The schedule while I was here was pretty much back to back meetings, one after another with individuals or teams. The scheduled breaks were often filled up by meeting overruns, except the lunch breaks. At least for those all had a vested interest in staying on target schedule-wise.
Monday’s lunch was to be in the SAP cafeteria. I was given a special access card that also functions a bit like a debit card which allows me to procure lunch here. For this day I had the office manager and his #2 (X) accompany me down to the cafeteria. I could feel the tension and pressure of them wondering what Scott was going to have for lunch.
The cafeteria is arranged such that there are many lunch lines, each of which have a large sign hanging over the entry, announcing the general category of food one might expect out of that line. There is traditional Chinese, vegetarian, sandwiches, a la carte and, happy day, a “western” line.
Since today I was with these two folks and they wanted me to experience all of China at its best, I reluctantly agreed to head into the traditional Chinese line. Now to be fair, they showed me a display that showcased the various foods available in each area, and there was a chicken and rice dish that looked safe enough, so I set my mind to procure me some of that fancy Chinese food. It was somewhat reminiscent of kung pao in appearance, giving me a false sense of security as I headed into line.
As we got closer and closer to where the actual food was being dished out by lunch ladies (and a few gentleman) with surgical masks and/or spittle guards covering their mouths, I noticed that the average lunching employee ahead of me would fill his tray with various bowls and plates of all manner of things. Clearly variety was the habit of these folk, but as I looked at the variety present in my immediate future, I decided that habits were bad and I would not adopt theirs.
I got the chicken with rice. I got another bowl of plain white rice. They threw a few other bits on my tray that I felt would be bad form to give back. And I moved on up to the cashier.
The cashier saw my confused, scared American look and indicated that I should put my debit card on the sensor. I did so, and the light turned bright red, which in America would spell trouble but here in Red China I think that just means I was recognized as “one of the people.” She then gestured to a smattering of drink bottles and boxes. Most of the folks ahead of me were getting the boxes and so I pointed to the only thing I recognized: a sprite bottle with Chinese characters on it. She then also grabbed a handful of 3 candy bar things and threw them on my tray and then gestured in a way that clearly meant “move along.”
Ok, so let’s discuss chicken in China. I thought he was joking but as we were getting closer in line to the food, the office manager told me that “here in China we do chicken a little differently – we don’t waste anything.” Indeed that seems to be true, as my first bite of the chicken with rice immediately revealed that in addition to the very little meat that seemed to be in this morsel there was bone, cartilage and some other stuff I did not choose to think about too deeply.
I then did the only thing a civilized American can do. I looked around to ensure I was not being observed too closely, took one of my tiny napkins and pretended to wipe my mouth while spitting the stuff out into the fold. I then got up, went to the nearest counter and grabbed a knife and fork. So equipped I then began to seek through the morsels distributed throughout the rice, find the bits of meat that were accessible, and use the knife and fork to cut them off. My colleagues were polite enough not to say anything but I could see them watching with amusement.
Finally I asked, in response to their bemusement, “so what do experienced Chinese people do when they get a piece of bone in with their chicken?”
The office manager reaches over with his chop sticks, grabs a morsel that I’d not yet butchered, and pops it in his mouth. He then chews it thoughtfully and swallows it.
“You swallow the bones and all the other stuff?!?!?” I ask with raised eyebrows and unfeigned incredulity.
“No, I just got lucky,” he replies and then continues eating his meal. Totally unhelped by this, I continued with my knife and fork.
It was only as we were putting trays on the “done” conveyor (presumably to recycle unused parts back into the chicken dishes for next days’ lunches) that I happened to glance over at other tables and see experienced Chinese eaters spitting bones back out. Ah HA! I see the trick now. You use your teeth and tongue to do what I was trying to do with the knife and fork and then, like a snake regurgitating the bones of its digested victim, you spew the refuse like vile weeds from your mouth.
The next day’s lunch was a restaurant in a mall next store. This was with a larger group of maybe 8 or 9 people. The only other non-indigenous person was a guy from San Diego who also happened to be visiting this week. Dave was a veteran Shanghai visitor and loves the food here, which made me yet again the zoo exhibit as folks would rotate the lazy susan thingie in the middle around with a “did you try this yet, Scott?”
There were some things that were clearly safe like slices of meat but in many instances even the safe-looking things were not quite as they seemed. I tried something that looked a little like fried calamari and found it to be ok, then I was told it was fried jellyfish. Ok, good to know. I tried a bit more of it to be sure that new knowledge wouldn’t affect my opinion, and felt like I was blending in by doing so.
Then the next selection rotated into range and my blending skills fled.
That day for lunch I don’t know all of the weird things I tried, but I focused on the meat things that were presumably friendly to my Americanized and sensitive digestive track. There were some bits that stood out like this chilled leafy plant thing (it had frost on it and was served over ice) that you dipped in a brown sauce. The sauce turned out to be a spicy peanut sauce and the chilled leaves would practically melt in your mouth. Pretty good.
Day three (Wednesday) was a cafeteria day again, this time with some other colleagues. It turned out that it was some kind of “special cuisine” day and the place was mobbed. We stood in the western line at my recommendation, then abandoned it for the “sandwich” line since it was about one tenth the length of any of the others. While I remembered the age-old wisdom that “if no one is using it, there’s a reason” I figured that sandwiches are hard to get wrong, so I braved it.
Imagine a Subway (the sandwich place) where the bins of stuff they would put on your sandwich are for the most part full of unidentifiable vegetable or meat matter. Here, there were some containers that were friendly like lettuce and tomatoes, the two (could have been three but it really was difficult to be sure) meat buckets were suspicious looking. “What is that?” I asked, pointing to something that could have been slivers of meatloaf or some kind of stringy tofu. My question was answered by the lunch lady putting that on my sandwich. Ah ha. “Cheese?” got me a slice of some kind of cheese that reminded me of the fat free stuff we no longer get from the grocery store since after eating it we decided that it was better used to help slide furniture more smoothly over wooden floors.
The sandwich was ok – I think the meat I got was pork but it was difficult to tell. I ate 1/3 of it and called it quits. When it takes effort to enjoy something enough to chow down on it, your appetite is often the first thing you’re willing to surrender. My lunch colleagues seemed concerned that I was not eating enough, but clearly my BMI makes a strong case on its own that I'm not hurting in this regard.
Thursday I ventured down on my own to the cafeteria. This time I was committed to put the western line to the test. Only I could not find the elusive western line. It’s location from the previous days was hidden behind a stage upon which I’d later be presenting my talk and all of the lunch counters behind the stage were decommissioned for the day.
I walked around that entire cafeteria 2x looking for the alternative location, as there was an enticing sign that said it was serving something that looked a lot like beef and potatoes. I finally gave up and went to the a la carte line and about 5 minutes into that noticed deep in a far corner out of sight was tucked the western line. Happily I surrendered my position to take up the tail end of the line heading into a smorgasbord of western delights.
Upon finally getting around to the actual serving counter, I pointed to the beef and potato pot and was given a dish with that in it. It looked good but I was not going to throw caution to the wind and get my hopes up. As I inched forward in line there were 3 other lunch ladies serving up indescribably non-western-looking vegetable selections. They would each start to hand one of them to me and I’d give use universally understood sign language (scrunch your nose, turn your head away and wave your hands in a stand-offish posture) along with saying “no.” It brought back memories from the days from grade school. A shy little nerd vigorously shaking his head, refusing to eat the worm the bully is shoving toward his mouth. These lunch ladies each gave me a look of bully-like scorn and disappointment, making me feel ashamed and guilty for not taking any of the vegetable matter. As rational being, however, I refused to be swayed by such feelings. (Or, if you like, I was feeling fear more strongly than shame and guilt.)
When I finally got around to a table to sample my goodies, I discovered that the beef was in fact beef – but like the chicken there were bones and other parts along with it. I toyed with the idea of separating the meat from the non-meat like a professional (using my teeth and tongue) but ended up knife-and-forking it. I’m only human. And American. There were other bits in the stew that were quite mysterious, kind of like bones with insect-eaten cavities through them, but they could have also been hard noodles, or cartilage, or sponge-like creatures from outer space. It was hard to say since I opted out of giving them the taste test. The potatoes, though – those were awesomely pure in their potatoeness.
Friday I looked at the cafeteria showcase and saw that there was a “fried chicken with orange sauce” which made my heart soar with renewed hope. My stomach also soared but in a way so as to warn me that hope is a slow poison by which men die hungry in the midst of “plentiful food.”
Cautiously reckless, I inched my way up the a la carte line and saw my prize: fried chicken in orange sauce. Now, fried chicken where I come from actually looks fried. Here in Shanghai, it looks pan-cooked without any manner of delicious fats, oils and breading that an experienced American KFC patron might expect. But that’s a sin easily overlooked given that it was chicken without being hidden or obscured with other unidentifiable bits. The sauce, sure enough, was orange, but upon smelling it right then and there in front of the concerned lunch ladies, it was not in any way a citrus-based sauce. So, they didn’t lie to me: it indeed was orange.
Having attracted the attention of the lunch lady crew with my smell test, I decided I would not be caught with looks of shame and embarrassment from only having a single meat dish this time. There was another one called “spicy tofu.” I grabbed that plus a bowl of rice and while I avoided the vegetables I also avoided looking at the women doling them out, not wanting to lock eyes in some cross-cultural combat of will, assuming that just like the ravenous bugbladder beast of traal, they might assume that since I could not see them, they could not see me.
The fried chicken in orange-colored sauce was actually quite good – it was a buffalo kind of sauce which proved to be friendly enough and went well with the rice. The spicy tofu was edible but tofu has never found favor in my eyes, what with its perpetual attempt to emulate meat by missing its taste and texture all but completely.
Monday’s lunch was to be in the SAP cafeteria. I was given a special access card that also functions a bit like a debit card which allows me to procure lunch here. For this day I had the office manager and his #2 (X) accompany me down to the cafeteria. I could feel the tension and pressure of them wondering what Scott was going to have for lunch.
The cafeteria is arranged such that there are many lunch lines, each of which have a large sign hanging over the entry, announcing the general category of food one might expect out of that line. There is traditional Chinese, vegetarian, sandwiches, a la carte and, happy day, a “western” line.
Since today I was with these two folks and they wanted me to experience all of China at its best, I reluctantly agreed to head into the traditional Chinese line. Now to be fair, they showed me a display that showcased the various foods available in each area, and there was a chicken and rice dish that looked safe enough, so I set my mind to procure me some of that fancy Chinese food. It was somewhat reminiscent of kung pao in appearance, giving me a false sense of security as I headed into line.
As we got closer and closer to where the actual food was being dished out by lunch ladies (and a few gentleman) with surgical masks and/or spittle guards covering their mouths, I noticed that the average lunching employee ahead of me would fill his tray with various bowls and plates of all manner of things. Clearly variety was the habit of these folk, but as I looked at the variety present in my immediate future, I decided that habits were bad and I would not adopt theirs.
I got the chicken with rice. I got another bowl of plain white rice. They threw a few other bits on my tray that I felt would be bad form to give back. And I moved on up to the cashier.
The cashier saw my confused, scared American look and indicated that I should put my debit card on the sensor. I did so, and the light turned bright red, which in America would spell trouble but here in Red China I think that just means I was recognized as “one of the people.” She then gestured to a smattering of drink bottles and boxes. Most of the folks ahead of me were getting the boxes and so I pointed to the only thing I recognized: a sprite bottle with Chinese characters on it. She then also grabbed a handful of 3 candy bar things and threw them on my tray and then gestured in a way that clearly meant “move along.”
Ok, so let’s discuss chicken in China. I thought he was joking but as we were getting closer in line to the food, the office manager told me that “here in China we do chicken a little differently – we don’t waste anything.” Indeed that seems to be true, as my first bite of the chicken with rice immediately revealed that in addition to the very little meat that seemed to be in this morsel there was bone, cartilage and some other stuff I did not choose to think about too deeply.
I then did the only thing a civilized American can do. I looked around to ensure I was not being observed too closely, took one of my tiny napkins and pretended to wipe my mouth while spitting the stuff out into the fold. I then got up, went to the nearest counter and grabbed a knife and fork. So equipped I then began to seek through the morsels distributed throughout the rice, find the bits of meat that were accessible, and use the knife and fork to cut them off. My colleagues were polite enough not to say anything but I could see them watching with amusement.
Finally I asked, in response to their bemusement, “so what do experienced Chinese people do when they get a piece of bone in with their chicken?”
The office manager reaches over with his chop sticks, grabs a morsel that I’d not yet butchered, and pops it in his mouth. He then chews it thoughtfully and swallows it.
“You swallow the bones and all the other stuff?!?!?” I ask with raised eyebrows and unfeigned incredulity.
“No, I just got lucky,” he replies and then continues eating his meal. Totally unhelped by this, I continued with my knife and fork.
It was only as we were putting trays on the “done” conveyor (presumably to recycle unused parts back into the chicken dishes for next days’ lunches) that I happened to glance over at other tables and see experienced Chinese eaters spitting bones back out. Ah HA! I see the trick now. You use your teeth and tongue to do what I was trying to do with the knife and fork and then, like a snake regurgitating the bones of its digested victim, you spew the refuse like vile weeds from your mouth.
The next day’s lunch was a restaurant in a mall next store. This was with a larger group of maybe 8 or 9 people. The only other non-indigenous person was a guy from San Diego who also happened to be visiting this week. Dave was a veteran Shanghai visitor and loves the food here, which made me yet again the zoo exhibit as folks would rotate the lazy susan thingie in the middle around with a “did you try this yet, Scott?”
There were some things that were clearly safe like slices of meat but in many instances even the safe-looking things were not quite as they seemed. I tried something that looked a little like fried calamari and found it to be ok, then I was told it was fried jellyfish. Ok, good to know. I tried a bit more of it to be sure that new knowledge wouldn’t affect my opinion, and felt like I was blending in by doing so.
Then the next selection rotated into range and my blending skills fled.
That day for lunch I don’t know all of the weird things I tried, but I focused on the meat things that were presumably friendly to my Americanized and sensitive digestive track. There were some bits that stood out like this chilled leafy plant thing (it had frost on it and was served over ice) that you dipped in a brown sauce. The sauce turned out to be a spicy peanut sauce and the chilled leaves would practically melt in your mouth. Pretty good.
Day three (Wednesday) was a cafeteria day again, this time with some other colleagues. It turned out that it was some kind of “special cuisine” day and the place was mobbed. We stood in the western line at my recommendation, then abandoned it for the “sandwich” line since it was about one tenth the length of any of the others. While I remembered the age-old wisdom that “if no one is using it, there’s a reason” I figured that sandwiches are hard to get wrong, so I braved it.
 |
| I suppose you could get a sandwich wrong. Still best not to go with the vegetarian option, though. |
The sandwich was ok – I think the meat I got was pork but it was difficult to tell. I ate 1/3 of it and called it quits. When it takes effort to enjoy something enough to chow down on it, your appetite is often the first thing you’re willing to surrender. My lunch colleagues seemed concerned that I was not eating enough, but clearly my BMI makes a strong case on its own that I'm not hurting in this regard.
Thursday I ventured down on my own to the cafeteria. This time I was committed to put the western line to the test. Only I could not find the elusive western line. It’s location from the previous days was hidden behind a stage upon which I’d later be presenting my talk and all of the lunch counters behind the stage were decommissioned for the day.
I walked around that entire cafeteria 2x looking for the alternative location, as there was an enticing sign that said it was serving something that looked a lot like beef and potatoes. I finally gave up and went to the a la carte line and about 5 minutes into that noticed deep in a far corner out of sight was tucked the western line. Happily I surrendered my position to take up the tail end of the line heading into a smorgasbord of western delights.
Upon finally getting around to the actual serving counter, I pointed to the beef and potato pot and was given a dish with that in it. It looked good but I was not going to throw caution to the wind and get my hopes up. As I inched forward in line there were 3 other lunch ladies serving up indescribably non-western-looking vegetable selections. They would each start to hand one of them to me and I’d give use universally understood sign language (scrunch your nose, turn your head away and wave your hands in a stand-offish posture) along with saying “no.” It brought back memories from the days from grade school. A shy little nerd vigorously shaking his head, refusing to eat the worm the bully is shoving toward his mouth. These lunch ladies each gave me a look of bully-like scorn and disappointment, making me feel ashamed and guilty for not taking any of the vegetable matter. As rational being, however, I refused to be swayed by such feelings. (Or, if you like, I was feeling fear more strongly than shame and guilt.)
When I finally got around to a table to sample my goodies, I discovered that the beef was in fact beef – but like the chicken there were bones and other parts along with it. I toyed with the idea of separating the meat from the non-meat like a professional (using my teeth and tongue) but ended up knife-and-forking it. I’m only human. And American. There were other bits in the stew that were quite mysterious, kind of like bones with insect-eaten cavities through them, but they could have also been hard noodles, or cartilage, or sponge-like creatures from outer space. It was hard to say since I opted out of giving them the taste test. The potatoes, though – those were awesomely pure in their potatoeness.
Friday I looked at the cafeteria showcase and saw that there was a “fried chicken with orange sauce” which made my heart soar with renewed hope. My stomach also soared but in a way so as to warn me that hope is a slow poison by which men die hungry in the midst of “plentiful food.”
 |
| Chicken, chicken everywhere and not a bite to eat. |
Having attracted the attention of the lunch lady crew with my smell test, I decided I would not be caught with looks of shame and embarrassment from only having a single meat dish this time. There was another one called “spicy tofu.” I grabbed that plus a bowl of rice and while I avoided the vegetables I also avoided looking at the women doling them out, not wanting to lock eyes in some cross-cultural combat of will, assuming that just like the ravenous bugbladder beast of traal, they might assume that since I could not see them, they could not see me.
The fried chicken in orange-colored sauce was actually quite good – it was a buffalo kind of sauce which proved to be friendly enough and went well with the rice. The spicy tofu was edible but tofu has never found favor in my eyes, what with its perpetual attempt to emulate meat by missing its taste and texture all but completely.
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