – I crank the heat under the pot and feel like a newbie sorcerer stirring a spell.
I’m hovering in anticipation as the cooker coaxes the soup to steaming life. The whole alley is vibrating – my night-market coworkers are munching quietly, each waiting for my verdict. I lift the lid, and a plume of vapor puffs out like a friendly dragon exhaling in approval. I am part soup-poet, part frat bro in this moment: deeply philosophical yet hilariously excited. I spoon the first slurp as if defusing a bomb.
SHOCK. The broth is warm, slightly sweet, earthy, almost soothing — nothing like the bitter TCM nightmare I expected. If someone bottled Grandma’s warm hug, this is it. My brain was braced for an herbal slap; instead, it’s getting a cozy punch. The pig intestines emerge in chewy, tender loops and the barley morsels bob around like floaters in a stew-apocalypse. Surprisingly, it’s good. Like really good.
My face contorts first in wow, and then I half expect to start crying tears of joy — it’s medicinally delicious. My taste buds are doing the Macarena, I swear. I’m slurping so hard I could suck a ping-pong ball through my straw; apparently, I’m auditioning for some vacuum-cleaner championship. All dignity flees as I hum unintelligibly and bite into a hunk of pork intestine that somehow tastes oddly comforting, like swamp-sweet bacon.
I am slurping like a vacuum cleaner now, heart warmed and ego completely humbled. My cheeks are simmering with pride and confusion. A wave of something hits me – maybe it’s the rice wine, maybe it’s the feeling of belonging, but I’m suddenly feeling something authentic about the roots I once ran from. With each gulp, I swear I can feel 祖先 (ancestors) nodding in approval around me (or maybe that’s just my coworkers giggling behind me).
My body glows from the booze and herbs, and for a second, the neon lights seem to flicker in slow motion as if the universe itself is enjoying this moment. I never thought a bowl of old-school Sishen soup could make a foreign-born banana feel this alive. My pride in “showing I don’t need anyone” is melting away with every steamy spoonful of soup. I feel like I belong, like I’m part of this culture, and it’s a feeling I never thought I’d experience.
Finally, I drain the last drop into my expectant grin. The bowl is empty, and I am not — I feel full, ridiculously full. My coworkers burst into cheers and laughter (“Finish it, finish it! You’re Taiwanese now!”), and I slap my thigh in victory. I’m not sure who I was trying to prove something to, but after this final lick of chopstick, I’m officially a believer.
I might pull out Google Translate later to type a prayer of thanks to the four-souled soup gods, but for now I’m just basking in post-broth bliss. In this absurd, poetic moment of intercultural communion, I realize: I ran away to assert independence, yet here I am, relying on group orders and communal soup to reconnect. Regardless, I crush this final boss (of offal) with my chopsticks and my charm.
I am a proud battle-scarred banana, embracing my inner Taiwanese through a bowl of humble Si Shen soup (Four Deities Soup) – and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
