I can tell that I've just been told how to feed money to a dragon. But because I didn't hear it, I still don't get it. And I feel that everybody is looking at me, the Chinese New Year Dragon Dance Idiot. So I call out over the din, "I'm sorry. I didn't know." And the proprietor says, "No sorry. No sorry." So, now I've made matters worse. Instead of thanking him for his explanation, I've made him feel awkward, because he thinks he made me feel bad.

I try to make everything better by telling a big, fat, smooth-everything-over lie. "Ohhh," I say, exaggerating the exclamation to signify that reality has dawned on me. "I get it. Thanks."
But just when he pats my shoulder and smiles as if to say, "I'm glad that's resolved," I can't help throwing out another "Sorry."

"No, no, no, no, no," he says, the expression on his face going from relieved to anxious.
I do the math:

A (idiot patron) plus B (empathetic restaurant owner) equals C (culture clash).
And that, dear reader, is pretty much everything I know about Asia.

Actually, I know one more thing, and it is this: Nobody wants to go out to eat Chinese anymore. Nowadays, it's Thai. Or Japanese sushi (even if they do serve California rolls). Or Vietnamese. Or Korean. Or Indian. Or anything but Chinese.
 
With the arrival of these varied cuisines, the American multicultural larder has been gloriously enhanced. But I can't help feeling bad for Chinese. That once-exotic star in the culinary constellation has dimmed.

Indian is more glamorous, with its bedazzling spices - fenugreek, asafetida, black mustard seed, turmeric, cardamom, and, of course, curry. Thai is more fiery, a scorch of peppers, even when soothed by coconut milk. Vietnamese, characterized by an endless array of noodle soups, or pho, is more comforting.