Wednesday, June 14, 2023


My apartment mate is involved in the sale of some family property. My apartment mate is Chinese American. My apartment mate wishes to firmly tell the real-estate agent "and no goddamned Chinese". Because she's seen what they're like. No sense of taste, nor restrained decorating ideas, and likely to put red shag carpeting on the walls.

As a Dutch American with restraint and sound aesthetic judgement, I'm shutting the hell up.
Because I also have sound common sense, and am giggling into my teacup.

I'm also thinking about thick porkchops on a bed of baked tomato sauce spaghetti covered in melted cheese. This is a chachanteng favourite which as much as anything else indicates the absence of both judgement and taste among the Chinese clientele, possibly excepting the nutritionist down at Chinese Hospital whom I saw four years ago.

It's a heart attack on a plate.
Undoubtedly delicious.
Needs bacon.

Sometimes the Chinese do indeed have a sense of taste.
Riotously, joyously, bad.

Coupled with a near-insane risk-taking tendency. Seeing two superannuated oldsters digging into 番茄焗豬扒意粉 ('faan ke guk jyu paa yi fan') with gusto, confident that they will not croak right then and there of sudden catastrophic artery explosions, or agonizing indigestion, and that they can also convincingly lie to their doctor that they did nothing wrong, they have lived dietarily clean and saintly lives since the last visit, tells one that these people are not quite sane by sober Dutch American standards. Well, okay, I've done it also, I admit.
But I felt guilty afterwards. Quite.

See, Dutch people and cheese go together, everyone knows that. It's mother's milk to us, we practically swim in it. But Chinese and dairy products are universally acknowledge to not precisely match. And they were at least twenty years older than me.

To a Dutchman, cheese on top is almost mere garnish.
To a Chinese person, it's Russian Roulette.

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