THE EXPLICABILITY OF IT ALL

For some reason whenever I eat steamed dumplings with hot sauce I often think of Mandarin movies from the twenties and thirties. Set in Peking, winter, thick padded coats, steam and smoke, chopsticks deftly lifting morsels, men with slouchy hats and cigarette holders. Which was a time and place which I never actually experienced, being born well past the war. As well as the movie Peking Opera Blues (刀馬旦 'dou maa daan'), described by Quentin Tarantino as "one of the greatest films ever made". Which it is, and he's right.

I saw the movie at the Pagoda Palace on Washington Square Park.
Maybe it was winter then, I can't remember.

It's just that well, you know, winter and thick padded coats naturally mean dumplings and the sounds of furry Peking Mandarin, that's just how it is. Plus looking fiercely businesslike with a cigarette holder clenched in my jaws, or held elegantly, looking either suave or conspiratorial. Sadly, the old-style non filters that would be appropriate (something Turkish and resinous, or evil and French, or English-style Virginias) cannot be found anymore.

This younger generation, I don't know what's wrong with it; they refuse to engage in horrid habits but sup on wheatgrass and tofu, sneering Puritanically at us older people, with their tattoos, piercings, and meaningful ethnic garbs!

ILLUSTRATION NOT RELEVANT TO THE ESSAY; MALARIAL ZONE FOREST

Whenever I eat Northern style dumplings (北式嘅水餃) I am by myself. My ex (a wonderful woman with whom I am still good friends) never got into them, being more inclined toward Cantonese snackipoos, and none of my friends are that way inclined. And besides, since the computer company years ago I have mostly dined alone. Having had dumplings at the place with thicker skin and chili crunch sauce recently I went to the restaurant where they have Sriracha hot sauce, know my favourite table in the afternoon (the morning staff, if I show up for breakfast, are unaware of it), and seem to like my patronage.

A cup of regular tea, and a cup of milk tea. Sriracha hot sauce in lieu of sambal, and people watching. One Mandarin couple having soup and noodles while staring at their cell-phones, one very large tourist couple -- two soups and two big plates of fried starch (炒飯， 炸麵), nowondersomeAmericansarehugenocommentthatwouldbemeanandIamnotthatwaybutstill, one couple of which the elegant young lady half seemed to have an attitude and need a lot of attention (so probably a snooty Hong Kong twat or a Mainlander), and one older Canto couple who were perfectly happy.

At the chili crunch sauce place I speak Mandarin, whereas at the Sriracha place it's Cantonese. I like both places. Good food. Nice atmosphere.
Brightness, chopsticks, and a condiment.
People watching.

I am aware of being somewhat anomalous at either place, because the younger generation mostly can't read the Chinese menu, and many Americans don't speak Cantonese or Mandarin.

The anomalocity is somewhat older movie style.
A gangstah-kwailo sensitivity.


I should start wearing my slouchy hats again.




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