Christmas

I have now celebrated 25 Christmases, and though they've varied wildly in terms of location, company and gift quality (the bubble gum pink shoes were a nadir), every celebration has been marked by reconnecting with people I haven't seen in a while. This year, Christmas sort of turned into this domino effect of families latching onto other friends and families to converge in Vegas. At one point, we had a roving horde of 20 asian people. Seriously, if I weren't part of this group, I would be scared of us. It was loud. I tried to get people to form battle formations, but this proved to be too complicated/people were inept at making rows of four. Then, I assigned everyone a number and tried to get people to count off. This was also a formidable task because people kept forgetting their numbers. Le sigh.

Three years ago, when we gathered with this set of relatives, we put together a gingerbread house. Since the constructing-something-gingerbread thing clearly needs to become a tradition, I picked up a gingerbread tree this year. The piping of the icing was surprisingly tricky, the green icing didn't look at all like leaves (the way the box looked) and the overall effect was sort of like slime dripping down steps.

Here's the finished tree, with a snowman on the bottom-left and presents in front. Some of us (high school boys, ahem) looked at the presents (upside-down) and immediately started making comments about boobs.

Then of course, we immediately dismantled the entire thing. The gingerbread was pretty tough to bite, but it was still edible overall. Mmm, sugar, preservatives and Red 5.

That's right, we were all drinking (mock) mojitos by noon on Christmas. What better way to celebrate a birthday??

As a reminder that we are in Vegas, the house down the street has this ridiculous 90,000 light display, synchronized to music broadcast on 95.9 FM for a four-block radius. According to the hand-out, the owners begin work on the lighting system after Halloween, and the light show goes live after Thanksgiving. There are 16 dedicated circuits of 20 amps each powering the lights, and the electricity bill is comparable to one month of heavy summer a/c. You can't see it in the video, but there is a custom made Ferris wheel, built in pieces similar to an erector set. During the off-season, the lights and equipment are stored in a large barn. Why do they do it? "We are both still kids at heart, and enjoy seein the smiles on all the children, especially the "adult" ones. This is our Christmas gift to everyone." Let's hear it for public goods.

Hanazono-Jinja Shrine

Shinjuku is a bustling commuter hub, filled with Tokyo's ubiquitous commercial outlets and neon blazing signs. However, it also includes some more interesting enclaves, like Kabukicho, the red light district, filled with sex shops and populated by Triad members and Nigerian criminal syndicates. There is also Shinjuku ni-chome, the city's gay district, which was disappointingly tame compared to the more raucous gay districts of NYC and Chicago. I decided to take a trip to the Hanazono-Jinja shrine, just a few blocks northeast of the train station. By day, merchants come here to pray for the success of their businesses. By night, well let's just say the area takes on a decidedly unsolemn character.

Approaching the temple, the pathway is marked by the distinctive gate of a Shinto shrine. Street vendors hawked goods on either side, and the crowds began to thicken.

This vendor was selling some type of curry or soup, with the fresh lobsters and conches to show for it.

Yakitori and other variations of meat on a stick were also omnipresent. Grease splattered from the grates and smoke billowed from charcoal grills. I kept thinking that there should be a way to capture and record smells, because there are no words to describe how delicious everything smelled.

I'm not entirely sure what this stall was selling; it seems to be some kind of fruit in an ice bath.

This is a goldfish scooping game, where you are given a scoop called a poi that is fragile and easily torn. You carefully scoop up as many goldfish as you can before your poi is completely torn, then you get to take the goldfish home in a plastic bag.

Takoyaki, or octopus balls, cooked in a pancake dough-like batter and doused with a sweet and sour okonomiyaki sauce. I bought half a dozen for ¥500.

The chocolate and candy dipped bananas here come with sprinkles and teddy bear cookies attached at the top. I was impressed at the tricolor ones in the back row.

Oh right, we were here to see a shrine! This is the long line of people waiting to get in. The police were directing people to form an orderly line and as is the usual case in Japan, everyone readily complied.

You can buy offerings from the dozens of vendors immediately adjacent. Each vendor is marked with a sign that explains what you are asking for, e.g. blessings for a rock or mining-related business, or a forestry-related business, or for success on university entrance exams.

Finally, there were a few men who seemed to be moving from stall to stall, striking wooden clappers in a rhythmic pattern whenever someone bought something. I wish I'd paid more attention in Shinto Sunday school...if anyone has a better idea of what's going on, feel free to correct. Apologies that the video is rotated 90 degrees, Youtube refuses to recognize my video as being vertical.

Kawagoe or "Little Edo"

Inspired by a Sept NYT article, I trekked to Kawagoe this morning to check out the town nicknamed "Little Edo," in reference to the ancient name for Tokyo. Here, you will be transported to the Tokyo of yore, via the town's well-preserved kura, or late 19th century warehouses. Ironically, the preservation of the buildings is due to the resistance of the town's landlords to railways during the Meiji Era. Consequently, many of the town's buildings survived the bombing of WW2.

These days, the kura are used not as warehouses but as retail spaces. Peeking my head under the half-curtains, there were shops for candies, crackers, kimonos, pickles, and more.

Best of all, many of the shops offered samples. And though I don't generally snack between meals, I suddenly felt the compulsion to buy every cracker product under the Kawagoe sun.

In case seaweed rice crackers or green tea candy alone doesn't appeal to you, you can opt to buy super cute panda-wrapped crackers.

Kawagoe's most prominent agricultural crop is sweet potatoes, and you can find all sorts of products made out of sweet potato here, from crackers to sake. This food stall was selling triangular sweet potato cakes, fresh off the griddle. I quickly snapped up three of them.

Three or four varieties of sweet potatoes were also on sale.

The centerpiece of Kawagoe is its bell tower, with a chime that rings four times a day.

Suddenly, a guy began yelling with a megaphone to the street. A parade with drummers and men with conical straw hats followed. I wish I had understood what the announcer was saying, and whether I just witnessed some sort of protest or a historical memorial or a funeral or what.

Just behind the kura district is Kashiya Yokocho, or Penny Candy Lane. This narrow alley is packed with vendors selling candies, crackers (slightly cheaper than on the previous street), and gift items.

One of the local products here is fu, which comes either in large loafs the size of a French baguette, or cut in smaller chunks about 3" long. From the signage, it is made of wheat and sugar, and is a bit lighter than bread. I haven't tried it, but I was convinced by a shopkeeper to buy a bag and bring it home for sampling.

The Kita-in Temple was on my walk back. The original building was destroyed after a fire in 1638, but shogun Tokugawa Iemitsu ordered buildings moved from Edo Castle to the temple.
The grounds also include Hie Shrine. It's funny how many Bhuddist temples and Shinto shrines share the same grounds. When's the last time you ever saw a combined Catholic cathedral and Jewish synagogue?

I am not sure what god this statue is supposed to commemorate, but it seems to be a protector of children based on the offerings: pinwheels, Care Bears, pacifiers, juice boxes, a persimmon, candies...

Finally, the courtyard contains Gohyaku Rakan, or the 500 disciples of Bhudda. Amusingly enough, the monks are depicted in all manner of expression: laughing, drinking, and even picking their noses.

Onsen

When I set out on this trip to Tokyo, I wanted to embrace my fellow Asians and truly explore what it was like to live in Japan. I wanted to bathe in a pool of the unknown, luxuriate in the warm waters cultural learning, and plunge headlong into uncomfortable situations.

And so, dear readers, that is how I found myself at an onsen.

An onsen is a public bathhouse heated naturally by hot springs. A sento is similar, only the water is heated rather than sourced from a hot spring. The public baths are all over Tokyo and are generously subsidized by the the local government, which means bathing at an average sento will generally only set you back ¥500 or so. In return, you will be soaking in the neighborhood chatter, with people from all ages and all walks of life. Suffice it to say, English is not spoken here.

Reading through the Lonely Planet listings, the onsen in Ginza seemed the most conveniently located/priced. The description, however, was a bit daunting: "The fact that this straightforward Meiji-era bath manages to keep its wits about it, even as real estates continue to climb in the ritzy Ginza that surrounds it, must be one of Tokyo's best jokes. The bath mistress is a daunting battle-axe - no kidding, this gal chews tacks. With this in mind, make sure you scrub extra hard behind your ears." All righty then!

I circled around the block several times as I set off to find the onsen, which (as expected) was marked by a tiny sign and a half curtain leading down a narrow flight of stairs into a humid basement with a bunch of lockers. What next?

As I sat scratching my head, a man emerged from one of the doors and pulled an umbrella out of a small locker. Aha, I hadn't noticed the umbrella icon on the keys.

Then, he put a wooden block into a larger locker and pulled out his shoes. The wood blocks were a rudimentary key system with lines carved to match the key hole.

At this point, I'd stared long enough at the signage to figure out the onsen was ¥450 for admission, and for another ¥100, you could get a towel set with a towel, soap and shampoo. So I stored my umbrella and shoes and resolutely marched inside the door marked for women.

Immediately to my right, there was a counter with the bathhouse attendant. I explained that I was American and heads immediately swiveled. After handing over my money, I stripped off my clothing and put it in a locker. Next, you are supposed to thoroughly scrub yourself clean with a bucket and washcloth. I spotted a few buckets in a corner and grabbed one. Hmm, looks sort of dirty, I thought. As I headed into the scrubbing area, I heard shouts behind me. Oops, I'd mistakenly grabbed a regular bucket. There was another stack of buckets inside that I was supposed to use. Bathhouse faux pas #1, check.

Another woman was cleaning herself inside, so I figured I should scrub at least until she finished. Though I usually shower in 2 minutes or less, Lonely Planet suggested that 10 minutes or so was a solid amount. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, and the woman was still there. At this point, I decided that I'd sufficiently scrubbed myself red, and headed toward the bath. Wait, she said, and motioned towards my hair. Oh, should it be tied up? I gestured. She took a hair pin out of her hair and stuck it in mine. I was now cleared to enter the bath. Bathhouse faux pas #2, check.

Now, when they say "hot," they aren't effing around. I slowly dipped a foot inside, and almost yelped from shock. Gradually, I submerged my whole body into the bath, which had a whirlpool of hot water circulating from the bottom and seating on the sides. First time? asked the other woman. I nodded yes, and explained that I was American, from Chicago. With some additional charades, I told her that I was Chinese, and then gave her my American and Chinese names.

At this point, the water was really, really hot, and my skin was wrinkling like a Sharpei dog. Also, I really needed to pee, and being submerged in warm water wasn't helping. I eyed the clock. It had been about 5 minutes, maybe ten. I forced myself to stay in for a few more minutes, then decided to call it quits. I rinsed myself off with cooler water and tried to stop my head from spinning.

The small hand towel that I'd bought was completely soaked, which left me with a dilemma: how to dry myself. In the end, I simply wrung out the towel and dried myself off as much as possible, then changed back into my street clothing slightly damp. I returned the hairpin back to the woman, who looked me up and down and asked, You okay? Yes, I smiled.

Lessons learned: bring your own towel and hairpins to the onsen, pee beforehand, be prepared for uncomfortably hot temperatures. I don't think I would do it again (I really prefer lukewarm showers) but after a long day of walking around the city, the hot water did wonders for curing sore muscles and I slept like a baby afterwards.

Observations from My Old Kentucky Home

Some assorted thoughts from the weekend...

1. I feel sad for people whose parents/grandparents can't cook because solid home-cooked meal >>> restaurant any day. When I decided to skip the bachelorette party at Buca di Beppo, my calculus was mostly influenced by the roast duck, bitter melon, salt & pepper shrimp, soy chicken wings, roasted pork belly, fish maw & egg drop soup, shiitake, scallop and broccoli stir fry, and almond tofu that my aunt was preparing for a typical Friday night dinner. I've also come to realize that my grandma is excellent at pickling things and making buns from scratch, and that none of the rest of us (including my mom) know how to do this. Is it too late to go back and learn?
   
2. For some reason, I can't help raising my voice about 40 decibels as soon as I'm in a room full of Chinese women. And you guys thought I was loud before.
3. Everyone and their mother was telling me that I've gotten thinner. Sure, I am in better shape than I was during college, mostly because of all the intracity biking, but I never made a conscious decision to lose weight. I mean, I even have a desk job now. This kind of makes me wonder how fat I was before.
4. Including the bride, there were 4 other girls in the bridal party. I liked precisely one of them. Well, the other two bridesmaids were nice enough, just a little too vanilla. On the other hand, my newfound bff Cat was wearing a Gryffindor hoodie when we met. Other ways to win my respect include: expressing admiration for the Cornell DC++ hub, bringing up the divorce court dance video after someone mentioned the (much ballyhooed) wedding entrance dance video.
5. I haven't kept in close touch with that many people from Louisville, but there were a couple that I would have wanted to call up. Unfortunately, I had zero free time/spent far too many hours in nail/hair salons over the weekend. So then, I just didn't tell people I was in town at all. Would it have better for me to say, "Want to come meet me in the parking lot of the temple? And bring food, please??"
   

Reason #238 Why Being Home Rocks

I consider myself a pretty good home cook, but there's nothing like getting home and being welcomed by a ginormous bowl of bún riêu, or rice vermicelli with crab. This is usually done with a spicy seafood broth, and my mom shelled a dozen crabs for this, so it's extremely flavorful. In this cannot-be-bought-in-restaurants rendition, you can see huge hunks of crab meat, accompanied by tomato, bean sprouts, lettuce, mint and thai basil.

Blood is Thicker than Water

Last Sunday, I checked my phone to find three voicemails in the span of an hour. The first was my mom, frantically telling me that my cousin Fong was in town, and that we should hang out and could I please make sure my apartment was clean if he came over. The second was my aunt, telling me that my cousin Fong was in town, and that we should spend some time together. The third was (surprise!) my cousin Fong, who said that he was in town and we should get together. All right, all right...

To provide some background knowledge, Fong is one of the cousins on my mom's side that we don't particularly keep in touch with. I hadn't seen him since about 6th grade. I didn't know what he was doing job-wise, or where he was living. I couldn't remember how old he was. Hell, I didn't even know his (English) name. This was pretty much like a blind date except for that sharing genetics part. Hesitantly, I picked up the phone and tried to tease out what he liked to do, so I could get a better sense of what form this hang-out would take. After all, this is Chicago, so we could have done anything from seeing Jersey Boys to jeering in the bleachers at a Cubs game.

I threw out the idea of a brewpub, and Fong was on that like white on rice. (Go figure, beer is almost always a sure-fire common denominator.) Since I've been meaning to go back to the Publican, I billed the restaurant as the ultimate anti-Semitic temple to pork, oysters and beer and Fong readily agreed to meet me there. He also said that he would eat anything. So far, so good.

On Monday, Fong gave me a call to find out what time I would be free. "Well, I'm about to go to a lecture by Michael Pollan right now, but that should only last an hour. Um, he's an activist who supports sustainable agriculture and eco-conscious eating. He wrote Omnivore's Dilemma, if you've heard of that...Actually, you don't need to give me a ride to the restaurant because I'm going to bike."

At the restaurant, I waited and nervously scanned the incoming crowd for Asian guys. Finally, there was a tap on my shoulder. "Fong, what's up? It's been forever!" I hugged Fong and looked him over. A little shorter than I remembered (or maybe I had simply grown), but still a recognizable fit with my hazy memories. Fong took a look at me and said, "Ok, so how much of a hippie are you?" I cringed inwardly and tried to explain that I wasn't that much of a hippie, just environmentally conscious. (Oh boy, has Ithaca done a number on me...)

The rest of the conversation proceeded smoothly. Fong has always been the self-proclaimed black sheep of the family, and the most prominent story about him in the family is the time he went to the wedding reception for Terri (my oldest cousin) and got ridiculously drunk. I wasn't actually there, but I've definitely heard about this from several relatives. In his defense, Fong simply said, "Well, I was 19, and there was free alcohol, and oh yeah, I spent most of my time hitting on one of Maggie's friends...yeahhh."

As you might expect, Fong's antics tended to raise eyebrows amongst my conservative Chinese relatives. In contrast, I was always upholding the "perfect" child, academic superstar mantle. Hence, I was somewhat relieved when Fong sized me up and said, "Well, I'm glad you turned out cool. You drink beer."

Fong went on to say that while he may have experimented lots in college, he was much less adventurous these days and mostly just stuck to smoking. Besides, while he may not be considered a role model by his Chinese relatives, compared to the Cambodian side of his family, he was a friggin' genius. Most of his cousins on that half of the family were working blue-collar jobs and didn't have college degrees. So really, he was doing quite all right for himself, thank you very much, Judgmental Chinese Relatives. Then, he may have strongly advised trying mushrooms just once in my life, so long as I was in a safe environment with people I trust. Say, how about a family vacation in Amsterdam?? I giggled as I pictured traipsing through Europe with my cousins on the ultimate family-unfriendly vacay.

Hedonism aside, Fong shored up his nerd cred and cemented my respect for him when he mentioned that he'd set up an FTP server at his parents' house, since they were one of the first households to get access to Verizon FiOS, and so he gets insanely fast download and upload speeds. "There's 1.2 T of space on that computer! I'll make you an account when I get home and you can check out all the media that's on there." He went on to describe his extensive collection of jazz, french rap, indian music and anime. "Wait, French rap?" I questioned. "Oh, I'm fluent in French. I even spent a few months in a Bhuddist temple in France one summer."

It's funny to think that I really don't know many of my cousins. For a variety of reasons, we never meet as a group. We're geographically dispersed across the country, and there's never been a tradition of getting together around the holidays. Also, since there are 8 siblings on my mom's side of the family, various factions are always feuding with each other at one point or another. In fact, every year when I send out Christmas cards, I ask my mom if there's anyone we're currently not talking to.

My mom is known informally as 老六, or Number Six, and she is closest to her younger siblings (#7-8). Fong's mom is 三姨, or Aunt Three, and since she left Vietnam to study abroad when my mom was pretty young, they were never very close. Thus, we've had little contact with Fong over the years, but I know my youngest cousins pretty well (e.g. we're Facebook friends). Fong, on the other hand, couldn't name any of the younger cousins, and drew a blank when I mentioned Chester. "Who's Chester?" he asked. "Um, my brother?" I replied. "Ohh shit. Don't tell your mom I said that."

We went through the list and tried to figure out everyone's ages. I was shocked to hear that Terri now has two kids (I haven't seen her since I was maybe 3.) For the record, here are all the cousins on my mom's side of the family: Terri (36?), Maggie (34?), Al (31), Jun (30?), Fong (28), Choy (28?), Chris (26?), Yogi (26?), Me (23), Jenny (21), Chester (17), Steven (17), Stanley (14), Evelyn (15), Marilyn (12?), Dino (10?)

I mentioned that for the most part, I disliked talking on the phone but was logged into some form of instant messenger 24/7. In a classic dork moment, Fong said, "Oh, me too! What's your screenname, what platform(s) do you use?" Then we bonded over our mutual use of Pidgin. Perhaps it will be another decade before I meet up with Fong (legal name: Sornak) again, but at least we will keep hanging out on the internets. Or maybe Amsterdam.

Slumdog Millionaire

Indie film Slumdog Millionaire is now on track complete the fairy tale by capturing an Academy Award for Best Picture. The rags-to-riches tale of an Indian orphan who competes on Who Wants to be a Millionaire has already won a number of Golden Globes, so I was inspired to fork over some money and see it last night.

About 30% of the film was in Hindi, which left me feeling a bit lost. (Knowing Chinese only comes in handy for watching Jackie Chan flicks and understanding the gangsters in Tropic Thunder.) I was also struck by how unfamiliar I am with Indian culture. What on earth just happened to that child? I didn't realize that hot oil was commonly used to blind children, so that they would receive more money while begging. Thus, you should never give money to beggars in India because it may support begging racketeers.

Luckily, Ankita was around to explain some of the lingering questions I had after the movie. One scene involved religious rioting and the massacre of Muslims by Hindus. I didn't understand how you could tell the two groups apart, and moreover, why Muslim-Hindu tension existed in the first place. Ankita gave a brief overview of the history of religious tensions in India, noting that Muslims are a minority group, which means they receive institutionalized preferential treatment, akin to affirmative action policies in the US. Coupled with their lower socioeconomic status, higher birth rates, and chafing from Muslim rule in the 11th to 17th centuries, there is a lot of resentment towards Muslims from Hindus. As for separating Muslims apart from the crowd, generally it is not blatantly apparent that someone is Muslim, but certain neighborhoods are predominantly Muslim and subject to attack. In addition, men are sometimes forced to take down their pants (Muslims are traditionally circumcised while Hindus are not).

I was also wondering why there was a question for 10 million rupees on the game show, as opposed to a "round" number like 1 million. As it turns out, the Indian numbering system is based on two-digit groupings (not three), which means 10 million (1,00,00,000) is a crore.

The highlight of the movie was unquestionably the footage of life in the slums. Far from being a depressing indictment of our failure to rectify world poverty, the movie illustrates the joie de vivre of slumdogs and their tenacity for survival. Even amongst the trash heaps and rubble, there is life and beauty. And of course, the children playing slum dwellers were adorable. But isn't this simply an idealized perspective of the slums, sanitized for Western eyes? According to Ankita at least, the slums are "not a bad place to live," and are much preferred to public housing. In fact, almost every home in the slums has a TV. There has been political pressure to move slum denizens to housing projects, but this has been met with much protest, so the slums will stay put for the time being.

Katherine: How do you dance like an Indian? You screw in the light bulb while patting the dog.

Harkening back to its Bollywood roots, the movie ends with a theatrical dance sequence, with hundreds of choreographed dancers performing on a train platform. It's an exuberant flourish for a conclusion, a feel-good ending that appeals to Western sensibilities. The extreme poverty and political woes depicted in the film will not be resolved any time soon, as evidenced by the recent terrorist attacks in Mumbai, but ultimately, we can go home at peace, knowing that the American dream is alive and well in India.

Karaoke in Koreatown

After a few incidents of glass-shattering caterwauling at parties and lunches, Phil decided to organize Fed karaoke night. Upon looking at the location, I was mildly appalled at how out of the way Lincoln Karaoke was, rather far north in the midst of Koreatown. However, the Yelp reviews provided some gems like:

"Where else will they provide LA-Gear style light-up tambourines?"

"It's announced to the owner that it's Lee's Birthday. Free shots!! What does our gracious Korean host serve us up? "It translates roughly into 'Rocky Mountain Bear Fucker." Four different shots and I think one was amaretto and another was tequila so. . .you know. . ."

"I discover the owners' really polite children doing homework and watching Lilo and Stitch in another karaoke room. I begin to wonder who has been mixing all the drinks."

If that does not spell "Awesome" to you, then you should probably go watch a movie instead.

So, last night I made my way down a desolate, lonely stretch of Lincoln Ave, past a bunch of Korean laundromats and bulgogi joints, and stopped in front of a plain white strip-mall type building with a poorly lit "Lincoln Karaoke" sign. The six-panel wood door looked completely out of place and betrayed no noise behind it. I nervously stepped inside to see a long hallway with small rooms off the sides, suspiciously what I imagine a brothel to look like.

Luckily, Phil and a few others were already there, and they waved me into our private room. I stepped inside to find two flat-screen displays, half a dozen microphones with reverb, a disco ball and an assortment of tambourines, plus plenty of couch seating. The background images behind the lyrics seemed completely random; at various points in the night, we saw dogs chasing frisbees, naked babies, the Eiffel Tower and parasailers. The lyrics themselves were sometimes a bit kreatyve, if you will. Sentences like "cum on make some noize" would flash on screen, and intermittently, during instrumental breaks, the screen would tell us "Have a good time!!"

The playlist binder is chock-full of titles...in foreign languages. Though the majority of the songs are K and J-pop titles, the english selection is still pretty wide. And by that, I mean they had Electric Six's "Gay Bar." When I discovered that, this place automatically got my seal of approval. There are also sections of other languages, including Spanish, Vietnamese, and Russian.

Without hesitation, I immediately started belting out some Maroon 5. In the event that liquid courage is necessary though, there is a full bar available, and we even got a free bottle of champagne to boot. Our host suggested the Long Island iced teas "if you want to get drunk fast," and indeed, they put about 5 shots of alcohol into that drink. (The legality of this is questionable, but we're not going to harp on that.) They also had a decent beer selection (I got to try the Goose Island Winter Ale), and served appetizers like dumplings and wings.

The rest of the party filtered in (I koala'ed Warren when he arrived from Iowa), and pretty soon, we were all dancing and screaming at the top of our lungs to Michael Jackson. I also rediscovered some trashy middle school classics like Aqua's "Dr. Jones" and Spice Girls' "Wannabe." I wonder where those albums are...erm.

When we left four hours later, our voices were hoarse and I had Mariah Carey stuck in my head. I can see how this place would not jive with certain types, but if you have the right crowd, this is a great (and relatively cheap) venue for entertainment.

Lao Beijing 老北京

Perhaps it stems from being in the Midwest, but Chicago is perpetually fighting the perception that it is less sophisticated than its coastal counterparts, namely New York and San Fran/LA. Heck, one of the city's prominent nicknames is even "The Second City," with the implication that we are always struggling to reach the top. This aura certainly extends to Chicago's Asian offerings, as the city's Chinatowns are nowhere near the size and development of NY or SF. However, despite the lack of large, concentrated ethnic enclaves, Chicago does have a number of high notes in cuisine, if you choose with discrimination.

One foodie favorite in particular is Tony Hu's triumvirate of Lao restaurants, each with a focus on a particular Chinese province. I dined at Lao Sze Chuan 老四川, his flagship restaurant, a couple months ago with Jen, and it was quite good, though we had to share a table with another party, college dining-hall style. Just this past March, Hu opened up sister restaurants Lao Shanghai and Lao Beijing, in the same shopping plaza as the original. The initial reviews were mediocre, which is often the case for new restaurants, but since then, things seem to be running smoother. So, last night, I dropped in on Lao Beijing with Katherine to scope it out. We were greeted by an thick imposing door with a metal ring knocker, something out of an imperial castle. Interesting choice, so far.

There are two problems that perenially plague Chinese restaurants. The first is poor service. A harried waitstaff coupled with mediocre English skills often mean that meals feel like an imposition on the kitchen. As I said before, we ended up splitting a table on a previous visit to Lao Sze Chuan, which lead to some confusion over who had ordered what dishes. I was also nervous because Katherine has a nut allergy, and it can be difficult to explain this to servers if they have poor English. Much to my relief, our server had almost unaccented English, and readily assured us that there would be no traces of nuts in our food. The rest of the evening passed unintrusive (or somewhat lax) service, though we were able to flag down help as needed. So, no complaints here.

The second problem you often face is a menu the length of Ulysses. Lao Beijing was no exception, with line after line of densely packed entree items. This serves mostly to overwhelm diners, and for me, it makes the food all start to sound homogenous. Furthermore, it's damn near impossible to execute hundreds of menu items well with consistency. I will continue praying for the day that Chinese restaurants pare down their offerings and give us more choice by providing fewer choices.

At first glance, the menu looked fairly familiar, and in fact, listed most of the items on the Lao Sze Chuan menu. There was an additional section of Beijing specialties though, and after not too much thought, we opted for the infamous Peking duck, a 3-course meal for $30 between the two of us. This was the first time I'd ordered this dish (though I've tried less-authentic versions elsewhere), and I wasn't disappointed. A holistic approach is taken to the preparation of the meal as every part of the duck is used. We began with a simple soup of napa, shiitake mushroom and tofu made with duck broth, which was rich in duck flavor and had small bits of floating duck as a teaser for more to come. The next course was a stir-fry of duck with scallions, carrot and bean sprouts over rice. At this point, I was nearing a full stomach, but then the final course arrived, the classic Peking duck presentation with duck slivers, vegetable garnishes, thin Chinese crepes and a hoisin-based sauce. There was even a tomato sliced into the shape of a bird on the side. Cute!


As I was valiantly chewing, I thought about how funny it was that we were basically eating tacos, albeit with radically different ingredients than those found in Mexican food. And for that matter, even an authentic carne asada taco is a different species than one picked up from Taco Bell. The same goes with many other cross-cultural foods (tamale vs zongzi, ravioli vs pierogi vs dumpling). I wonder, is it possible for me to go to grad school for a degree in food etymology?

Anyway, there were oodles of leftovers, which I will be savoring for the next week. Lao Beijing's Peking Duck: a five-star experience.

A "War" on Asians

So, the past month is clear evidence that time spent on class substitutes away from blogging activity. I keep thinking of things to write about...and then doing math instead.

Anyway, Jie forwarded an article to me a few days ago, attached with the question "Is America still collectively anti-Asian?" Before reading, I would not have hesitated to answer "no," but this article gives me pause. Perhaps I've been living in yuppie, "progressive" parts of the country for too long?

The United States has a long history of institutionalized discrimination against Asians, beginning with the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, which banned and limited Chinese immigration for the subsequent 60 years, the first (and only) instance of federal immigration law targeting a specific ethnicity. This legislation was fully repealed in 1943, and was followed by the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II. However, most people are wholly unaware of all this, for a number of reasons. (Personally, I would know much less if I hadn't written a paper on Angel Island for history during junior year of high school.) The first is the prevailing myth of the "model minority," that because a portion of Asians have assimilated and have achieved academic and financial success, all Asians are similarly well-off and don't face the usual minority struggles. The second is the lack of a figurehead to act as a civil rights leader. There is no Jesse Jackson equivalent to advocate for the Asian community, which makes it more difficult for our voices to be heard.

Earlier this week, the University of Colorado Campus Press published a piece titled "If it's War the Asians Want, It's War They'll Get." Now, I fully understand that college newspapers, including the Cornell Sun, often publish silly items and radical opinion pieces. However, this article takes things to an extreme, and masquerades hate speech as satire. It calls for Asians to rounded up and "hog-tied," and then lists a three phase plan for their "reformation," all the while listing a stream of racial stereotypes.

In the morning, the Asians will arrange themselves in rows, if they haven't naturally done so already. I will stand in front of them and hold up a card with the name of an emotion on it such as, "sad," or "surprised." The Asians must then make a facial expression to match the word on the card. Any Asian who remains deadpan or makes the wrong face will be tickled until they pee. When all Asians make the correct face at the same time, the game will end, but then they will be yelled at for being conformists.

Frankly, I'm shocked that this even got published in a campus-wide newspaper. Campus Press editors later issued a statement emphasizing that the article was not meant to offend, but was intended to be satirical. I can take a joke (and I've heard plenty of comments in my day about being an Asian female driver), but this was about as funny as a plan for a mass lynching or a concentration camp. Not only were the article's claims ludicrous, but the proposed plan was chilling in its thoroughness. Everyone else I spoke with was similarly appalled, but in response to the question "Do you think a satire entitled 'If It's War The Asians Want' is racist?" on an ABC-7 Denver poll, 48% of respondents voted "No." I'm not quite sure what to make of that, and whether the use of the word "satire" versus "piece" would have made a difference. (To contrast, for an example of well-written satire, see "Stuff White People Like.")

Not surprisingly, the author has a history of inflammatory writing and inappropriate comments. He also went to Amherst High, which is about half an hour away from my house. (wince*)

Going Postal

Although I live in Chinatown, for the most part, I am pretty removed from the neighborhood's activity. I work in the Loop, shop on Roosevelt, and play in Wrigleyville. Aside from the occasional foray to buy soy milk, I could go weeks without stepping foot on Cermak. This morning, in a moment of extreme naivete, I decided to swing by the Chinatown post office. I needed to mail a package, and didn't feel like waiting until Monday to go to a post office downtown. When I arrived, the line was almost out the door, as one postal clerk worked the counter. (45) minutes began to tick by.

It soon became apparent why the line was moving so slowly. A combination of language barriers and bureaucratic hurdles meant that even simple tasks, like buying stamps, were long and arduous. I watched as a woman bought 20 stamps, then explained that she actually wanted a second sheet of 20 stamps. To give credit to the post office worker, she was being exceedingly patient with each customer, taking time to explain the details as the line continued to grow.

USPS accepts passport applications, and you can imagine a fair number of immigrants are hoping to apply for passports, so they can visit their families abroad and whatnot. It's kind of ironic that non-English speakers are forced to disentangle bureaucratic hoops (passports, citizenship applications) more often than native Americans. A family presented their paperwork at the counter, and the clerk tried to explain what kinds of IDs were acceptable, and what the emergency contact information was for. "You can't put yourself down for the emergency contact," she chided, "aren't you going to be traveling with the kids?" The mother nodded yes. "Well then, you need to put down someone else. Do you have a sister? Someone outside of the family?" The family huddled together, trying to recall a relative's phone number. The father solemnly raised his hand as the postal clerk read the passport oath aloud.

The next man carried a large box and was followed by a teenage girl who translated for him. "What's in the package?" asked the clerk. "Books? What kinds of books? I need to open the box and take a look, ok?" She unsealed the carton and pulled out several books. "What are these about?" she asked. The girl replied, "Ah, this is a recipe book. And that one is about making money." The clerk consulted a sheet with restrictions listed. "I'm sorry," she said, "but you can't mail that book about making money. It's 'printed matter,' and they don't allow printed matter with political or economic content into China." She continued rummaging through the box, and pulled out some clothing. "Is this used clothing? You can't send that either. This pair of jeans is fine because it still has the tags on it." The girl hastily said that the other shirts were new as well. "It doesn't have the tags on it though, do you still have the tags? Otherwise it's used, and you can't send it. These are Chinese government restrictions." In the end, they left the post office with the package unmailed.

Curious, I looked up what exactly is banned for mail shipment to China. Among the usual restrictions against radioactive materials and arms, China bans the mailing of media "which could do political, economical, cultural, or moral harm to the People’s Republic of China," along with a number of seemingly innocuous consumer goods, like wristwatches and cameras. Moreover, the value of each shipment cannot exceed 100 RMB, which at a conversion rate of about 8 yuan to $1, comes to around $12.50. So much for mailing that camera.

We've got that oppressed minority bond going on...

Pastrami egg rolls and Chinese hot dogs from Eden Wok on 34th Street

As Christmas approaches in less than a week, I want to take a moment to celebrate the culinary kinship between the Chinese and the Jew.

What do any of these elements have in common? Well, for starters, Chinese and Jews are two of the largest ethnic enclaves in America which do not traditionally celebrate Christmas. Secondly, Chinese cuisine, with its heavy use of garlic and onion seasonings, and pronounced lack of dairy products, tends to be inadvertently Kosher and friendly to Jewish palates. Throw in the usual stereotypes about model minorities and aptitude in mathematics, and you've got a match made in heaven.

Ergo, since nearly everything else is closed, if you're a Jew, your only option on Christmas is to go out for Chinese food and see a movie. This relationship has been explored in quite a few academic papers and parodied in many a song. Up till now though, I haven't seen any evidence of cross-pollination between the culinary regimes.

Enter the pastrami egg roll and Chinese hot dog, profiled today in the NYT. I'm not sure if the new hybrids would be superior to the original versions, but it's worth a shot. What'll they come up with next? Gefilte fish wontons? Red bean challah?

If Chinese food has become such a staple of American Jewish diets, why is the converse not true? I'll be in New York this weekend, eating my way through the Lower East side and keeping an eye out for Asians in Katz's Deli.

The Great Wall

My mom and uncle just got back from a month-long trip to China. As my mom excitedly told us, they pass out certificates as proof that you expended the effort to climb to the top of the Great Wall. I should ask her what was tougher, the Great Wall or the 161 steps of McGraw Tower.

Among the other things she peppered me with (did you call about wisdom teeth? why didn't you talk to your brother more?!), she mentioned that she felt like she didn't know enough Chinese. (Oy veh, I thought, what does that mean for me?) Mostly, this referred to lack of cultural knowledge. Apparently in Anhui, there is a sophisticated traditional table setting that neatly combines table objects and directional elements that result in a clever wordplay, imparting "lifelong peace and serenity." She also rambled on about some other ancient Chinese texts and customs (leaving a hat at the entrance to indicate the presence of the host), but it was midnight and I was tuning out.

My parents were born and raised in Vietnam, and this was probably my mom's third or so trip to China. That means heritage-wise, we're sort of an unconventional amalgam of SE Asian (probably half the stuff my mom cooks has Viet roots) and Chinese (which is hard to define since the country is ginormous). So where does that leave me, oh hapless chimera of American-Born Chinese Twinkie?

It leaves me wishing I'd had time to take more Chinese at Cornell (probably the best academic decision I made at college), but now that I'm out of undergrad and not working abroad in the foreseeable future, realistically it's not so much an option. Funny how the certificate I got threw up as many hidden barriers as it opened doors.

By popular demand

Last Friday, the Feddies decided to take a trip to Ravinia to see Fiona Apple & Nickel Creek in concert. I had actually heard both of them beforehand, and had even seen Fiona in concert before. (Muchos gracias to MF & the Splashers for dragging me to Jones Beach last summer.) This time, I was a seasoned veteran, meaning Ana and I were the obnoxious ones singing along to the music while everyone else ignored us. The two bands also played together, and Fiona Apple backed by a bluegrass & strings band was surprisingly effective.

Music aside though, the Ravinia lawn is quite a time even if you are clueless about the artist. Similar to the Tanglewood lawn, people bring in booze and picnic baskets and set up shop all over the grass. We brought in lots of bread, cheese and dip (I made pesto the night before), 3 bottles of wine and a lot of beer. Pretty tame, really, as Luis was saying last time, there had been 2 more bottles of wine than there were people. By the end of the night, everyone was pleasantly festive (or maybe somewhat belligerent).

I’ll be back next weekend for Rufus Wainwright. The Rufus/Guster concert at Cornell a few years ago ranks as one of my favorite shows of all time, so hopefully this will live up to that.

Afterwards, we somehow landed at a U of Chicago house party. It was actually pretty happenin’, as in not where fun goes to die. So happening, that by the end of the night, Britton and I landed the unruly task of walking a not-walking Haley home. Have you ever been cab-rejected before?? I hailed two cabs and they slowed to pick us up, then drove off when they saw Haley and thought she was going to be sick. Finally, the third cab I hailed took pity on us and we managed to get her home. Thank god Britton was there to take charge, because I wouldn’t have known what to do, having never really dealt with drunk people before…Britton: “Well, I’d say welcome to college, but you’re already out, so…” Oh 209, we only got good at being college during the month of May. :p

I spent the next morning grabbing dimsum and wandering around the loop with Alex, who was visiting from Missouri (where?). Whoa, Cornell people, in the flesh! It all seems so far removed from where I am and what I’m doing now. And tomorrow is the first day of freshman orientation, and Sunday will be First Night and drumline won’t be at my apt this year…all right, I’ll stop tearing up. Especially since now I know where to find 2-liter beers in glass boots. That's right, we ended up in the German Square of Lincoln Park at the Chicago Brauhaus. Apparently it is humanly possible, though not enjoyable, to down an entire boot in 7 min (not that I tried).

For good measure, I popped into the Organization for Chinese Americans (OCA) picnic on Sun afternoon. There wasn’t clear signage, so I wandered around the back of the house in question to see a roasted pig with an apple in its mouth. Aha, I thought, I have officially arrived. The next test was how much Mandarin I could spit out/comprehend. Sigh, 2 semesters of Chinese later, I still have a ways to go. One of the girls I met was gently correcting my accent. (ouch!) It’s ok, I forgive her, and we’re going salsa dancing this weekend. One of the other interesting people I met was an elderly lady with perfect, unaccented English. As I ogled, someone explained that she was actually born in the US, and her grandparents had immigrated in the late 1800s. Wow, they probably passed through Angel Island or participated in the original gold rush! For all the first generation asian immigrants in this country, I forget that there are 5th generation families as well.

Debutante Ball, of sorts

It is my firm belief that every true Southern belle needs her own debutante ball. Basically, this is a combination coming-of-age and presentation to society gala. Obviously, they don’t happen in New England, nor would I have wanted one, but some of my classmates from high school did carry out the tradition.

My grandma and I headed over to July 4^th feastivities and bbq hosted by Great Auntie Mei. She’s one of those elder statesman figures in the Louisville Chinese-Viet Community; I’m actually not sure what her name is because everyone refers to her as the Great Auntie. Yesterday, she invited us over, particularly so that she (and a lot of others) could see me. When I arrived, the driveway jammed full with cars and small children. I pulled in with trepidation.

Immediately, I was waylayed by a few people who recognized me, and although I had no idea who they were, I nodded and smiled with recognition. My god, the last time I saw you, you were this tall! (*waves at the ground) I was introduced to several new children and husbands, but unlike years past, was spared being poked, prodded or pinched.

At this “family” reunion of sorts, people can roughly be divided into categories by age. Let’s see:

• 60+: This includes those venerable elder figures who brought their families to Louisville when it was impossible to buy bean sprouts and locals couldn’t tell the difference between Taiwan and Thailand. Children have mostly intermarried those from other families and taken over family businesses. Have acquired all sorts of nicknames due to being a different relationship (Great Aunt, Grandma, Mother in Law, etc) to everyone in town. English skills are just sufficient to pass the U.S. citizenship test, and all is promptly forgotten afterwards.
• 40s & 50s: Kids are mostly in high school and college, and they are free to spend weekends playing mahjong or cards for hours on end. English is proficient enough to establish careers and businesses. Speaking voices tend to be loud to the point of yelling, gossip circulates faster than a newly released Potter book.
• 30s: Young moms (and dads) who try to maintain a hipper look and trendy dress. May have blonde-ish highlights in layered hair. Have a decent command of English and tend to speak to kids in English if they don’t respond to Chinese.
• 20s: um, that’d be me. Most of the other people I can think of in this range are currently not in this state. Including myself by the end of the week.
• Teeny boppers: sufficiently assimilated into American culture, often to the detriment of language skills, which is inversely proportional to fashion sense. Sparring cliques are heard to remark: “Sophia and all her friends, they’re so snooty.”
• Younguns: still in diapers, but smart enough to strategically scream when ice pops are being passed out. Beware being excessively fat or skinny; you will be summarily examined and your parents’ negligence discussed over the mahjong table. Actually, this last rule applies to anyone in the previous categories too.

Needless to say, I felt a little out of place, but ended up hanging out with the old people and playing foosball with the kids.

I was struck by the number of people who spoke to me in English at first, then switched to Cantonese once they realized I was sufficiently fluent. Moreover, I garnered some praise for graduating and landing a good job, but was roundly commended for the language fluency. It’s a little discouraging to see that so many kids in my generation have aural but not oral proficiency in Chinese. Not only these kids, but most of my cousins have limited Chinese skills as well, which is a shame. Even my brother’s Chinese is not exactly fluid.

It’s a shame that the language isn’t being passed down, not only for the practical value of knowing another language, but for the rich oral tradition that gets lost. My Chinese isn’t perfect, but I can easily join into conversations, understand jokes, hold my own and generally chew the fat with any takers. Without this background, how would you ever develop any meaningful relationships with the older generation?

I came away with $100 tucked into a red envelope from Great Auntie Mei.