As unappetizing as the food was in China, as dreary and dilapidated was the landscape, I have to say that my spirits were brightened whenever there was a big group dinner. I’ve never had such fun at an American dinner party.
If all the extraneous, all the vanity, is removed from life, the simple pleasure of enjoying a good meal with friends is the only sure form of happiness a man has. (Don’t believe me? Look it up in Ecclesiastes.) China, and much of life, hadn’t turned out to satisfy my expectations. English classes, city life, and new friendships were not playing out according to fantasy. My time was going to pass in China as quickly as it ever had; I was going to feel dejected and trapped in a foul country. That was my lot. But the dinners were something I could depend on to lift up my mood and remind me to be thankful for all the good I did have. They were the best occasions for sociability, and without them I probably would have lost 10 or 15 pounds like the two English teachers in New York had predicted.
Most of my dinners out were hosted by the university or it’s Department of Foreign Affairs. Any holiday or any event (e.g. the foreign teachers’ arrival on campus, the end of the semester), the school would host the other foreign teachers and me for dinner. Besides me, there were Grant and Sue, the retired Australian couple spending their third year in China, and Lee Ahram, the Korean teacher from Seoul. We were all brought in as language specialists of a sort, native speakers who could demonstrate to the pupils how the language they learned rote from chalkboard and textbook was supposed to be spoken by live people.
On our first dinner out together, at the hotel restaurant on campus (hotel restaurants were the best in China, and they are where I had most of my big, round table group dinners), Grant and Sue explained that I should not sit down before anyone else. It was best to follow the hosts’ lead in everything, and in the case of the seating arrangement, each seat was assigned certain prominence and would be allocated by the senior members in the group’s hierarchy.
So I followed behind our Chinese hosts as we walked through the lobby with its cold fish, meats, and vegetables on display in the glass-faced cooler, past the small group of undersized ladies dressed in matching fuchsia uniforms who wished us welcome in unison, up the worn, carpet steps to the second floor, turned right to walk down the narrow corridor, past the pungent odor emitting from the bathrooms- several yards away- and waited for the servants in the hallway to direct us into our room.
Me, in the red, at another dinner with teachers from a different school. Typical of a dinner out in a private dining room.
Each dining room was private, accessed by a single door from the hallway just like a typical large hotel’s floor plan. The dining rooms had enough space for a dozen or more people, and usually they were furnished with one very large, heavy round table on the far side, and cushioned chairs, couches, a coffee table (should that be called a tea table?), a tall air conditioner unit, a coat hook, and a card table on the near side. It was a large, private space where a party of extended family, friends, or business contacts could camp out for hours and smoke, sip tea, and eat and drink to their stomach’s content. Once the door was shut, a silent serving girl would be the only outside disturbance into the room, and there was often a small window that would slide open to reveal new dishes for her to serve so that she did not need to constantly interrupt the atmosphere by walking in and out.
Compared to America, I preferred the dining service in China. The serving girls never introduced themselves, they didn’t ask me how my first few bites were and how my meal was (“How’s that tastin’ for ya’?” “Can I get those plates attayer way?”), they stood by and waited for the group’s order, served it in silence or maybe announced the name of the dish, then stood aside to let people eat and converse. The only bad part was that in a Chinese restaurant without private rooms, with an open floor plan, or even in a private room if the serving girl were absent, diners who needed something would call out at the top of their voice, “Fuwuyuan!” (“Server!” This word looks like a mess of vowels on paper, like a bad Scrabble tray, and its pronunciation sounded just as sloppy.) The diners shouted like hungry infants, but their voices were the hoarse, throaty calls of men who had been smoking and drinking for decades. There was hardly a moment’s peace in China; a call for service, a merchant’s shout, a grandmother’s shrill minding, the buzz of talking from crowds, roosters’ crowing, car horns, and those terrible large truck and bus air horns that still haunt my memory- but nearly never the chattering of a squirrel, the melody of a song bird, or even the caw of a crow- would interrupt and invade the tranquility of the mind.
Something else to be thankful for in all service industries in China, not only in restaurants: no tipping. I left a couple small bills behind at a sandwich and coffee shop once, and the busboy chased me down outside the door, as I was zipping up my coat, and surprised me by speaking in intelligible English, “You forgot this” and handed me back my tip money. The price on the menu was assumed to include all expenses, including service labor. A tip, even given in generous appreciation for exceptional service, could not be received except at the breach of honor, and could even be taken as an insult that basically said, “Here, you need a little help to improve your business.”
Another time, I went in for my first haircut in China and wordlessly followed along as I was given a head and shoulders massage, a shampoo, and another massage before my haircut (pre-haircut massages were obligatory). Then my haircut. Then there was a final shampoo after the haircut. At least 60 minutes of service split between two hairdressers. Total charge: around six dollars U.S. I tried to insist on a tip. I couldn’t conceive how a business could stay afloat by charging so little, but the head hairdresser (I don’t know if that’s a pun, but I apologize if so) stiffly thrust out his palm and shook his head in adamant refusal. It would have been a serious violation of their code, their honor to dutifully serve, to accept a tip.
My aunt liked taking pictures of me all the time, even while I was getting this haircut.
Back to the restaurants, I have to mention the numbers on the private room doors. They weren’t numbered according to floor level or distance left or right from the main stairs (well, they followed these conventions a little). The main determiner for door numbers was luck. I’ll spare a full discussion on Chinese lucky numbers and superstitions, which can be found in bland detail elsewhere, but I will say that the Chinese prefer even numbers, except for four, which is pronounced very similarly to “death” in their language. I read that tall buildings would skip floors four and fourteen in China, which I never actually encountered there, though I thought the rationale would have made a lot more sense than the way most American buildings omit the thirteenth floor. Any Chinese person could tell you, “We don’t like four and fourteen because they sound like ‘to die,’” but it would take an internet search by the common man to figure out the foggy details of why thriteen is unlucky in Western culture, or a Ph.D. in something like folklore or obscure history could explain offhand why that is so. And is it even that unlucky? It’s certainly not offensive like four is in China. If someone gave me thirteen of something, I wouldn’t mind (hey, a baker’s dozen!), but giving a gift of four items in China was considered a serious taboo, tacitly wishing for someone’s death.
Anyway, the room numbers were usually, needlessly, three or four digits long (there were probably never more than twenty or so rooms in a single restaurant), and the deluxe room was always “888” or “8888,” even if the rooms before it were “242” and “240.” This was because everyone loved eight because it meant something like “fortune” in Chinese, or at least it rhymed with a phrase that meant “to make a fortune.” (Note: “eight” in Chinese rhymes with the “to make” part of the phrase, not even the “fortune” part of “to make a fortune.”) I can’t quite explain it, it has something to do with the quality of auspiciousness too, but I know the Chinese mind equated being blessed with having obscene amounts of money and so they loved eight. I never actually got to eat in the 888 room, but it was always full of a lively crowed when I got a peek inside; probably it was always reserved for big occasions.
On the evening of my first big dinner in China, with Grant and Sue, Ahram, the two officials from the university’s Foreign Affairs Office: Miss “Amy” Hu and Mr. “Oliver” Zhang, and some assorted vice presidents from the university, I didn’t even know to check for the door number. My mind was being overwhelmed by all the subtle differences in the foreign surroundings and the shockingly strong bathroom odor wafting down the relatively nice, yet nonetheless dingy hallway. I kept my bearings by following Grant and Sue and listening to their commentary as we waited in the cushioned chairs around the coffee- no, tea- table. The serving girls spent about ten minutes filling the dining table up with about a half-dozen dishes when the senior members of the group, the vice presidents, decided it was time to begin. Sometimes the meats and vegetables would sit for twenty minutes before the meal began; lukewarm and cold meat dishes were common. As the group dined, the serving girls would bring more and more dishes until plates had to be removed, combined, or stacked on top of each other.
This restaurant was unique. A wood-burning stove underneath the table heated the soup in the center. We’re all wearing coats because this restaurant, like most buildings, was unheated.
Grant and Sue explained that the most prestigious seat was the one furthest away, facing the door. Grant inferred this was because the kings and officials from years past would be able to scan all approaching guests and look out for danger that way. Maybe he was onto something. Anyway, it always seemed like the most important-looking seat if I had to pick one. So the vice presidents on the second tier of the hierarchy insisted that the man with the highest status, the most guanxi (easier if I just write it “gwan-shee,” which means basically face/ social status/ reputation), sit there first. After that, the second-tier group members would fuss and jostle each other over seating arrangements, with guests energetically declining and then reluctantly accepting the honor (sometimes when being shoved into the seat by two of their lower-tiered friends) until the seats were filled up all the way around; the more important or higher status people sitting closer to the prestigious seat at the far side of the table.
I was seated next to Grant, a little past midway on the counterclockwise side of the descending hierarchy. I noticed that this table had an automatic lazy Susan (How classy! How convenient!) with a digital number displayed in front of every seat. I asked Amy Hu, who spoke flawless, refined English in a mixture of educated British and American accents that made her sound dignified and lovely, if not like a movie character from a period piece, why our seats were numbered. She said she thought the numbers corresponded to the seats’ position around the table, which was obvious enough, so I had to deduce my own answer that the numbers served no practical purpose. The serving girls would never call into their headset, “I need another bottle of beer for Seat 6!” They would either hand the person another drink directly, or if they were serving a new dish, they would make space for the platter on the lazy Susan wherever they could find it and let it slowly rotate around for every seat to grab a piece. The seat numbers, like those on the door, I figured, were just another arbitrary status marker to let people know how auspicious there seat was.
So as people remained in their seats and the large variety of dishes slowly made their laps around the table’s circumference, we reached out with our chopsticks to eat a bite directly from the communal dish or gathered a small portion into our small bowls. Almost no one in China had large dinner plates; only small bowls and small plates. Meals were eaten family style and diners gathered a little at a time with their chopsticks. Only in some soups was there a serving spoon, otherwise (prepare yourselves, germ-conscious Americans) people would take food from platters with the chopstick that had just touched their mouths. I read that the proper etiquette was to pass food from the communal plate with the blunt, untouched end of the chopsticks, but I never saw this rule followed. It never bothered me to eat from shared dishes. In fact, it was a relief to be in a culture where people weren’t watching for me to slip up so they could be the one to sound the social alarm and call out, “Double dipper!”
I knew from eating at Japanese, Korean, and Chinese restaurants that each culture used a different style of chopsticks. The Japanese use what I consider the standard: slender, square, or circular sticks of medium length made of wood or ceramic. They feel balanced and proportional in one’s hand. Koreans use thin, flat metal chopsticks that easily slipped and turned sideways in my hand so that I had to frequently reset my grip. They also set the table with a long-handled metal spoon (that I would call an ice cream spoon) instead of the short, deep spoon used by Chinese diners (the white, plastic spoon served with egg drop or miso soup in American Chinese restaurants). Chinese chopsticks were the longest and most difficult for me to wield. Cut three or four inches off the end and you would have the standard Japanese chopsticks. This aside information is redundant to anyone familiar with these cultures, but the difference and the extra length of the Chinese chopsticks puzzled me until I sat down to my first big dinner in China.
From l to r: standard-sized Japanese chopsticks, Korean chopsticks and spoon set, souvenir chopsticks of the larger Chinese size, barbecue tongs.
As the dishes rotated around for everyone to select a sample, your choice dish might be an arm’s length away. Keep in mind that these round tables had a large circumference that could fit ten or more people around them, and the lazy Susan would be filling up with rows of plates as the meal went on. To get that chicken leg without standing up and leaning over the table and the dishes in between, you would need an extra-long pair of chopsticks. Hence, Chinese chopsticks. It was like having extremely long, delicate fingers to take pinches of food, one small bowl full at a time.
And those plates would stack up. Because the meal was served family style, ten different mouths might try a little of every dish; a large group could easily finish off more than two dozen plates of food. I was at a wedding where the serving girls filled up the table as everyone watched the ceremony, so by the time my table started eating, the plates had piled up into a mound that was three deep in the middle, with turtle soup, shell and all, on top. The craziest example was when I went with Aunt Fong to meet one of her friends at a restaurant that served coffee and international foods. To the Chinese, Western food is KFC and McDonald’s, so I was used to people telling me no when I asked them if they liked Western food, or saying, “I love Kun-duh-ji” (“Kentucky” or KFC in Chinese). So I was skeptical about the international menu at this restaurant, but I had been griping for months about wanting pizza and Aunt Fong had promised me this place had it.
Sitting on the long couches in our private dining room, with the menu laid out on the long, rectangular tabletop (another Western touch of this café), I watched as Aunt Fong flipped back and forth through the menu’s twenty or so pages (Chinese menus are thick). She said “pizza” at one point and then she was looking at bowls of soup, so I said, “Okay.” A pizza and some soup seemed like enough to feed our party of three. But she continued browsing through the menu, looking at different entrees; I assumed she had changed her mind about the soup and pizza.
After our waitress brought out two large bowls of soup for Aunt Fong and me, followed by two other main dishes, I realized that what I thought were her audible suggestions were actually her selections. She had tabulated a huge order of food, uneatable even with my voracious appetite. I was already full and plates already covered the table when the medium-sized pizza was served. I didn’t have the stomach for it at that point, but I ate a sympathy piece just because Aunt Fong had ordered it just for me and I would have felt bad if a whole pizza went uneaten. The pizza itself was decent for a Chinese restaurant that didn’t specialize in pizza. Even after it was on the table, a few more dishes were brought out. I counted so I would be able to report it to my American friends, and at one point there were eleven dishes on the table, balanced on top of each other and nestled together. For three people. All were main dishes, like a Thai curry chicken and rice; it was not eleven side dishes holding dinner rolls or a small iceberg lettuce salad.
The copious spread for my birthday dinner.
That was not atypical. I don’t know if it was a matter of the host’s prestige or a desire to make sure everyone got fed well, but the amount of food on the table was beyond abundant. Sometimes there were left-overs to take home, but usually the guests brought their appetites and would eat up most everything.
Each restaurant varied what Chinese staple foods it served, though every big restaurant had a menu over a hundred items deep. A small restaurant on a shopping street might specialize in a certain kind of dumpling or noodles, but a hotel restaurant had virtually whatever its guests could think off; they made all kinds of meats and regional favorites.
The drinks, though, were fairly standard. Each restaurant would set the table with a large bottle of Sprite and a Minute Maid orange drink that they don’t sell in the States. Then, for everyone who wasn’t a kid, a student, a person far younger than the median age of the group, or a lady who insisted on tea, there was light beer- possibly– and a clear rice liquor called bai jiu (“by jee-oh”) that translates to “white wine/liquor.” I would usually protest and ask for tea and only tea. By no means had China turned me into a tea connoisseur, but I dreaded having to drink the foul bai jiu and I was desperate for an alternative. Bottled water was not an option and there was no water cooler available to fill up a glass. Being a man, I was expected to have some kind of alcohol, so my only alternative was light beer, which I had only occasionally when the restaurant had bottles in stock and my hosts were passively content to let me drink it. I hated the bai jiu, I thought it should have been taken off the dinner tables and relegated to garages as a solvent to clean lawnmowers with. Then again, Chinese people don’t have private garages, and I didn’t hear or see a single lawnmower throughout China- no one had a yard.
But the men hosting the dinner always insisted I be given a glass of their hard liquor, and they outnumbered me, had way more gwan-shee than me, had the mandate of Chinese society, behaved a lot like boys who were used to bossing people around and getting their way, and they were the ones paying for dinner after all, so they lined up my glass next to all the others, smashed the top of the bai jiu bottle (no openers necessary) and drained a bottle or two, glug-glug-glug, among the row of glasses. Some of the men could drink a bottle or more by themselves in one sitting (maybe that should read, “in one sitting, one passing out, and one falling”). I would try to pull my glass away from the downpour, but they would always insist, “A little!” and continue the stream till my glass was filled far past my comfort zone.
Continued tomorrow in Part 2.
Cheers! with my friend Ma Cao.
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