 Lost in Translation
By Jim Shahin
So how should I know the way to feed a dragon? Globalization, schmobalization. The world ain’t that flat.
I mean, they give me a small envelope when I walk in. It’s the Chinese New Year. There are guys in a dragon getup dancing around to the banging of drums and gongs.
I do the math:
A (envelope) plus B (show) equals C (put money in envelope and give to dragon).
But as I reach out to put the envelope in the dancing dragon’s mouth, the dragon dips away. I figure that it’s part of the show. So I kind of wave the small red envelope around, like a matador would a cape at a bull.
But rather than charge the envelope, as a bull would a cape, the dragon dances away. He and another dragon start dancing around some other table. The people at that table don’t offer envelopes.
I do the math again:
A (non-envelope-giving patrons) plus B (hard-working dragon) equals C (restaurant-goers too cheap to give a hard-working dragon a couple of bucks).
I sit with friends and family as we finish our dinner of Singapore noodles, salt-and-pepper anchovies, fried rice, twice-cooked pork, fried dumplings, and spicy green beans. The proprietor comes to our table. He leans over and says something in my ear. I can’t understand him because it’s hard to make out what he is saying through his heavily accented English, and because the drums and gongs are drowning him out. I turn my head and look up at him. He’s smiling.
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.
Chinese? Its misfortune is to have become familiar. We know it too well and take it for granted. It is the culinary equivalent of our longtime spouse. We may still like, even love, it, but it is no longer exciting.
Well, I say it’s time we rekindle Chinese food’s flame.
Think of takeout. Oh, sure, you can get pizza delivered to your door, as well as, in most cities, nearly every other cuisine you might have a hunger for. But Chinese is the original and is still the greatest. Fried dumplings (fried, because, hey, you’re eating in — who’s gonna know?), lo mein, General Tso’s chicken, Buddha’s Delight, maybe even some egg foo yung. Is there a better home-delivered meal?
And what about those great scenes in the movies, when the guy and the girl are falling in love? Those moments just wouldn’t be the same without the little white paper takeout containers. Those containers signify both simplicity and sophistication, set pieces for a casual evening by cosmopolitan people, the type who live in really cool apartments. The scene just wouldn’t be the same with Styrofoam boxes. And so the movies wouldn’t be the same. And so romance wouldn’t be either.
So what do we owe for romance? Yes, Chinese food.
The great thing about Asia is that it is a huge continent with a lot of cuisines, and one of them is my enduring pal, Chinese.
I don’t need to do the math. It is the Year of the Pig. I plan to make the most of it.
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