WHAT DO THEY CALL THIS WHERE YOU COME FROM?

Chiu Chou dumplings (潮州韭菜餃) in soup; a lovely presentation. In an environment where Cantonese was understood. Which means that the waitress speaks at least four languages: English, Cantonese, Teochiuhwaa, and Mandarin. Plus, probably, Vietnamese, seeing as the people who run that restaurant had to bail out from Vietnam over a generation ago. And yes, their menu reflects that.

It's a place I had not been to in a long time. I'm glad that they are still around and surviving the pandemic depression in chinatown. It's become a lot harder. The locals are on a thin financial edge, and the tourists are really not a blessing.


"What's that? Does it come with free eggrolls? Do you have a gluten free vegan version?"

"In New York / Iowa there's sweet 'n sour sauce on it, why not here?"

"Oh, we're not going to buy anything."


It really does not take six people to buy one can of Sprite. But I can understand that doing so is more excitement than they've had in a month. Anyhow, the dumplings were delicious, the only other customers in the place spoke Mandarin, and I only heard Iowese on the street.

Similar situation where I went for tea time a few hours later. An animated Toishanese conversation at one table, abundant evidence that other customers also spoke that dialect ('hoisunwa'), plus Cantonese, and no English necessary. Tourists would occasionally stick their heads in then decide that that was more excitement than they could deal with.

Nice cup of tea. Egg tart. A pleasant hour.
Followed by a pipeful of red Virginia.
Slow amble over to bus stop.



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