I spent my youth wishing I was Chinese. I grew up in Toronto, and Andy Chen's apartment was next door to mine. His mom was always home, forcing him to take piano lessons, go to private math classes, dragging him off to Chinese school on Sundays, and in general being exactly like I wished my mom had been. My folks were always working or entertaining clients, so I spent most of my free time over at Andy's house. (When he wasn't off at class, of course.) Mrs. Chen would fuss over me, make sure my hair was trimmed and my shirt tucked in, and as the years went by and I spent more and more time with Andy, she began asking to see my report cards and chiding me when my grades weren't up to her standards.
I thought Andy was the luckiest guy in the world. His parents paid attention to him. Mine just gave me a big allowance and expected me to not make trouble. Andy never ate out, his mom was always cooking something. I never had home cooked meals unless we went to grandma's house. But the thing I envied Andy the most was the Chinese. When we'd come in together after school, his mother would hear the door open and let loose a stream of Chinese. As she came through the hall towards us Andy would start to answer her, always embarrassed. He hated speaking Chinese at home, and he knew that if I was there his mom would switch to English out of courtesy for me. That may have been one of the reasons he invited me over so often, at least at first. I loved the machine gun, rapid-fire way that his mom talked, short word following short word, all consonants at the front and vowels at the end, chings and changs and zhangs and qings. It was like listening to a dishwasher attack a wall with all of the silverware at once. It was so cool.
In junior high I snuck a "Learn Chinese in 30 minutes a day" book out of the library and started to listen to the CD every night after I got home from Andy's house. I got lucky, one of the first phrases it taught was "you're home," ni huilai le. The next day when I went home with Andy his mom heard the door open and yelled "ni huilai le, guolai yixia." OK, I didn't catch the second part, but when I heard "ni huilai le" and understood it, I yelled back "dui, wo huilai le!" (Yes, I'm home.) Andy stopped dead in his tracks and looked at me like I was an alien. His mom dropped the pan she had been holding and ran out to the front hall.
"Did you just speak Chinese?" Andy asked.
"You never told me you speak Chinese Johnny!" Mrs. Chen said. (Johnny, that's me.) She seemed much more excited than Andy. That afternoon was the beginning of my Chinese lessons. For the next five years we would come home from school and while Andy worked on his homework, practiced his piano, and did all of the other things his mother insisted he do, I sat on the couch while Mrs. Chen flung Chinese at me. Not much of it stuck, but if you fling hard enough something will stick eventually.
Andy went to the University of Toronto on a full scholarship. (I hate the way Asian kids get such good grades. It's not fair.) I scraped my way too, but no scholarships for me. I went to the Asian Studies department on my first day and said I wanted to declare myself a Chinese major. Four years later I graduated with a degree in Chinese.
~~~
The first job I found after graduation was as an interpreter in China. I spent a semester in Beijing during my junior year as an exchange student and collected as many business cards as I could while I was there. A few months before graduation I pelted all of those companies with my resume, hoping that I'd be able to find some kind of job in China. I got two offers, one to work in an office and one to work as a freelance translator. I took the second, and was off within a month of getting my diploma. I told my parents I was just going over for six months to try and improve my Chinese, and they said it was a sensible thing to do. They were happy to see me go, I think. More time to entertain customers.
I arrived in Beijing in the middle of a huge sandstorm. Everything was yellowish-gray and gritty, from the floor to the bedsheets to the toilet paper. I was part of a team of translators that accompanied foreign investors around during their business trips to China. It was a lot of fun traveling the country with them and getting to eat for free at all of their business lunches.
The most memorable of all my trips happened after I had been in Beijing for about a year. My parents had asked perhaps once if I had any plans to come back home, and I had answered that I didn't yet. When they didn't ask again I decided that I'd just plan on staying in China for a while. This made my really popular with the boss, and I was soon the go to translator in the agency. Most of the other translators never stayed more than six months. I was also popular because I was white. The other folks in the agency were ABCs, even though they were North Americans they still looked Chinese, but I'm white, and somehow that made the businessmen trust me more. One day a man came into the agency looking to hire a translator for a three week job. The CEO of a big American company was coming to China for a tour of all of his company's factories in China, 15 total, all in different cities. He needed to find a translator that could travel around with the CEO's group during the whole three weeks. The boss called me in, explained the details, and asked if I was available. "Sure, that sounds like it would be an adventure," I answered. We set up the contract for two months later, and I went back to my desk.
John Cline and his entourange arrived seven weeks later. Cline was the CEO of a big US computer company, one that you've probably heard of. He was the world's biggest jerk. After 15 minutes together I was ready to quit. He talked to the local workers as if they were not quite slaves, but definately not normal people. By lunchtime he had started to call all of the locals "monkeys," and told me that he couldn't stand to stay here any longer. When his assistant heard that he flipped open his phone and began cancelling appointments, and I thought that Cline was on his way back to the airport, but it turned out that he often cancelled everything after lunch if he wasn't feeling well. He did it over and over during the next weeks we were together. It was something everyone around him just got used to.
After three days I was ready to quit. I really loved working with the local people. Heck, I had loved Chinese people ever since I discovered on that day in Andy's house that a little Chinese goes a long way to melting their hearts. When we went into a restaurant, as soon as I started to speak Mandarin the ice would break, and by the end of the meal I would have some new friends on the staff. They were so good to me, and I liked them too. Cline hated having to use an interpreter. He thought anyone who didn't speak English was just stupid, and treated them like they were.
On the evening of the third day I went out for drinks with some of the local workers who were attached to the group. One of the porters, Bao-jin, and I were sitting in a bar complaining about Cline, and he started to smile at me. "Oh, if we could just get him to eat some Chinese food, then we could get him back," he said.
"What do you mean?" I asked. "He eats the food, it's about the only thing he hasn't complained about so far."
"You know he hasn't really been eating the local food, though, he's just eating the Chinese food in the Western restaurants we go to. If we could somehow get him into the markets when we leave the city, then we could feed him some crazy stuff."
"Come on, Bao-jin, there's a lot of good stuff to eat in the markets. I like eating there."
"You do pretty well, you're right, but there are a lot of things even you have never tried," he said. "How can we get him out into the local markets?"
"I think I can arrange that," I said. "He hates it here, but he seems to understand that he needs to do some local stuff to appease the companies. Get me a list of the places we should take him and I'll do my best to make him get out there," I said.
So our plan was hatched. On the fourth day we left the Beijing area to begin the tours in the countryside areas. While we were traveling on the bus I pulled Cline's assistant aside and told him that we were going to run into a huge problem in the next area.
"What? We can't have any problems, Cline will flip."
"Cline will be the problem, Jerry. When we're out in the country those people are going to expect him to try some of the local delicacies and he isn't going to. He'll offend people even faster than he is now. You've got to talk to him."
"What kind of stuff does he need to eat? Maybe I can talk him into it."
"Chinese people's lives revolve around food, OK? Every area of this country has a local specialty that they are known for, and they are going to want Cline to try it. If he refuses or says he hates it, a million people will be offended. He has got to try and eat the stuff they're going to give him."
Jerry frowned and thought for a moment. "Is this really that important?" he asked.
"Yes. He can skip it if he wants, but it'll come back to bite him in the butt if he does."
"Alright, I'll go and talk to him. Just one local dish per stop, right?"
"If he'll do that much, I'll make sure that the locals think he loves their food. You'll save the day, Jerry."
Jerry headed off to convince Cline, and I smiled to myself. It was time to start the games.
~~~
That day we were in Tianjin, one of the big cities south of Beijing. On the list that Bao-jin gave me was a famous shop in Tianjin that sells pig blood cake. That may sound really scary, but it isn't so bad. The pig blood is real, but it is put into a panful of glutenous rice powder and mixed together so really you are just getting the color of the blood with out much of the taste. Most people eat it either barbecued or in soup. The shop in Tianjin sells it in a very spicy soup with tofu and vegetables. If you aren't sure what it is, it just looks like a purple block of something or other with some rice grains in it.
Cline wasn't very happy that he had to play cultural ambassador, but even he didn't want to ruin the trip. (Bao-jin laughed when he heard this and called it the capitalists' fatal flaw, anything for money. Communist humor, I guess. The Chinese are much purer capitalists than Western people will ever be.) When we went into the shop it was the first time I had seen him show any signs of nervousness. It was a small, dark shop with a long line stretching out into the street. When we showed up we were immediately shown in. Cline started to glance around nervously as soon as his eyes adjusted to the dark interior.
"Are you sure I'm not going to get food poisoning and die from eating here?" he asked me.
"No sir, none of the local people would come here if they got sick from the food. Anywhere with a big line like this is safe to eat at," I replied.
"What am I going to be eating?" he asked.
"It's a spicy soup with tofu and vegetables, nothing to worry about," I answered.
We made our way to the counter and the manager of the factory we were visiting ordered for us. The people in the restaurant watched seruptitiously as we got our food and were shown to a large round table in the center of the restaurant, the place of honor.
"You eat a bite first," Cline said. "If you keel over and die I'll know I shouldn't eat."
"No problem, sir, I'll be your guinea pig." I ate a bite of the steamy soup. It really was good.
Cline was pushing his spoon around the bowl, trying to see what exactly he was going to eat. He dished a piece of pig's blood cake out of the bowl and held it up for me to see. "What in the world is this?"
"That is the local delicacy you're hear to eat. Take a bite of that first, and make sure they see you smile so they know you enjoyed it."
Cline's face clouded over like he was going to yell at me, then took a bite. I could see his gourge rise, but to his credit he swallowed and smiled.
"Oh, Mister Cline, sir, do you enjoy our local food, sir?" the manager asked.
"Yes, it is excellent, but very spicy."
"I am so pleased that you enjoy our pig blood cake, it is my favorite."
Cline's eyes went round, but he didn't show any other reaction. "Pig blood cake, very tasty."
~~~
Yes, he gave me hell for it, but that afternoon at the factory he was surprised when so many workers mentioned to him how happy they were that he enjoyed the local food. The next morning when we boarded the bus he called for me.
"I see that your plan worked, the reception we had at the factory was excellent, but if you ever make me eat blood again I'll kill you."
"No problem sir, I'll make sure that doesn't appear on the menu again."
"What horrid delicacy are we supposed to eat today, may I ask?"
"Just some fried tofu, it will be a piece of cake."
"It better just be tofu, if anyone tries to feed me an internal organ you'll regret it."
At lunchtime the factory manager took us to an upscale restaurant, which seemed to calm Cline down a bit. He ordered fried rice which seemed to disappoint everyone, until he said "and I'd like to try some of your local fried tofu."
The manager and the waiter were so pleased they nearly burst their buttons. The rice came and Cline seemed to think that he would make it through the lunch without too much trouble. Then the tofu came out of the kitchen.
"What is that smell?" he hissed.
"That's your tofu, sir," I answered.
"It smells like dog shit."
"I believe it's called 'stinky tofu.' The locals say that it smells terrible but tastes great. Don't worry, tofu never tastes like anything, you'll be fine."
"If it tastes like shit I'll kill you!"
When the waiter placed the plate in front of him he seemed overwhelmed by the smell. There were six small squared of tofu, deep-fried to a golden brown. He was right, they smelled terrible.
"Let me show you how to eat it," the manager said. He took one of the squares of tofu in his chopsticks and dipped it in a sauce then bit it in half. "Ah, what a wonderful taste," he sighed.
I took a piece as well, and managed to keep my face neutral as I chewed. It really didn't taste like much, and the smell seemed to get fainter the closer you were to the tofu. When I nodded Cline took a piece and bolted it down.
"Excellent, it tastes wonderful. Everyone, please take a piece, it really tastes fabulous." I thought he was overdoing it a bit, but at least this way he only needed to eat one piece.
The story of Cline and the stinky tofu spead through the factory in minutes after we arrived. He was again surprised at how many workers mentioned it to him.
"All right, the tofu wasn't too bad," he said to me that evening. "Just try to find me something that doesn't smell like excrement tomorrow, OK?"
"No problem, sir. I'll scout out something nice and calm for you."
Over the next two weeks Cline ate all kinds of cookies, cakes, and rice desserts. As the days went by and he seemed to be surviving, he grew a bit bolder and ate seconds of some of the dishes. On a stop in a small village he had three eggs cooked in urine. I didn't have the heart to tell him what they really were, and the local workers gave him a whole box of the urine eggs at the factory.
"They love me because I eat their eggs, who would have thunk it, huh?" Bao-jin and I fell on the floor laughing that night.
~~~
The second to last night of the trip Bao-jin came to my room late. "I've been asking around, and it seems that there is a really terrible local food that you should get Cline to eat tomorrow."
"I think he'll be up for almost anything, he thinks he's a champion of local delicacies now. What is it?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." He handed me a slip of paper. "I talked to the manager of the factory and told him how much Mr. Cline likes to experience local culture, and he said he'd take you to this place. They usually don't even let foreigners down this street, but they'll make an exception for us tomorrow."
"What in the world are they going to feed him?" I asked.
"You'll see tomorrow." I couldn't get another word out of Bao-jin about it, so we went down to the bar and talked about other things.
Lunchtime rolled around the next day, and the manager seemed a bit nervous. "We are so pleased that Mr. Cline wants to eat one of our most unique local foods today," he said. "Are you ready to go, Mr. Cline?"
Cline replied through me that he was, and we set off on foot. We walked down small alleys away from the commercial section of town, until we saw a small shop with a long line of people in front of it. Cline leaned over to me and said, "As long as there's a long line it should be OK to eat, right?"
"That's right sir, I'm sure this will be great."
We stopped in front of the shop. There were two large circular containers set behind the counter, one with a lid and the second open. The open container was filled with crushed red peppers, and looked like it could burn your mouth from a meter away. "Wow, that looks spicy," I said.
Cline looked at me and laughed. "Don't tell me you're not going to eat with me! Maybe this is my chance to watch you squirm." He laughed and laughed. "Be a man, Johnny, it's just a bit of hot peppers."
When he was looking at me and chuckling, the man behind the counter took the lid off the second container and grabbed a small, hairless mouse and tossed it into the pepper sauce. The mouse squeeked a few times and it was obvious that the pepper sauce was burning its skin. When it started to twitch the man fished it out, put it in a paper sack and gave it to the next customer in line. The customer held the sack up to his mouth and let the mouse slide right in. The bones crunched as he chewed.
Cline turned back, having missed the whole thing. He turned to the man behind the counter and smiled. The manager placed our order and the man lifted the lid off the second container and grabbed a handful of mice.
"What are those?" Cline yelled.
"Try to keep your voice down, sir, I think that's our local delicacy."
"I will kill you for this."
He watched the hairless mice as they thrashed in the pepper sauce. When they began to twitch the man picked them out one at a time and placed them in the little paper sacks. Cline held his in his hand and turned to me. "Why don't you do the honor of going first, Johnny?"
I gulped and smiled, then tipped the sack open over my mouth. As the mouse slid in it was still wrigling around. I tried to swallow without chewing, but the mouse started to scratch my tongue. I bit once, then again. The hot pepper had numbed my taste buds, but I could feel as the blood gushed out of the mouse and into my mouth. I chewed a few more times then swallowed it as best I could.
Cline watched me the whole time. He grabbed his sack and squeezed as hard as he could and I heard a series of cracks. He then lifted it to his mouth and swallowed immediately. He smiled and turned to the manager.
"Excellent, this may be the best thing I've eaten it China!" The manager smiled in relief and ate his mouse with relish.
Cline was a rousing success at the factory that day. Eating the spicy mice had made him a hero with the workers, doing more to help his reputation than nearly anything else could have.
I, on the other hard, was already packing my bags for the trip back to Toronto. My career was over, at least as a translator. Maybe I would become a vegetarian when I got home. And never eat spicy food, ever again. The spicy mice made Cline, but they ended me.