The Cooking Lesson

Tim and Mandy were immediately drawn to the little restaurant in the old part of the city. The pink walls, giant chandelier, and wooden tables were all a nice touch, but it was mostly the stacked cases of Tsingtao in the corner that sealed the deal. The place fit their criteria: a small busy place with no English menu. Small and busy meant that locals liked to go there so it was likely good and cheap and though they didn’t speak much Chinese and could read none, they had an inherent distrust of any place that would translate a menu. It was as if the English itself might flavor the food with its Western blandness. And after all, weren’t they here to immerse themselves into the culture?

A nervously smiling waitress cleared a table, gave them menus, and stood and waited for them to order. All attempts to say and pantomime “a moment please” were futile. A Chinese waiter has the patience of a Buddhist monk and will wait placidly even if the other tables are showing obvious irritation at the wait.

Tim and Mandy, coming from countries of exaggerated customer service, felt pressured and looked at what everyone else was eating. From the cursory glance, it appeared to be a Sichuan place, a blessing while eating, a curse while digesting. They pointed at a whole fried fish swimming in a dark red spicy looking broth, a plate of vegetables, and Mandy pulled out her cheat sheet to order some gan bian tu dou, aka. Sichuan Fries. They ordered the four beers in Chinese and quickly enough plastic glasses, the warm beer, and a snack of pickled mushrooms were brought to the table.

When they were about six beers in and had devoured both sides of the fish save the eyes, the chef came out to greet them. He shook their hands, gave them each a cigarette, and said a few unintelligible words. This was enough to make Tim and Mandy feel they had found their special spot in the vast and unfriendly city, so they made the restaurant they affectionately called, “The Sichuan” a weekly haunt.

As they became a little better with their Chinese and a little braver with their choices (“absolutely no offal. The name says it all.”), the chef also became increasingly friendlier. He brought them small glasses of bai jiu, the lethal lubricant of most social gatherings and small dishes to try. He occasionally sat with them to test out his English and though all became braver with their second languages, the best they could manage was names, hometowns, age, and jobs.

Mandy became obsessed with the idea of asking Yutong (as he was now known to them) to show her how to cook a dish, maybe a simple one like gan bian si ji dou, or dry-fried green beans. She practiced how to ask, chickened out a couple of times and finally one Friday night emboldened by pre-dinner drinks, asked the great master for an impromptu lesson.

The smile that erupted on Yutong’s face told Mandy that she ought to have asked ages ago—that it was a final step in cementing the relationship—like asking a scientist to share his life’s work. The pride that can only come from someone saying, “Show me how you do it.”

Yutong mimed and spoke in that special mix of English and Chinese indicating that they should wait until 9:00 when the crowd had thinned out. He even brought them a complimentary plate of dumplings and 2 beers, having become familiar by now the quantity and swiftness with which the young couple could consume food and drink.

When Mandy pushed open the swinging saloon like doors, she encountered a scene she had not thought possible in a modern, second tier city. Thick black grease coated every vertical surface like stucco; cockroaches waddled from side to side, a rat scurried out the door, seeming to sense the discomfort of the foreigner. Unlabeled bottles and tins were stacked on makeshift wooden shelves and silver bowls of spices were lined up next to the woks. Vegetables in baskets hung from the ceiling still had soil clinging to them. Piled in different parts of the counter were slabs of pork, beef, and chicken, their blood comingling upon the floor. Fish lay motionless in basins on the floor staring blankly at the dim light bulbs above. Mandy gasped and Yutong smiled wider as if it to say, “Yes, I know. It’s spectacular, isn’t it?”

Yutong’s teaching style was much more teacher centered than the young ESL teacher was accustomed to. Using one shallow ladle, he put dark oil in to the wok and at lightning speed, dipped the ladle into the silver bowls of red, white, and brown powders. Chilies, vegetables, and meat seemed to make their way in from nowhere and all was stirred together with that familiar sound of metal on wok that people know all over the world. He poured the hui guo rou onto a plate and together they emerged from the narrow kitchen and Yutong gave Mandy the dish to present to Tim. Feeling a little blinded by the bright lights, she managed a smile as Tim dug out a huge fork full and put it in his mouth.

The demonstration had lasted 4:20 but its effects on Mandy were to be much longer and far reaching. Later that night she recounted the dozens of health code violations, including the use of the recycled oil—something they had heard rumors of but didn’t quite believe, despite the fact that many restaurants put unopened jugs in their front windows as a sort of advertisement.

After the cooking lesson, Mandy was no longer able to dine in small, cozy local restaurants, opting instead for cooking at home. With one major source of practice eliminated, Mandy and Tim’s Chinese faded and disappeared all together. When their contract finished, they were asked why they didn’t sign another. “Can’t stand the heat.”