I've eaten there often enough, I should have remembered that they talk funny. The waitress came out of the kitchen to clarify whether it was pork or fish. And no, you cannot say it was because my pronunciation was bad. They speak differently there.
String beans and pork slices over rice (四季豆肉片飯 'sei gwai dau yiuk pin faan'), versus fish slices (魚片 'yü pin').
The owners little daughter once said that she found it hard to understand me whenever I spoke Cantonese. When they speak Toishanese I have difficulty understanding them. Sometimes context is everything.
But my Cantonese is far better than her mom's English.
Her parents prefer it when I talk Chinese.
I become more intelligible.
The auntie who works there understood me perfectly when I asked for the hot sauce. That right there is a life-saver, as I eat everything with sambal.
String beans and sliced pork over rice is simple and extremely satisfying.
If you're Chinese, the only way you can actually bugger it up is by being from Szechuan, Hunan, or the far north. Peking, for instance.
Or by cooking it like the Anglos in this country, who have thus far given little indication of culinary inclinations.
Sorry, that was an opportunistic slag at the dominant culture here. It was undeserved, and I apologize. And you all make marvelous cold cereal with milk, as well as lovely grilled cheese sandwiches! Kraft singles!
Again, I'm sorry. There was no call for me to be sarcastic.
If it wasn't for the Cantonese and Mexicans here, some people might starve.
And I appreciate your table utensils, because my fingers were that cold and bloodless yesterday afternoon, and turning blue (because of Rainaud's Syndrome) that I couldn't hold chopsticks.
It took an hour after I got home for full feeling to return.
四季豆肉片飯 made it worthwhile.
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