Chinese restaurant

4. Sid and I act like two foreigners in a Chinese restaurant

or
You can't keep a bad fish down

'Holy fuck! Whatever happened to the goddamn place? It should be right here on this corner!' Sid clearly took it as a personal offence that the restaurant we had been looking for did not comply with the indications given in his guide book. 'Maybe the people who keep the restaurant never got a chance to read this guide. I'm sure they didn't pack up and run just because they saw you coming down the road', I pointed out. Sid was not amused. 'Look here, we've been walking miles and miles in this confounded heat, my feet are killing me, we haven't eaten since breakfast, and, worst of all, we have been looking forward to supper in this fabulous place all bloody day - and now it's not even THERE!' Someone had evidently blundered.

Heartened by the knowledge that for once it wasn't me, I went about applying my proven morale-boosting technique in times of despair, which consists in imagining how the situation might be a far worse. All things considered, we weren't actually doing too badly. 'Just think: it might be pouring with rain, you are staggering along on six-inch heels, carrying heavy shopping bags, six months pregnant, but you don't know who ... ' Sid looked at me, exasperated. 'Bloody contrived scenario, if you ask me. As if I'd ever stoop to wearing six-inch heels! Look, I've got to have something to eat and drink within the next half-hour, or I'll ask for my money back.'

We had somehow got ourselves landed in an un-, or wrongly charted corner of Beijing which, it seemed, hadn't even been discovered by the natives themselves yet. In any case, there was no-one in sight whom we might at least have attempted to ask. 'Let's walk back towards the centre. We're bound to come across an eatery somewhere.' Wearily, we resumed walking. 'What is this?' Sid inquired querulously after about ten minutes. 'Usually you can't throw a brick without hitting a place where they sell edibles.' He had barely voiced his complaint when, at last, a restaurant came within our range of vision. The 'Dragon's Teeth'! The fact that there were two ideograms on the sign that I happened to recognize seemed like a good omen. 'About time, too', said Sid, glancing at his wristwatch, 'it's getting on for eight o'clock.'

The Chinese have a wholesome habit of keeping early mealtimes. We entered and sank onto two chairs. There was nobody else eating. 'Probably too late for the locals' I whispered reassuringly in Sid's ear. After some time, a listless-looking waiter materialized. He made a point of looking at his watch before handing us the menu. Everything was written in Chinese. I said apologetically: 'Women kan bu dong - we can't read.' This clearly did not raise us in the waiter's esteem. He continued to stare at us without favour, impatiently shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 'We'd better order quickly, before he changes his mind altogether', Sid urged.

I drew a deep breath and ordered from memory what I hoped was baked yellow fish in syrup with pine kernels, fried noodles, bean curd and green vegetables. Our waiter murmured something and shuffled off to the kitchen. 'I think he wants to ask if that's okay with the kitchen staff' I whispered to Sid. Indeed, soon we could hear a vehement argument from the kitchen. However, the waiter re-appeared with two sets of bowls, plates and chopsticks, which he set out on the table. 'Let's have some wine', suggested Sid, 'they are sure to rip us off something terrible for that meal, so we might as well go the whole hog.' So we ordered some wine. The waiter looked at us in disgust, but took the order. 'Cheer up, things aren't going too badly' Sid said encouragingly. The meal was served fairly rapidly. 'Good! I'm so hungry, I would have started chewing on the table in a minute.' We helped ourselves and tucked in with zest. Except that we got fried rice rather than fried noodles, probably owing to my faulty pronunciation, everything was perfect. The waiter had withdrawn from the scene. For a while, there was only contented munching to be heard.

Suddenly, I sat bolt upright, having discerned a distinct wave of nausea in the stomach region. Another mouthful of fish, and my stomach was going to turn itself inside out. 'I ... the fish .... I think I'm going to be sick ...better find the loo...' I jumped up, grabbed my handbag and made a dash for the toilets - not a second too soon, as it turned out: I had barely crossed the threshold when, overcome with nausea, I started to throw up all over the place in a disorderly fashion. It felt as if my stomach was emptying the contents of the last three days, alas, for the greater part not into the toilet bowl, but on the floor, the walls, and every other available surface. When the worst was over, I took some paper tissue from my bag to wipe from my person the main evidence of incompatibility between local fare and Western stomach. Looking through my handbag I noticed that I did not have my foreign-currency wallet with me. Blast! The only reason they had served us so near closing time was undoubtedly the prospect of being paid in dollars. There was only one way out: through the door, as quickly as possible.

I dashed back into the restaurant where Sid was continuing his meal, undeterred by my antics. 'C'mon, let's get the hell out of here. I'll explain later. Do you happen to have any foreign currency on you?' Sid negatived this: 'I thought you'd brought enough ...' and ladled some more sauce into his bowl. Then, noticing my face presented an unwholesome greenish tinge that was not merely the effect of bad lighting, he understood I was serious. As I threw whatever local money I had in a heap on the table and ran for it, he got up, grabbed the bottle of wine, and rushed out after me into the street. We ran for quite a while, not daring to turn back in case we were being followed by outraged restaurant staff brandishing chopping knives. 'Christ, what a meal!' panted Sid after we'd come to a halt at a presumably safe distance, 'what was wrong with you? ' 'Where to start! It was bad enough of us to enter this place, visibly not meant for foreigners, at all. At such a late hour, too. Then we ordered everything that wasn't on the menu. I reckon they would definitely have blown a fuse the moment they discovered that I spat the whole meal they didn't want to serve in the first place all over their sanitary installations - and, on top of everything, was proposing to pay in local money!'

Sid considered this. After a while he said: 'You're probably right. Our little visit will have confirmed the worst prejudices those guys ever harboured about clueless foreigners. We have doubtless made our contribution towards discrediting the species for generations to come ...' and, as if to drive the point home, he had a good long guzzle straight from the bottle.

Š Alexandra L. Dale 2000

Shanghaied, or The Price of Tea in China

A taste of Confucius: young Zhang grapples with the concept of Western womanhood

Condom conundrum: Cosí fan tutte

Sid gets sick: Professor Wang obliges a foreign friend

Six thousand impossible things before breakfast: the trouble with Chinese