We rarely ate in restaurants when I was a kid; rarely as in four or five times a year on special occasions. When the special occasion happened to be my birthday, my pick was most often a Chinese restaurant where the atmosphere was so distinctly different that I felt as though I had traveled to a distant land. There were items on the menu that I could not pronounce and aromas coming from the kitchen that I had no mental reference to describe. We usually ordered a “Family Dinner” with soup and dishes for the table to share. Sizzling rice soup was the unanimous soup of choice, but I was always enticed by the dark, viscous hot and sour soup visible on others' tables. How could it be hot and sour? How hot? How sour? Once I finally had my chance to assuage my curiosity, I began a love affair with this alluring concoction. The many layers of flavor and the variety of textures were intoxicating (even with no alcohol.) When I was sick or sad, I found myself craving the curative elixir, ...