Colin Goh and Woo Yen Yen

The Chinese sure like their lamb! Here we are at our umpteenth lamb hotpot during our visit. And American portions have nothing on Chinese portions!
The following piece was published in the Sunday Times on 2 December 2006:

Sunday Times 2 Dec 2006
Whining about Dining in Beijing
by Colin Goh

The Wife and I are still in China, but while this may be the land of our forefathers, boy, are we homesick for the land our forefathers fled to.

It’s not as if our Chinese hosts haven’t spoiled us rotten on this trip. Some movie industry folks who’d caught our film in Spain had invited us to Beijing to discuss the possibilities of shooting our next project here, and have really laid out the red carpet.

We can’t help but be impressed by the aggressiveness of the Chinese, who were the first to approach us for future work, even before the Americans. We’ve barely had time to visit the tourist spots, as our hosts had arranged daily and nightly networking sessions, with everyone from financiers to Communist Party bureaucrats.

We were also shown round the Beijing set where scenes from Dreamworks’ ‘The Kite Runner’ are currently being filmed, even though the story itself is set in San Francisco and Afghanistan. But the biggest thrill was probably being told by a major studio exec, “I’ll make sure Jet gets your script when he pops by tomorrow.” (Whether it actually happens or not, it put a smile on our faces. Hey, what’s the film business about except fantasy, right?)

So with all the wining and dining, why are we homesick? Well… because of the wining and dining.

The wining is a problem because, as I’ve recounted in a previous column, I can’t drink to save my life, while many mainlanders drink like the government is going to ban liquor in the next 30 seconds. I’m told my inability to consume alcohol is a handicap in doing business in China. My response is that it actually makes me the perfect business partner – i.e. a sleeping partner (or to be more precise, an unconscious one).

As for the dining, what’s not to like about Chinese food, especially when you’re Chinese? Well, this may be the Fatherland, but it sure isn’t Mum’s cooking.

It’s not the exotica. I kind of liked the pickled pork nostrils, the barbecued chicken hearts and the boiled goat’s genitalia. With a generous spoonful of the mouth-numbing mala sauce, it all tastes like beef anyway.

Also, as a good Baba boy, I was raised on babi pongteh and kong bak pao. But with stewed belly pork served with virtually every meal since we’ve been here, I’m now seriously thinking of going halal.

I don’t want to be churlish, especially to our wonderful hosts who really mean well by introducing us to the diversity in Chinese cooking. I guess growing up in Southeast Asia, we’ve just developed a different palate.

Everything here tastes much saltier, even the Peking Duck hoisin sauce, and there’s also a lot more oil and vinegar than I’m used to. Further, here in the North, they don’t seem to eat as much rice either, preferring dumplings, pancakes and doughy noodles instead.

One night, I just couldn’t face the possibility of yet another platter of lamb spare parts. “This will sound terrible,” I told the Wife. “But I’m really craving a hamburger.”

Unfortunately, there weren’t any burger joints near our hotel, not even a McDonald’s. There was, however, a pizza place on the corner, a curious two-storey joint that was almost always empty when we walked past. It would have to do.

Okay, so it wasn’t Patsy Grimaldi’s by the Brooklyn Bridge, but their pizza did the job of restoring our equilibrium somewhat. But when we told one of our Beijing friends about the place, he wrinkled his nose. “Oh, I couldn’t eat their food.”

I immediately assumed that this was a palate issue too – somehow, pepperoni and parmesan were just too alien for folks raised on crispy fried scorpion. “Is it the cheese?” I asked. “Many Chinese people are lactose intolerant.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. “It’s the two storey building with the restaurant on the top, right?”

“That’s the one!” I said.

He grimaced. “The first storey is a public toilet. I don’t know how they got permission, but I guess someone got entrepreneurial. They just disguised the entrance a bit, but everyone in the neighbourhood knows. That’s why it’s usually empty, except for laowai tourists like you. We don’t want to know where the kitchen is located.”

The Wife and I turned pale. We have since ceased embarking on culinary frolics of our own, and have chosen to rely entirely on the recommendations of our hosts, with no complaints or reservations.

The food may sometimes taste like crap to us, but at least we know it doesn’t contain any.

Share on Facebook