Reposted from @mreddiehuang Instagram

“Chinese people don’t believe in

psychologists. We just drink more tea when things go bad.” –Eddie Huang

First of all, Eddie Huang is not fresh off any boat. Unless

he emigrated from Florida to NYC by way of a skiff up the Atlantic Seaboard,

he’s pretty American. Hood, in fact. All Hot Cheetos, rude behavior and

football.

When I first stumbled on Eddie’s late-night stoner spot

serving stuffed steam buns (bao) on the Lower East Side, I was happy to find

it: It was earnest and hardworking, if a little rough around the edges. Just

how I like them. I liked that his walls had framed copies of his first negative

review and his mother’s damning

follow-up. This was a guy willing to laugh at himself.

Since then, he’s made me laugh, pissed me off (both at him

and at the things that piss him off) and fed my belly with starchy fried

goodness. If he were on the west coast, his restaurant would be a no-brainer.

But here on the east coast, it’s a little more tricky. As he might say: It’s

mad Eurocentric, kid.

So he got louder: made more baos, blasted his dirty rap

music, showed up at more fashion shows, sloppy parties,

and gutter video shoots. They started to listen to him. They started to

consider that a restaurant and, indeed, a person could be both Asian and

American and who gives a shit, really. His online debates with Francis

Lam (friend) and Marcus

Samuelsson (foe) on cultural misappropriation in the food industry sparked

healthy debate. He laid waste to the concept of “authenticity,” one of my least

favorite words within food (or maybe at all).

Now Huang is the proprietor of a new, improved bao spot near Union Square and a full-time

marketing machine. His book Fresh Off the Boat is a funny romp through his adventures

with sports, chicks, sneaker, guns, weed and the like. If you’re into that,

you’ll really like it. I was less into the “Chinaman” references (break out of

the queues and opium!), but loved the food stories (“I fux with Diasoric

Thanksgiving…”) and honest grappling with his crazy mixed high-low hip-hop

identity.

The book also delves into the harder parts of his

upbringing: family drama, racial alienation, Orlando. I laughed out loud when

he describes his mom packing seaweed salad for his Christian school lunch or

his Filipino friends as “frequently left out when the model-minority net got

dropped in the water.” One chapter is called “God Has Assholes for Children,” if

that gives you an idea of what to expect. He’s often pissed at “Asian American

herbs” but I think he’s really pissed at the narrow box he—and other Asian

Americans—found themselves in, in childhood south Florida, college Pittsburg,

PA, and finally his chosen hometown, New York City.

His tirade against “food missionaries” in favor of first and second generation restaurant owners--the

heart of New York food life--should be required reading for anyone who thinks eating

occurs in a historical vacuum. He sees food as a linchpin to identity, a force

both stabilizing and vulnerable: the fun stuff of culture that becomes very

serious when someone tries to take it from you. “I was sick of the Jean-Georges

of the world making a killing on our ingredients and flavors because we were

too stupid to package it the right way,” Huang writes.

The book is a fun read from a do-or-die Chinese Floridian. Buy

it, read it, write your own. And send some money to your local Asian

American Studies department. There’s probably a rowdy Chinese kid out there

searching for his place in America and he shouldn’t have to go it alone, or

think he’s the first.