During World War II, when American planes bombed Taiwan’s sugar mills, my grandfather stashed the sweet gold he’d saved under the floorboards. After the war ended, he took sugar and hefty blocks of ice and set up a tusa bing, or shaved ice stall, in the neighborhood’s open market. Using a machete, he flayed the ice until fine flakes lined the bottom of the bowl. Pouring over syrup made from his treasure trove and topping the frozen treat with sweet red beans, he served it to the locals on Bi Shi Tao Road in Kaoshiung looking to beat the heat.
Even though I grew up on Taiwanese shaved ice and have studied its evolutions since it was served in back alley stalls, I’m no shaved ice snoot. During the extreme heat this year, I’d have been happy to take any form of ice—plant my face in it, pour it down my back, or just sit on a block of it.
During the extreme heat, I’d have been happy to take any form of ice—plant my face in it, pour it down my back, or just sit on a block of it.
