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How a Humble Honey-Glazed Ham & Tofu Skin Bao Sandwich Conquered My Gourmet Snobbery
I have dined at Michelin-starred temples of gastronomy, indulged in artfully plated symphonies that cost more than my rent, and had world-renowned chefs curate meals with the kind of precision one expects in an open-heart surgery. My palate, honed by years of elite dining, is an instrument so refined that even a whisper of mediocrity makes it recoil in horror. So when my dear, ever-thoughtful aunt from Southern Taiwan sent me a package of “honey-glazed ham and tofu skin bao sandwich,” my excitement barely flickers. Among the myriad of lavish Chinese New Year dishes she delivers every year, this is the one I am looking forward to the least. Ham. And bun. Really?
As I unbox the package, I am filled with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty. There’s no black-gloved maître d’ unveiling a silver-domed platter, no delicate porcelain embossed with the restaurant’s insignia—just vacuum-sealed plastic, clunky instructions, and a waft of something that could either be promising or profoundly regrettable. The components stare back at me: squared bao, crispy tofu skin, and honey-glazed ham—a trio with the potential to be either a harmonious concerto or a tragic collision of flavours.
I follow the instructions with the precision of a scientist in a high-stakes experiment. The squared bao, a bun with the charisma of a high school math teacher, needs to be steamed. To awaken its flavours, I must lightly toast the crispy tofu skin; the honey-glazed ham, sweet as my aunt’s unwavering belief that I will one day marry—requires warming until it glistens like a K-pop idol’s cheekbones.
I assemble the sandwich with the enthusiasm of a prisoner assembling his last meal. This is the moment of truth. Would this be a revelation, like my first encounter with Prosciutto e Melone, where an odd match became an eternal love affair? Or would it be a catastrophic misstep, like the time I trusted a 0-collision rate airline but crashed?
A slow-motion journey through textures and emotions begins with the first bite. The squared bao, pillowy and neutral, plays the role of the demure hostess, setting the stage for the real stars. The tofu skin, with its crispy edges and slightly smoky depth, adds a much-needed contrast. And then, the honey-glazed ham—oh, the ham! Cloaked in its thick, syrupy glaze, it coats my mouth in a way that is both sinful and perplexing. The sweetness is aggressive, like an overenthusiastic grandmother who insists you need one more bowl of soup. It doesn’t merely linger; it clings, gripping my taste buds like an ex who refuses to let go.
And yet—
By the third bite, I am no longer fighting it. The syrupy embrace of the honey-glazed ham feels less like an assault and more like a nostalgic hug from a childhood stuffed animal—questionably sweet but undeniably comforting. The smoky, crispy tofu skin and the tender bun somehow work together to balance the madness. What starts as skepticism morphs into reluctant pleasure, and by the time I finish, I am left staring at the empty plate, wondering how I got here.
Of all the luxurious dishes my aunt has bestowed upon me, this is the one I least expect to enjoy. And yet, it wins. It’s a dish so simple and unassuming that it sneaks past my snobbery and conquers me completely. It’s a delightful surprise that a dish so unassuming can hold such a delightful surprise, a reminder that sometimes, the most humble dishes can hold the most delightful surprises.
The dish brings me back to the first time I saw Europeans drape delicate ribbons of prosciutto over slices of melon, and I nearly choked on my own superiority.
Meat and fruit? In the same bite? Have they lost their minds?
I watch, horrified yet fascinated, as otherwise respectable people lift these baffling combinations to their lips, eyes fluttering shut in bliss as if they are tasting the divine. The prosciutto, thin as silk, folds gently over the melon’s sun-drenched flesh, the marbled fat glistening under warm, golden light. It is obscene. It is blasphemous. It is—unmistakably—wrong.
And yet, the plates return to the kitchen empty. Forks scrape porcelain in desperate attempts to retrieve every last remnant. Conversations pause for just one more bite.
I remain unconvinced.
Then, one fateful evening, the choice is no longer mine. A dinner host—a man with salt-and-pepper charm and the quiet confidence of someone who knows better—smiles as he places a plate before me. There it is: the unholy union of cured ham and ripe melon, beckoning me toward my own undoing.
I hesitate.
He raises a brow, waiting.
Pride is a terrible thing. It leaves you clinging to old certainties even as the world unfolds new truths before you. And so, I surrender.
The first bite is hesitation incarnate. The melon bursts first—juicy, sweet, sun-kissed. Then, the prosciutto melts, its salt weaving itself into the honeyed flesh, tempering the sugar with something older, deeper, almost primal. The contrast is shocking, then thrilling, then devastatingly perfect.
I sit in silence, chewing, as the room fades into irrelevance.
How long have I been wrong?
How many times have I scoffed at something before understanding it?
How many lessons have I left untasted?
I set down my fork, my ego thoroughly marinated in humility.
The truth is, the world will always have ways to surprise me. Food will humble me. People will humble me. And the moment I think I have seen, tasted, or understood it all—somewhere, someone will pair the impossible, and I will be forced to reconsider everything.
