50 Successful Harvard Application Essays

C
HRISTIANE
Z
HANG
American food is the pot on the backburner that I check only occasionally. Eleven years of living in
the United States have attuned my taste buds to the marbled texture of ground beef alongside melted
American cheese, topped off with a refreshing, crunchy layer of lettuce, complemented by the sweet
contrast of ketchup, all sandwiched within an unremarkable bun. Somehow I find myself enjoying this
greasy, messy, yet satisfying meal; the chance (fatty) bacon strips only increase the appeal of my
burger. Indeed, in my family, I am the only one who appreciates its savor and simplicity. But I know I
could not survive on a diet of burgers, fries, hot dogs, chocolate chip cookies, or any food that I
brand as “American,” as enticing as they sometimes are. Instead, the two thousand (or more likely
four thousand) calories that I take in every day originate eight thousand miles away.
At home, Mom is the chef, and in my fair and equitable opinion, no one rivals her in traditional
Chinese food. Her signature dish is qiongrenmian, literally “poor man’s pasta,” which I would
voluntarily eat every day, unlike its American counterparts. More of a stew, qiongrenmian comprises
of clumps of flour and water, boiled into small, soft bites floating along with tender pieces of pork,
splashes of tomatoes, and dispersed clouds of eggs. The flavors meld together, and so I add some
sweet chili garlic sauce, the playfully piquant surprise offsetting the cozy, home sensation. My taste
buds are so responsive that I wonder if I am not perhaps a poor Chinese man, as the dish’s name
suggests. Thankfully, I have yet to see a poor man in China enjoy something this luxuriously poor,
this deliciously simple, so I’m reasonably certain that I am not a Chinese beggar.
As much as I love simplicity in cooking, I cannot resist the more complex wonders of la cuisine
française, and I will frequently indulge in my love of French baking. Perhaps I romanticize my
French birth a little. Regardless, I feel decidedly French as I watch my raspberry soufflés rise or my
biscuit aux pommes turn golden. My most recent escapade involved five hours of preparation to
produce fragile, miniature white macarons filled with smooth chocolate ganache. Despite the tedious
work, French desserts seem incapable of disappointing, whether after an elegant meal of savory steak
tartare and andouille sausage, or simply a burger or qiongrenmian.
My next project? I think I’ll catch a Canadian goose and make some foie gras.
REVIEW
The writer ’s essay describes herself in terms of cooking—she is one of many identities with the drive
to discover new ones. By introducing herself not directly as a multicultural person, she piques our
interest in her varied heritage. Additionally, by mentioning her “next project,” whether in jest or

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seriousness, the writer hints at her willingness to go ahead and try new things, to take on new goals.
The essay is a display of subtle hints at a person through the revelations of food.
However, the immediacy with which she dives into food and the total separation of her nonfoodie
self leaves a very focused view of who she is. Though the overall effect of an essay that sounds like it
could appear in Bon Appétit is tempered by a personal writing style, dotted with parentheticals and
soft humor, the overall feel of large portions of the essay is decidedly not personal nor revealing.
With a little less detail, particularly in the next-to-last, French-laden paragraph, the writer could have
preserved the intimacy of revealing her tastes and culture in a subtle way.
But overall, the essay presents a likable, thoughtful person with a strong sense of who she is.
Christiane succeeds at expressing herself as a bicultural individual with a taste for good cooking.
—Sara Kantor

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