Mr. Write's Page

For some reason, my little town of Jefferson has three Chinese restaurants. All have been open for years, and none seems to be hurting for business, which is surprising in a place this small.

One of the restaurants is best avoided, but the other two are pretty good. My favorite of the two serves a dish I’ve found only rarely over the years — jum bon, described on the menu as “spicy seafood noodle soup.”

Actually, jum bon is not so much spicy as fiery. It is a heaping bowl of rich chicken broth, to which is added chunks of beef, shrimp, chicken, and assorted vegetables — all of which is dumped on a mound of thick-cut noodles.

Most attention-getting of all, a bowl of jum bon also includes several dried Japanese or Thai chili peppers — some whole and some in tiny pieces — hiding among the ingredients. You bite into those things at your peril.

Dried chilies -- tiny and lethal.

But I like hot stuff, and jum bon is my kind of soup. It’s yummy, causes sweat beads to pop out on your forehead, and one order makes two meals. What’s not to like?

Not long ago, I discovered why jum bon has been hard to find. I found out from Mrs. Tso, who operates the restaurant with her husband.

Everyone in the Tso family except Grandma speaks English perfectly. Better, in fact, than many Jeffersonians I know. While waiting for my take-out order of jum bon one day, I asked Mrs. Tso where her family came from originally.

She said that her ancestors came from Korea, but her family had lived in China for five generations. In the case of her husband’s family, six generations.

“In China,” she told me, “We are considered ‘Chinese Koreans.’ We are not of pure Chinese ancestry.”

“We’ll never be completely accepted as Chinese, no matter how many generations pass,” she said. “The Chinese are funny about things like that.”

I told her Southerners were funny like that, too. You can live in a town for 50 years, but if you weren’t born there, the locals will always detect on you the aroma of an outsider.

Mrs. Tso is well aware of my fondness for jum bon. “Jum bon is a traditional Chinese Korean dish,” she told me. “In America, you won’t find it in Chinese restaurants — only Chinese Korean restaurants.”

I told her that explains why the only other restaurant I know that serves jum bon is 40 miles from here in Chamblee, a suburb of Atlanta.

“I know the place you mean,” she said. “They are Chinese Korean, too.”

Now I know why the Tsos don’t call their place Great Wall or China Wok.

The Tsos are very nice people. The food is good, the restaurant is clean.

And they work hard. The restaurant is open seven days a week, half days on weekends.

Their daughters Victoria and Sarah, ages four and nine, are thoroughly Americanized. After school, you’ll always see them in a booth, drawing, writing, or working on their laptops. The girls’ latest projects from school are always taped to the walls of the restaurant.

My take-out order arrived. I thanked Mrs. Tso and headed out the door.

As I opened the door of my car and placed the soup container on the front seat, a voice not far from my ear boomed, “Who elects the President of the United States?”

Startled, I turned and looked toward the black SUV parked next to me. The voice had come from that direction.

After a pause, the voice boomed again, “The Electoral College!”

One window of the SUV was open a few inches. The voice had come from inside.

“What are the three branches of our government?” the voice demanded. It had an odd, metallic resonance, like a radio or CD.

After another pause, the voice thundered, “Legislative, Executive, and Judiciary!”

Whoever was inside the SUV had the volume way too high. I wondered who the heck it was.

“How many stars are on our flag?” the voice bellowed.

The light in the parking lot was dim, but finally I could make out a male figure sitting behind the wheel. His head was back, his eyes closed. It was Mr. Tso.

He was lost in concentration and had no idea I was there. His lips moved a little, but I couldn’t make out what he said.

“Fifty!” the metallic voice declared.

Mr. Tso nodded, eyes still closed. I quietly got in my car.

“What do we call the legislative branch of government?”

I started the engine and glanced toward the SUV. This time, I could make out the word Mr. Tso formed: Congress.

“Congress!” roared the voice.

Mr. Tso nodded again and smiled slightly. He never opened his eyes or was aware of my presence. I backed out of the parking space and drove away.

I wish you well on your test, Mr. Tso.

And I promise you, becoming an American will not take six generations.