It all started with a wooden table in an alley: square, unadorned, pressed up against a cement wall. It wobbled a bit on the uneven cobbles.
Somewhere nearby, a game of mahjong- the soft clinking of tiles echoed faintly on the evening air. Wisps of a forgotten dream, sounds from another time. I imagined the room where they played. Dark, smoky. Fingers twisted with age shuffling, shuffling, shuffling. The worn bone and bamboo whispers as it slides between mysterious symbolism and a poetry of deeper meaning. Through all that is lost and everything that is gained, what will be revealed? Plum blossom, peacock, white tiger, sword.
The restaurant glowed. It was a rectangle of warm light spilled out across the alley. We stood gazing in at a lone table. A family: mother, daughter, grandmother. Three generations of women joined together, eating. It wasn’t long before they noticed us- the two hungry travelers in the fading light- and shuffled out with greetings and big smiles. I did my best imitation of myself eating noodles, or soup- or really anything delicious from an invisible bowl that I held cradled in my left hand. “Can we eat here?”
Happy nods from all the ladies and a gesture to sit. They gathered around us, and everyone seemed filled with a sort of excited anticipation, myself included. I eyed the large menu pinned to the wall across from where we sat. It was an intricate tangle of red characters: beautiful, ornate, and completely foreign. I stared, thinking that if I concentrated hard enough something familiar would emerge. Nothing happened. Today was not the day that I would be miraculously infused with complete knowledge of the magnificent opus that is Chinese cuisine. The daughter made a motion toward the menu. It was quite clear that she was encouraging us to order some dinner.
My husband and I broke into an arm flailing pantomime. Somewhere within these motions was the phrase “we will have whatever you recommend.” Of course, everyone started laughing. A look passed between us all- one that clearly said “Ok. What now?”
Mom picked up a long wooden pole that had been sitting propped up against the wall and used it to point to one of the items on the menu. The expression on her face was one of nervous uncertainty. We nodded energetically. Yes! Yes! Everyone laughed again, and then the stick got handed over to me. I took my place closer to the menu, suddenly feeling like Vanna White on the Wheel of Fortune. Could I get a rice? Something spicy? A dumpling? I will take noodles for 7 RMB, thank you, Pat. I started to think that things might be easier if I were blindfolded and spun around first. Or maybe just given a dart to fling wildly at the board. That might work. I studied the menu intensely – still holding tight to the fantasy of spontaneous understanding. I pointed the stick to the third one down from the top. Daughter shook her head ‘no’. No? Really? What had I just attempted to order? I was worried now, and my eyes were wide when I wielded the stick at item number 5. A resounding yes from all the ladies. That was good. Moving in the right direction. The fates of our stomachs were completely in their hands. I just hoped that we weren’t going to end up with a bowl of seasoned duck heads like the one I had seen at a lunch counter at the market a few days before. Not sure how we would go about tackling that one- google didn’t offer much in the way of insight. I went ahead and pointed to the last dish on the menu. The action was met with an adamant ‘no.’ At this point, I was becoming rather obsessed with the dishes that they didn’t want to serve us. I tried to imagine what it was that they deemed unfit for the foreign palate.
I handed the pointing stick over to my husband. I had struck out, and now it was his turn. He started at the top, brandishing the stick like a divining rod. His selection was approved, and mom got busy behind the wok that was set up in the alley. We returned to our seats at the little table. What a rush. It felt like Christmas. What are we gonna get? What are we gonna get? I tapped my toes under the table. We shared a beer. The wok hissed.
Grandma came back outside- a bowl and a set of chopsticks in one hand and a small glass filled half way with what looked like water in the other. She walked over, set her bowl down on our table, took a drink from her little glass, then handed it to my husband. I watched as he took a sip. You can’t say no to grandma. The glass came my way, and I took a healthy swig. It was sweet, fruity, and burning. In an instant my brain lit up. Grandma laughed. She picked up her bowl, pinched a piece of food between her chopsticks, and held it out for my husband to eat. As she did the same for me, I watched her hands- knobby knuckles with soft skin pulled tight. They reminded me of my grandmother’s hands, and at this moment she was my grandmother. All grandmothers. Proud. Making sure we weren’t hungry. Making sure we were well fed. You can’t say no to grandma- even if it is cow stomach she is feeding you.
Then she was off- making her way down the alley, perhaps to visit a friend. At that moment another bowl arrived, filled to the brim with steaming broth, a handful of dumplings bobbing within. The wrappers were translucent and so delicate that they looked barely capable of holding the tender globe of meat within. They seemed to flutter in the soup- as if made by the hands of angels. We ate. It was delicious. We were speechless.
Who needs words, anyway?
