Yum.
When I lived in China, one Sunday morning I woke up with a craving for eggs and bacon. I decided to splurge on a western brunch at an American style cafe in my neighborhood. Sometimes living abroad, there is nothing more comforting than eating what mom would make. But I quickly realized, although the eggs were delicious, they weren’t quite as satisfying as I’d imagined.
I remember Frank Sinatra was playing in the background, but I could barely hear him as people outside chattered loudly in a language that was (and still is) indiscernible to my years. Some call Cantonese the “bird language” because it’s like singing. Every other word ends with “la.” My ears were acutely attuned to the buzzing harmony of the incomprehensible words floating back and forth and my eyes kept wandering, as I looked out the large glass windows that wrapped around the cafe. In nearby Chinese eateries, the sidewalks were chock full of people sitting on tiny plastic stools, eating and gathering the aroma and taste of fried foods and steaming hot noodles. These smells and tastes stick to clothes like perfume and linger in the mouth for hours.
There were seemingly innumerable characters around me, on signs that I couldn’t read. I couldn’t read much on the faces of those next to me either. They all seemed to hold a similar look of dazed contentment. Perhaps, I thought, there is nothing more fulfilling then a bowl of simple, inexpensive food.
Suddenly, my plate of eggs, bacon and toast seemed delicately and absurdly presented on white porcelain. My fork seemed awkward and heavy. My coffee cup seemed too fragile. I realized, I preferred the light movements that only a pair of chopsticks can make. I preferred sweet milk tea served in a thick plastic mug. I was officially “in love” with Chinese cuisine.
Rather than be alone at that moment, I would have liked to be with a loud family or a rowdy group of friends, spinning multiple dishes around the table on a lovely round disc-a lazy Susan that graces the table of most traditional Chinese restaurants. When one dish becomes “boring,” there’s always more to try. Spin, taste, share, spin, taste, share-that’s the fluid movement of the Chinese dining experience. In the west we hoard our individual plates, as though they are pocessions. But good food is a delight meant to be shared in China!
I missed the burning sensation of “la jiao” or hot red chili peppers, from the Sichuan restaurants, that leave your mouth numb but your stomach satisfied. Even in the most humble restaurants, you never have to ask for extra spices or sauces because the food is always spicy or flavorful enough when it’s served to you. It’s perfectly acceptable to holler good naturedly at the waitress to bring more food, spit out the bones and drink your soup, slurping your noodles with wild abandon. Your server never asks how everything is, and there’s seldom a complaint. Everything is made just how it should be-traditionally and with great care.
I suspect there’s rarely a culinary school graduate operating these tiny neighborhood joints. For these “dives,” instead of proper training, the Chinese cooking methods are passed down from generation to generation, almost like an inheritance or a gene. The cooks I met in China grew up eating the same simple dishes that they now prepare for their customers every day.
For most urban Chinese, eating out is a weekly ritual and not intensely dissimilar from eating at home; it’s casual, comfortable, communal and simplistic. To dine out is not an escape from your apartment. Rather, it’s an inviting hour or two, eating in an area similar to your own kitchen. With an oven-like interior, in most cozy Chinese eateries, the dining space is not much bigger than a city apartment’s kitchen. Eating out, night after night, in the same cheap neighborhood places is a ritualistic, collective activity and a simple pleasure.
In Southern China, I found that the most basic treats are the most inspiring. Restuarant workers stand, armed with metal tongs, watching over the plastic cases filled with dim sum, a series of tiny (but hearty) culinary treats prepared in small wooden baskets. Cha shao bao, sweet barbeque pork surrounded by a fluffy white bun, is less than two or three Chinese dollars for a small bag and is perfect for breakfast, lunch or dinner. In China, with the exception of fancy dishes like Peking duck, there are no labels that dictate what acceptable breakfast, lunch or dinner fare is. Everything is open for interpretation. You can have noodles for breakfast, a whole fish (including head) loaded with garlic and hot peppers for lunch and a basic soup with chicken feet for dinner. Speaking of chicken feet, I detest the rubbery skin and the sickening crunch of bird talons in my mouth but I like the idea that nothing is off limits. In the Canton region, it’s said that everything is edible. I’ve tried donkey, pigeon and snake (I won’t be repeating those meals but it was fun to try)! Cantonese food has been labeled the most popular cuisine in all of China, which means the Chinese may be the most adventerous eaters in the world!
So on that Sunday, as I sat in my leather chair, with my typical western brunch, coffee and English language magazine, I realized there was nothing I would miss more about China than Chinese food. I was right. It’s an amazing cultural experience. But it’s also simply put “hen hao chi” (very good food)!
