Manapua Man

There’s a certain charm about those rusty food trucks you’d find scattered around the island. Cooking comfort food for the community, just like the old manapua truck I remember when I was a kid. To people who don't know, the truck might seem worn out or even out of place among the flashy new food trucks. But to those who know, the truck encapsulates memories, flavors, and stories from the past.

The term “Manapua Man” often echoed in my ears whenever I saw these trucks. Manapua (mea ono puaa in Hawaiian), a term of endearment in Hawaii, originated from the Chinese Char Siu Bao (叉烧包), which translates to BBQ pork bun. These steamed buns, stuffed with marinated pork, are an epitome of comfort for many locals including myself. These delights reached our islands through Chinese immigrants, who came looking for work and ended up gifting us with a culinary legacy that will last forever within our island culture.

Their history in Hawaii is intertwined with tales of endurance and entrepreneurship. Chinese workers, navigating the hardships of plantation life, began selling these homemade buns as a side hustle, turning adversity into opportunity. With bamboo poles slung over their shoulders, balancing buckets of steamed buns, they’d tread our streets, and in doing so, carved a path for the beloved manapua trucks we see today all over the island.

I would say hi to Lee, the ever-smiling chef behind the window of my neighborhood’s favorite manapua truck. Parked conveniently on my walk back home from school, it became a habit to stop by and order a box of fried noodles with fried pork hash. The aroma itself was enough to make any day just that much better. With every bite of those shiny golden noodles, topped with green onions and slices of narutomaki, my troubles melted away. And the crispy pork hash? Pure perfection.

Years went by, and our exchanges remained the same. A nod, a smile, an exchange of money for a box of nostalgic goodness. We never delved deeper, never shared stories, but the bond was evident. Every plate he handed over was a testament to his unwavering dedication to his craft and his community. Despite being a cornerstone of my childhood memories, I never really knew much about Lee or the stories behind his manapua truck.

It’s incredible how sometimes we can be so close yet so far from truly understanding someone. Nevertheless, his absence after I moved away, left a void. The taste of his food, the sounds of his truck, and even the rust on its exterior is all etched in my memory.

Here’s to the Manapua Man, Lee. Thank you for satiating our hunger, for being our consistent comfort after tedious school days, and for adding flavor to our lives. I hope one day I get to find you or your legacy on wheels once again. Maybe this time, I’ll delve a bit deeper, share a story or two, and truly understand the magic behind the rust and the buns.