一個人最深遠的記憶少不了跟味道有關，畢竟我們的口腹之欲甚至比五感來得更早，好像我這樣一個小孩，即使有多不喜歡吃正餐，仍會按捺不住趁家人不在時偷偷吃掉冰箱裡所有巧克力，哪怕知道最後逃不過被大罵一場。
現在的我，也許跟十歲時的我沒兩樣，胃口不時自然呼喚港式熱狗和炸雞腿這些充滿味道回憶的食物，恐怕都跟味道無關了。只是現在要吃到它們並不容易。
Taste is the cornerstone of our earliest memory – after all, we were exposed to our appetite long before any sensory experiences. As a child, no matter how reluctant I felt toward every meal, I would still give in and consume all the chocolate in the fridge when my family wasn’t around, gleefully accepting the consequences.
I am not far off from my ten-year-old self; I still crave Hong Kong style hotdogs and fried drumsticks – a craving not so much about taste as it is about childhood memories. The objects of the craving, however, are hard to come by these days.
有些食物想必是大家的共同喜好，但也有些是屬於個人的，我稱之為私人味道，例如我的蛋糕癮。我也是近年才察覺自己對蛋糕的偏愛比他人強烈得多，因為我從來沒有懷疑過，理所當然把蛋糕當成一種可取代正餐的食物，而一般人只認為它是生活有餘裕時才享用的點心。
再三思索我這種嚐甜的癮頭，肯定是來自我以前喜歡到進食有點過多的港式蛋糕，即我們所謂西餅。一塊蛋糕，一杯牛奶，是我堅持了很久的早餐餐單。
There is some degree of general consensus on what good food is, but there is also what I dubbed “personal taste”, such as my obsession with cakes. I’ve discovered only recently that this obsession of mine outdoes a lot of people. Perhaps it’s because I’ve always taken for granted cakes as a substitution for proper meals, when, in fact, most people would consider them a bit of a luxurious snack.
When I think about this obsession, it mostly boils down to another obsession – in childhood, with Hong Kong style cakes (though in Chinese we call them “western pastries”). For the longest time, my staple breakfast consisted of a slice of cake and a glass of milk.
話雖如此，到餅店買蛋糕回家，仍比不起到茶餐廳煞有介事點一塊蛋糕來得過癮。幾乎所有傳統的老茶餐廳都是以蛋糕玻璃專櫃作店面，滿櫃一層層整齊繽紛的自家製蛋糕是我記憶裡最久遠又美麗的一道風景。那時的蛋糕總是像積木一樣簡單笨拙，又有歡樂感，連繫著一串串的回憶片段，是我爸的手掌異常巨大，讓我找不到任何可以牽緊的位置，他正在以一種大人的步速拉著我走進滿室茶香的茶餐廳，替我點一塊蛋糕。
That said, takeaway cakes from bakeries have nothing on dine-in cakes enjoyed in cha chaan tengs. Old-school cha chaan tengs are characterised by their outdoor stalls selling all kinds of baked goods; Cantonese pastries used to be simple and clumsy – the kind of stuff happiness was made of. Rows upon rows of homemade cakes give a window back to my childhood: my dad’s hand too big for my miniature hand to hold onto as we dashed into the cha chaan teng, where he ordered a cake for me.
這天，我又特地到那些所餘無幾的舊屋邨茶餐廳，點了兩塊蛋糕、一杯奶茶。
「請慢用。」一位年紀跟我母親差不多的侍應把食物放下。
她字正腔圓且鄭重的口脗讓我有些不好意思，背後在播放的廣東舊歌卻提醒著我這裡不是高級西餐廳，使我不禁對她的敬業樂業更加肅然起敬。
「她是上一代人。」我這樣想。
世界不知道在甚麼時候在這一代和上一代之間劃上了一條清晰的界線，只是上一代那邊如今看來已非常稀薄。我把櫻桃蛋糕放進口裡，一種久違的味道直達心坎。蛋糕慢慢溶化，似乎讓那邊的空氣變得更淡。
那邊裡面還有些甚麼呢？依依稀稀的，有低飛著非常吵耳的飛機，有輪盤回轉得很慢的電話，和這一塊以廉價豬油做成的蛋糕。一切都那麼不合時宜，那麼的溫暖。
是的。讓人畢生難忘的原來都跟味道無關。
「請多點再來光顧。」結賬時女侍應對我說。
Here I am in one of those vanishing, old-school estate cha chaan tengs. I order two slices of cake and a milk tea.
“Please enjoy,” the server says. She’s around my mum’s age.
I feel slightly embarrassed by her formality. 80’s Cantonese pop songs are playing in the background, as though to remind me that this isn’t a fine-dining restaurant. I admire the server’s seriousness all the more.
“She’s from the older generation,” I muse.
Since when did we draw this demarcation between generations? Everything on the other side seems so distant and scarce. I take a bite of the cherry cake, a familiar warmth courses through me. The cake melts in my mouth, as does the air on the other side of the divide.
What else is on the other side? The loud hum of airplanes, the slowness of rotary dials – and this piece of cake, made of cheap lard. Everything seems so dated, and yet, so warm.
Indeed, that which is unforgettable has nothing to do with taste.
“Please come back soon,” the server says I get the bill.
