There is a scene in the television show Friends where the six main characters—the titular friends—discuss “Chinese food.” Chandler jokingly remarks, “Yes, but in China, they just call it food.”
It was a humorous moment, and it made perfect sense. In Italy, they do not refer to it as Italian food. In Mexico, they do not call it Mexican food. In Vietnam, they do not call it… well, you get the idea.
As I later discovered, there is a distinct difference between the Chinese cuisine enjoyed by the Chinese themselves and the “Chinese food” consumed by Americans. Most Americans who delight in Chinese cuisine are either unaware of this or unwilling to acknowledge it. I, too, once fell into this category. Growing up in San Francisco’s Telegraph Hill neighbourhood, just above Chinatown, I consumed a significant amount of Chinese food. I believed I understood it well. Cha siu bao for lunch, fried rice for dinner, and those little custard tarts known as dan taat. I was well-acquainted with potstickers, barbecued pork, egg rolls, and shrimp chow mein. My father even made a rather commendable version of mapo tofu.
When my wife—my girlfriend at the time—first arrived from Hong Kong, I was eager to impress her with my knowledge of her cultural heritage. I had read extensively about China—its history, legends, philosophers, art, poetry, and, of course, its cuisine. So, upon her arrival, I took her to a Chinese restaurant for dinner. Having learned the custom, I took the liberty of ordering for us: cashew chicken, prawns with snow peas, beef with bok choy, sweet and sour pork, and steamed rice. I was confident in my selections. I was certain I knew Chinese cuisine. To further demonstrate my expertise, I ordered an appetiser of potstickers and even chrysanthemum tea, believing she might appreciate the thoughtful touch.
Our meal arrived, and it looked exquisite. We helped ourselves from the shared dishes, and I found the food quite enjoyable. Gesturing toward the spread before us, I remarked on how wonderful everything was. My wife, who, as I said, was my girlfriend at that point, ever gracious, smiled and agreed. However, I noticed she had yet to sample the sweet and sour pork. Curious, I inquired whether she liked the dish—purely for future reference, of course.
“Oh, yes, it is fine,” she assured me. “I am just leaving it for you to enjoy.”
“I am enjoying it,” I said. “Please, help yourself.”
She served herself a small portion—merely a bite or two—but continued to focus on the chicken, prawns, and beef with bok choy. I sensed there was more to her reluctance, so I asked directly: “Do you not like sweet and sour pork?”
“Oh, yes, I like it,” she repeated before elaborating. “But it is more a dish that foreigners might prefer.”
Foreigners? Uh-oh. I had heard that some so-called Chinese dishes were not genuinely Chinese, or at least had not originated in China—dishes like chop suey, General Tso’s chicken, and crab rangoon. Yikes. Did she think of me as a foreigner? And here I was, attempting to be cultured and refined, trying to impress her with my worldliness.
“It’s not a Chinese dish?”
“Oh, it is,” she clarified. “But for us, in my family at least, it is more of a dish for children.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa, I thought. Wait a minute. “A dish for kids?”
“It is the sugar,” she explained.
“The sugar?”
“Children like sweet flavours.”
Well, I thought, I like sweet things too, but hey, I was trying to amaze this lady with my knowledge and experience. I wanted her to think I was sophisticated and worldly. I had been to Hong Kong. In fact, that’s where we met. I wanted her to think of me as urbane and cosmopolitan. The way I thought of her. I wanted her to think I was a rock star. Hip. Refined.
We decided to conduct a small, unscientific experiment. Discreetly, we surveyed the surrounding tables. As this was a Chinese restaurant, many patrons were indeed Chinese. However, given the restaurant’s location in The Cannery, a tourist-centric area of San Francisco, there were also numerous Caucasian diners. To my astonishment, every table occupied by American patrons—and I mean every table—had a plate of sweet and sour pork. Notably, none of these tables included children. Hmm. Interesting. Meanwhile, every table with Chinese diners, at least those within our view, conspicuously lacked the dish. I took mental note.
That was the beginning of my education in the finer points of Chinese cuisine.
I have never ordered sweet and sour pork again.
And let us not even discuss the moment the fortune cookies arrived at the end of the meal.
“What are these?”
“Fortune cookies,” I replied.
“What?”
“Do you not know what fortune cookies are?”
The following day, I resolved to take her to Clown Alley—a quintessential San Francisco burger joint—for a proper American hamburger, complete with crisp lettuce, ripe tomatoes, tangy relish, onions, ketchup, and juices dripping down our wrists. We would order fries and vanilla milkshakes as well. I would show her just how effortlessly cool I could be.
Header image: A film still from Fremont.
How to cite: Beyl, Jeff. “The Beginning of My Education in The Finer Points of Chinese Cuisine.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 9 Feb. 2025, chajournal.blog/2025/02/09/chinese-cuisine.
Jeff Beyl writes about nature, fly-fishing, music, geology, surfing, and the ocean. He has been published in several magazines such as Big Sky Journal, Outside Bozeman, Montana Fly-fishing, Idaho Magazine, Northwest Sportsman, Ocean Magazine, Snowy Egret Literary Journal. His book, A Conversation With the Earth, was published in 2020. He has travelled widely through Asia, Hong Kong, Japan, Europe, the Caribbean and the Mediterranean. He is a jazz guitarist and photographer, scuba diver and fly-fisherman. He lives in Seattle with his wife. [All contributions by Jeff Beyl.]