An unexpected taste of Tahiti
The islands’ flavour fusion includes an unexpected Chinese influence
Sitting proud, almost boastful, the mysterious Franken-creation beams from its display case. I’m captivated, wondering how it came to be. But more importantly, is it delicious?
It’s my first encounter with cassecroûte chow mein, which fills an airy split baguette with a cafeteria go-to, soy sauce-stained noodles. It’s also my first time in French Polynesia, where the carb-heavy sandwich originates.
Ma’a Tahiti (“Tahitian food”) is typically fresh and light, with many recipes based on fresh fruits, vegetables and seafood. Besides traditionally prepared dishes slowly steam-cooked for hours in an earth oven, I expected simply seasoned cuisine that might feature vanilla or coconut milk, taro, fe’i (banana) and uru (breadfruit), plus lagoon fish.
What I didn’t expect was a local take on Chinese cuisine.
Tahiti’s national dish is poisson cru, made of raw fish and vegetables like cucumbers, carrots and tomatoes, marinated in lime juice and coconut milk, and I lap up every iteration I come across: a curried version from the Lani’s BBQ food truck at Vaipoopoo Roulottes; an elegant poolside number at the five-star Le Taha’a resort; and Te Va’a Tere’s benchmark rendition, enjoyed while overlooking Papeete ferry terminal. Though the presentations differ, the recipes are similar.
Then I taste the poisson cru à la Chinoise at Cafe Polyself, a cafeteria-style restaurant in Papeete’s Quartier Chinois. Made using white vinegar instead of lime juice and coconut milk, this sweet and sour version incorporates pickled cucumbers and ginger. It’s also served with rice — an ingredient whose popularity here speaks to the Chinese community’s culinary influence. Since it was initially brought to French Polynesia by the Hakka Chinese from the Canton region, rice has become a staple in the Tahitian diet, according to Marania Teuru, itinerary specialist at Tahiti Tourisme.
From our perch on the mezzanine level above the colourful produce stands and kiosks hawking a vast treasure of prepared foods at the 155-year-old Marché de Papeete, Teuru explains that on the islands of Tahiti, the Chinese now make up the third-largest population — five to 10 per cent.
The Chinese settlers include the descendants of migrants who came to work on the cotton, sugar cane and coffee plantations in the 1860s, as well as a larger wave of immigrants who arrived between 1920 and 1942 as labourers. Since then, these settlers have become active members of the community, contributing to the territory’s economy by investing in land and developing the islands’ many businesses.
They cook dishes from their ancestral homeland, using what’s available around them, creating ma’a tinito (Tahitian for Chinese food). The latter is also the name of a popular Tahitian-Chinese dish: an adaptation of Sichuan’s traditional twice-cooked pork, composed of soy sauce and oyster sauce seasoned pork, red beans, macaroni and Chinese cabbage.
The intermingling influences can be found everywhere. Every Tahitian household has soy sauce and oyster sauce in their kitchen pantry, Teuru tells me. Local cuisine includes the sweet, salty, spicy, sour and bitter flavours stereotypical of Asian cooking. Traditional Chinese dishes have also evolved to accommodate the Polynesian palate. Lemon chicken appeals to the Polynesian sweet tooth, while local ingredients, including parrotfish, is steamed whole with ginger and scallions.
In Moorea, a 45-minute ferry ride from Tahiti, Heimata Hall, a trained chef and founder of Tahiti Food Tours, takes me to Golden Lake, the locals’ Chinese restaurant of choice.
“It’s not that (Tahitian) natives don’t want to dine out; it’s that they can’t really afford it,” explains Hall, who was born in Moorea. “Most restaurants are French; many cater to the younger generation or tourists. They come to Chinese restaurants because it’s economical and the portions are big. On a Friday night, you’ll see it’s all natives here.”
Unique to the Tahitian islands, the casse-croûte chow mein becomes a lesson in history for me, and a reflection of the destination’s distinct populations. The national specialty involves all three cultures — combining, as Hall describes, “the French baguette, Chinese noodles, and the Tahitian genius who put it together, probably while drunk or stoned.”
The significance of foods like the casse-croûte, which can be filled with everything from steak frites to saucy, stir-fried meats or fried chicken, is related at least in part to the baguette’s accessibility.
“There are so many interesting creations with baguettes because many Tahitian families don’t have much money,” says Hall. “The baguette is such a big part of our culture. It’s a subsidized item that’s price controlled to ensure people have something to eat. You can always scrape up 57 cents versus $20.”
Ushering visitors away from manicured hotel dining rooms, Hall introduces them to street foods on his tour of mom-and-pop spots and stalls. Each bite is an opportunity to start a conversation about the three cultures that make up French Polynesia. “This is our story that’s finally being told through food,” says Hall.
Despite all the delicious, new-tome snacks and ingredients, I’m most fascinated with the items that resemble things I already know.
I savour sweet and tart Chinese li hing mui (prune) powder, which is commonly sprinkled on fruits, and is here dusted over crunchy mango. At a standing table at Snack Rotui, at the base of Cook’s Bay, I try eina’a beignets, which trap tiny fish in a crisp and craggy frybread. The local haunt is run by three generations of a Tahitian-Chinese family serving food that makes me think of rustic dim sum, including a siu mai-style chicken dumpling with tangy mustard.
As for the casse-croûte chow mein that first piqued my interest in Tahiti’s culinary fusion, it reminds me of a chow mein sandwich but also a Sloppy Joe, though it’s one of a kind. Despite tasting it so far from home, I find it brings a surprisingly sense of belonging — the flavours of an unexpected comfort food.