Chinese Food

The glass door has the faded markings of two red characters written vertically and reading "noodle shop" (mian guan). Half of the first character has been scraped away. I saw the husband scraping it off yesterday. I think it's because it's not really a noodle shop. Above the door sit large white characters reading "Hangzhou Dumpling Shop" (“Hangzhou Xiaolongbao Guan”).

Inside, I read the menu facing me on the opposite wall. On the top left hand corner, the first item listed is "pork dumplings" (“darou xiaolongbao”). The menu on the wall has at least 40 items on it ranging from dumpling soup to fried pork. On the right side wall is another menu with pictures: fish-flavored eggplant, fish-flavored meat strips, kungpao chicken.

On one side of the room is a “sanitize dishes and chopsticks” machine, which takes up so much space next to the fourth table that only two people can sit at it. Each table has a white porcelain canister for spicy chili peppers and black vinegar.

"Sister!" (jiejie), I call out, but there is no response. Jiejie is the polite address for a woman who is less than 10 years older than oneself, and a common address for servers, service workers or other people you might interact with when you do not know their name.

I get up and walk to the kitchen. There is a small hallway with a large cutting board and a refrigerator with a piece of cardboard on the muddy ground. “Jiejie,” I call out again. Still no response. I peek inside the kitchen: her back is to me at the sink washing dishes, and she is either lost in thought or the water is drowning out my voice. The kitchen is small—just narrow enough for a two range propane stove, a counter, and a sink.

“Jiejie,” I say again, and she turns. Her drooping eyelids are lined in black eyeliner, the bags underneath them puffing out and wrinkled.

“Do you have roast pork"? I ask.

“Certainly,” she replies with a smile and nod, and I turn to return to the table.

As I wait, two young women—who I gather from eavesdropping on a phone call are staying at the fancy five-star hotel next door—ask me questions about myself: Where are you from, why are you here, do you have any siblings, how old are you, are you married, is your sister married?

When jiejie brings out the plate of pork, they scoff, “Why’d you get roast pork here of all places? You could get it much better quality somewhere else.” I want to slap them. I just shrug my shoulders and tell jiejie later that the meal was delicious.