The Chaos of the Kaohsiung Fish Market

I have dined under chandeliers heavier than my self-esteem. I have had chefs tell me stories of the emotional process of obtaining seasonal and local produce. I have eaten caviar off of utensils that cost more than my rent. And yet… here I am. The Kaohsiung fish market isn’t just a location; it’s a representation of life itself and my journey of self-discovery and hope.

I look at my uncle as he purchases a fish that could emotionally destroy me. The fish market is alive. Cross that out. The fish market is vibrant, chaotic, and has energy emanating out of it, drawing me into it and making me feel like I’m totally immersed in it. The fish look glistening and fresh out of a photo shoot with scales that look like mosaic masterpieces. The water is splashing, and the knives are slicing against their respective cutting boards. The prices are being yelled like they’re being auctioned off. And I am standing there, internally whispering: “Taipei girl, you thought you were classy. Look at what you have become now. Sweating next to a bucket.”

My uncle doesn’t hesitate. He reaches in. Grabs the Mandarin fish. And I swear to God—this Mandarin fish exudes authority; its commanding presence is making me feel both humbled and captivated. Not beauty. Not elegance. Authority. Its skin is thick. Not just thick—defiant. Like it has survived things I emotionally could not, sparking admiration and wonder. I stare at it. It stares back. And I feel judged.

A History of Hunger and Resistance

I am remembering my childhood. Or, more specifically, my childhood was marked by a persistent lack of appetite, which shaped my relationship with food from the start. Because while my brother is out there drinking milk like it’s a personality trait—growing taller, stronger, outgrowing both my parents’ height and becoming the human version of a dairy commercial spokesperson—Whereas I am… refusing to eat pudding. Pudding. A portion so small it could qualify as a free sample. And yet it takes me at least two hours: Two hours of negotiation. Two hours of emotional manipulation. Two hours of my mom, the maid, and my kindergarten teacher forming a coalition government just to get one spoon into my mouth. I am the original hunger strike. I am the protest.

And somewhere along the way, my parents decide: “Fine. Let’s start telling her that she likes fish.” Do I? Or is this psychological warfare? Because every time I eat fish, they have a party like I just graduated from Harvard. “See? You love fish!” And I’m like… do I? Or am I just tired?

Fast forward to Taiwan, a land with beauty standards that whisper: “Be smaller.” “Be lighter.” “Eat less.” And I listen. Oh, I listen like it’s gospel. Until hunger becomes a ghost that haunts me. Until bingeing becomes confession. Until purging becomes punishment, and with it comes Anorexia. Bulimia. A lifelong toxic relationship with food, my body, and society. I am both the sinner and the priest. And somewhere in between… I forget what food is supposed to feel like.

The Great “Cod” Deception

I leave this toxic land and migrate to Canada—a place where “cod” suddenly becomes a luxury item. Where a simple fish can make the price jump like it’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. And I remember thinking: “Wow. Cod is expensive here. Must be premium.”

HAHAHAHA. HAHA. No.

Because after life collapses and I’m back living with my mom in Taiwan, one day, my mother—my non-billionaire, practical, no-nonsense, emotionally manipulative (in the most loving way) mother—comes home with fish. “Flatfish,” she says. And I eat it. And something in my brain goes: “…this is too good to be flatfish or halibut.” Too buttery. Too rich. Too… cod?

And that’s when the realization hits me like a slap from reality: They’ve been lying. Businesses in Taiwan have been out here marketing halibut as cod, like it’s a personality rebrand. And I—editor-in-chief of one of Canada’s top media outlets, supposed food authority, global diner of nonsense—have been fooled. I have been catfished. By a fish.

The Reckoning: Tasting the Mandarin Fish

Which brings me back to now. To Kaohsiung. To this Mandarin fish. To this moment of reckoning. It is brought to the table. Steaming. Glorious. Terrifying. The skin—it’s thick in a way that feels illegal. Glossy. Translucent. It jiggles. Not like jelly. Not like pudding. No. It jiggles like it has intent. Like it knows it’s about to ruin my life. I lean in. I poke it. It bounces back. And I whisper: “…excuse you?”

First bite: I am chewing. Correction—I am experiencing. This fish is more than texture; it’s a reminder that mindful eating can transform my relationship with food, opening doors to self-acceptance and growth. This is texture. This is architecture. This is an engineering marvel disguised as food. The skin is elastic. Bouncy. Offensively bouncy. It literally springs my teeth apart. My upper and lower teeth—once united, once in harmony—are now being separated by collagen. I am being broken up by a fish. And I am not even mad.

Collagen, Memory, and Healing

“My teeth are springing apart again ～！”

Yes. Yes, they are. Because every bite is a rebellion against physics. I bite down. It resists. I chew. It fights back. It’s like chewing on a memory that refuses to be digested. And then the meat. Oh. Oh no. The meat. It is firm. Not dry. Not flaky. Firm. Like free-range chicken that goes to the gym. It has discipline. It wakes up at 5 AM and judges me. And I am sitting there, chewing, thinking: “How is this fish more structured than my life?”

And the collagen. Dear God. The collagen. It’s everywhere. It’s excessive. It’s unnecessary. It’s… beautiful. I love sea cucumbers. I am someone who enjoy romanticizing the textures of the food ingredients like they’re poetry. But this something more, this fish skin, it’s exceeding it. It’s bouncing, it’s stretching, it’s… performing, I suppose, and I’m observing it like the spectator of some show I didn’t even know I was waiting for. ” This is better than sea cucumbers.” Well, yes. It certainly is.

But I feel betrayed, because where has this been all my life? Why was I busy chasing truffles and caviar when this existed? Why was I letting Michelin stars define my palate when Kaohsiung was out here casually producing this masterpiece?

I keep eating. And something strange happens. The fish… grows. Not physically. But emotionally. Psychologically. Spiritually. Each fish feels bigger than the one before. And I start to wonder what’s “fishy.” “Is it me?” “Is it Kaohsiung?” “Do the ingredients just… grow and expand?” Or… “Is my mom just doing what moms do best?” Sneaking more food onto my plate while I’m too busy with something else. That’s just what my mom does. Not words. Not hugs. Food. Excessive. Aggressive. Unstoppable food.