YES, YOU ARE ALL 衰人!

Once a week the bookseller and I head into the dark heart of the city to engage in manly festive behaviour and talk politics. Our first stop involves a place serving a rare vintage (this year's) of repulsive landwein, after which we have a pint of beer elsewhere to get the taste out of our mouths. We always end up at a nearby Chinatown inn, where the whiskey is generous and the singing nightmarish.

Nightmarish, because it is done entirely be white folks.
Young, stupid, and enamoured of karaoke.
Good lord almighty.

"Tell me again why karaoke is a good thing."

At this point, I'm denying I ever said that. You see, my first exposure to karaoke was around the corner from my house, where a bunch of young Chinese would do Cantopop on Friday and Saturday evening, while drinking sodas or coffee. Utterly endearing, very nice, and a jolly good time was had by all.
There was also a piano bar where elderly homosexuals would belt out classics from the golden age of musicals, and later a karaoke bar on California where drag queens did show tunes.
Almost all of these people, from teenage Cantonese to aged gentlemen and royalty, could sing very well, wanted to do credible renditions, and wished that listeners would enjoy the show.

Modern karaoke is NOT like that, dammit. Nowadays, the Marketing Department from a start-up goes out and gets drunk, as part of a team-building exercise, then heads into the yellow part of town to make fools of themselves and scream at the top of their lungs. Because whatever you do in an ethnic enclave stays in an ethnic enclave.

They can't sing, they're blotto, and their egos will not accept that they are insufferable drunk, as well as thoroughly horrible people when sober.

The proprietor of said Chinatown inn is raking in money hand over fist, while her loyal patrons -- that being the bookseller and myself, as well as several Chinese gentlemen about whose livelihoods it is best not to ask too many questions -- suffer, and can barely have conversations for the racket.

Stupid white people should not sing.

Please accept that as a verity.

A rule by which to live.


"Tell me again why karaoke is a good thing."


Errm. Because it keeps these damned fools off the street?

For the past several weeks, before we meet for drinkies, I have been pausing a while outside an opera club located in a basement enjoying the music. Cantonese opera uses more archaic language, stylised physical movements, and an aesthetic that hearkens back to Sung and Ming times. It is one of the great Opera traditions.


唐伯虎點秋香 ～ 書生真系過份!

Let us now join Uncle Tong as he comes upon a lovely servant girl while at the Quanyin temple. You will note that he is quite brash, not at all the reserved literary type that normally he represents, what with being literate and educated enough to make all men green with envy.

He is quite smitten, even more so when he discovers that the young lady is actually cultured and well bred.


TONG PAK FU DIM CHAU HEUNG


[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DOUw7vM-m_o.]

For someone who is so fong lau ge (風流嘅), our scholar (唐伯虎先生) is quite the seui yan (衰人), eh?

"I'm just here to pray, honestly! Whatever were you thinking?"

As a result of his encounter with the lovely miss Autumn Fragrance (秋香 'chau heung'), mister Tang (唐伯虎 'tong paak fu') ends up being servant in a rich household, in order to get closer to the maiden.
The opera is famous. The allegedly comedic spoof by Stephen Chow perhaps less so, one would hope.

This scene is, not surprisingly, a personal favourite.

Leslie Cheung (above) does the role well.

[Chow Yun-fat and Anita Mui also.
But as a halberd fight scene.]


I can fondly imagine the drunken white twenty-somethings falteringly trying to interpret this passage in particular at a karaoke event. Whether as Chow Yun-fat's cousin, suspicious of his motives, or as a romantic duet.

Wouldn't any one prefer to be Tong Pak Fu?

Or like Leslie Cheung?

Surely yes!


Here he is singing another piece, The Fragrant Sacrifice, from Flower Princess:

帝女花之香夭


[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RsRQexThSx8.]


Yep, that's a damned sight better than self-impressed e-commerce yuppies screeching rock and roll anthems.


And lastly, as a lagniappe, Alan Cheng (鄭少秋) and Liza Wang (汪明荃) doing a duet from The Purple Hairpin:

紫釵記


[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQpw1JVj1OQ.]

The most famous interpretation of The Purple Hairpin was by Pak Suet-sin (白雪仙) and Yam Kim-fai (任劍輝). Both were active during the forties through the sixties. A movie was made of the opera in 1960.

Please note that for many years I thought that Yam Kim-fai was a man, because those were the roles that she often played.


If I had to chose between Cantonese Opera and egomaniac jerks singing karaoke, there is no question which one I would take.

Cantonese Opera would win hands down.

Not the pickle heads.

衰人!




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SORT OF A GENTLE FOOD FILLED ESSAY

For nearly two years now I rise late on weekends, pad around the house in my sleepwear drinking coffee, and have a nice hot bath. Then I go into Chinatown for something to eat. It is not good for the soul to hide in the apartment all day, one has to get out and do something. But I have far more routine than imagination in that regard, and, as you can guess, snackipoos followed by several hours at the office are a great good. The lively crowd of people on Stockton, followed by quiet in the financial district - these complement each other.
Plus weekends are for pipe-smoking. Can't really do that at home.


3:45 PM
When I got off the bus at Clay and Stockton, a mother and her little girl disembarked also. Both were shorter than me, of course.
Other than that the woman was probably only five foot one or two, I cannot remember much about her. Young, with gentle eyes. Cheerful.
But the kid I remember distinctly. Three, maybe four years old, bright and very intelligent looking, wearing a pretty red jacket with little yellow flowers. Sparkling dark brown eyes, mop of black black hair. Small hands.
An extremely beautiful child.
She had the most engaging hopeful expression that I have ever seen.
Without speaking, she seemed to say that good things would happen.
Surely there were interesting adventures ahead?
A fine sunny day downtown, yay!

At the place where I ate a bowl of fish-slice rice porridge, the owner’s little son was saying farewell to a new best friend. At that age, children do not need much of a language in common. Both boys were the same height, barely three years old. One spoke Cantonese, the other something that sounded very much like Teochew. While the father of the little non-Cantonese speaking fellow was getting him ready to go, his new companion kissed him.
Very sweet. It was the cutest thing.

An elderly gentleman purchased two hargau and a cup of tea, then sat down and started unwrapping tea-eggs. Possibly the hargau and tea-eggs were the only thing he was going to eat today. He did not look like there was any superfluous money in his life. Gaunt, with very worn though clean clothes; clearly he wasn't a rich capitalist. Shrimp pockets and boiled eggs cannot be a very satisfying repast.
He ate calmly, not rushing, nor excessively dawdling over each bite.
Rinsed his mouth periodically with tea, then wiped his lips.
He thoroughly enjoyed his tiny meal.
Smiled afterwards.

[Fish-slice porridge (魚片粥): fresh fish curls that poach just barely in a large bowl of hot rice porridge, with shredded ginger added. Hargau (蝦餃): shrimp bonnets, being fresh chopped shrimp wrapped in a translucent skin cleverly tucked at the top and steamed. Tea-eggs (茶葉蛋): the eggs are first boiled till hard, cooled, rolled to crack the peel, then simmered again to allow the flavouring to seep in through the cracks and marbleize the surface of the egg within. Often they are kept in the tea-spice liquid for several more hours for the best flavour. Use two TBS black tea or pu-erh in a pan of water, add a hefty jigger of soy sauce, whole five-spices plus extra star anise, a slice of ginger and a large piece or two of dried tangerine peel. The first simmer is for twenty minutes after the liquid has come to boil, the second simmer will be about three hours - prolonged cooking eventually re-tenderizes the proteins.]


4:15 PM
While puffing on a post-lunch pipe on Jackson Street I saw that the windows of Yong Kee are now papered-up. The owner of the shop next door informed me that 'yes, they’re closed, all gone'. A very great pity, their haahm dan sou and gai bao were excellent.  I’m sure I’m not the only one who will miss them. They probably retired at last, and there isn’t any point in passing on the business to the Americanized generation.
So many of the familiar places are gone, the neighborhood has changed.
When people move out now, it’s usually to go to the avenues.
Only old people still embrace these streets.

[Yong Kee (容記糕粉店): a bakery and dim sum shop that dated from before the war, which had a stellar reputation and made some truly marvelous items. Mostly unknown to outsiders, as the awning was only in Chinese. Nothing in the trays was labeled. You knew what you wanted when you went in, and asked for it by name.  Haahm dan sou (鹹蛋酥) are salt-preserved egg yolks, very rich, inside a flaky pastry crust with a little sweet lotus seed paste (莲蓉) to anchor them in place. A gai bao (雞飽) is a steamed chicken-filled bun, than which there is naught finer when the mood strikes.
Regarding the post-lunch pipe, note that I have several pipes and three different pipe-tobaccos with me today: a matured red and black Virginia with Perique, a blend of red Virginia ribbon and matured red Virginia cake plus Orientals and air-cured leaf, and a profoundly fumigational pressing of red Virginia with Latakia and Turkish. I'm heading to the Occidental later this evening for a few bowls. Red Virginia dusk.]


Outside the New Orchid Pavilion a cluster of retirees were discussing the opera poster in the window. I’ve seen the same one all over Chinatown, some well-known artist from HK is going to perform. Seven entirely different plays! Seven Cantonese operas I’ve never heard of, and of which I have no recordings at all in my collection. Maybe these are unique rarities, but more likely they're minor theatre pieces that allow a greater interpretational range – the other ‘stars’ are probably amateurs from the local opera clubs.
I’ve heard folks practicing in the basement on Sacramento Street, as well as at the club near the Broadway.  Some of them have far more enthusiasm than skill. Few have less.
The retirees were animated, and probably looked forward to a good show.
Behind the window pane, one of the people who works at the New Orchid Pavilion was intently observing them.
Would they come in? Were they going to eat?
Hey, how about some business here!
There’s an empty table in the rear. Two empty tables!
Eat, eat, eat! Oh please!

4:45 PM
Having been unable to satisfy my craving for a haahm dan sou at Yong Kee, I stopped by another bakery instead. They didn’t have any haahm dan sou, so I ordered a lo po bing (老婆餅) and a cup of coffee. While enjoying my flaky wintermelon pastry, a young mother and her little child came in, got stuff at the counter, and sat down at the very next table.
I recognized them as being the two that had gotten off the bus at Stockton.
The mother asked the little girl about her lo po bing.

“Ho m-ho sik-ga?”

The tyke beamed up at her.

“Dee! Lishus!!!”

Yep.



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CHINATOWN NOODLE SUNDAY: THE SAN SUN RESTAURANT

There are some things that you cannot eat in public. Unless the person dining with you is a forgiving sort, who puts pleasure above a clean face. Crab is one of those things - we've all at some point in our lives looked up after stuffing ourselves with black bean garlic ginger crab to discover that a mob of stunned Midwestern tourists are surrounding our table, staring at our juicy glistening fingers, faces, forearms.......
Somewhat self-consciously we remove a greasy shred of scallion from our hair, while resolving never to eat at a place so near the tourist route again.
Mmmm, tasty!
Oh hey, there's still some meat in this leg!

A nice big bowl of noodle soup is another one of those things. Given how close it is to taking a bath, you shouldn't enjoy that in public either. At least not without a karmic barrier keeping the folks from Kahoka or Knob Lick far far away.
Part of the problem is that there are times when you wish you had four hands. And I can say with extreme confidence that I am not alone in this, as I remember times when I saw businessmen holding chopsticks and a lit cigarette in one hand, cell-phone and a snifter of Remy Martin in the other hand, while simultaneously continuing two or three conversations and passing a plate of oysters to someone next to them.
Thousand-armed Hindu Godess? Got nothing on multitasking mister Lee. Who probably wishes he had at least three more hands.
I won't deny that I have at times wondered if I could reach out with one of my feet to snag a condiment, as my hands were just too busy.
But they'd probably frown on that in most noodle joints.
There's a line you just don't cross, and just guessing here I'd say that eating with your feet is it.
Still.
An extra set of fingers would've been useful.
I need to practice growing ectoplasmic limbs.


三陽咖啡餐屋
SAN SUN RESTAURANT
Saam-yeung kafei tsan-ok
848 Washington Street, San Francisco, CA 94108.

Between Stockton Street and Grant Avenue.


Sometimes it's a jolly good thing I have no female companion with whom to eat. She would have been horrified at my rapid shifting of digital gears to control the chopsticks, spoon, knife, fork, long ice-drink spoon, condiment saucers, teacup, coffee glass and dripper. Splash, tinkle.
I would never have been able to maintain that studied air of romantic mystery under those circumstances, she'd realize that I am just a greedy food-scarfing normal person, not the loveable super-intelligent gentlemanly badger of her dreams.
Where's the maturity that the omnivorous brock is known for?
The ectoplasmic limbs would likely terrify her too.
I really hate to disappoint young ladies.
They always look so crestfallen.
Oh well. Reality bites.

At least I can use chopsticks with either hand.
Bring on the delicious noodles!
I'm ready for this.

燒猪肉河粉湯
Sui chü yiuk ho fan tong
Roast Pork with River Noodles and Soup.

The river noodles come in a huge bowl of broth with beansprouts (芽菜 nga-choi) and chopped chives (韭菜 gau-choi), scalding hot.
The fire-grilled meat is on a separate plate, garnished with knife, fork, and chopped scallion (青葱).

Thinly sliced charred pork, dipped in soup and then dabbed with condiments, is sheer heaven. The juiciness of the broth-dunked fatty meat with the unctuous deliciousness of red red hot sauce, the occasional crunch of pickled chilies, that marvelous hint of soot complimenting the sweetness of the marinated pig........

That, plus trying to raise a spoonfull of hot broth and a skein of noodles to the mouth at the same time, led to the dance of many hands. Ho-fan (river noodles) are beautiful white soft broad rice stick noodles, slippery slithery smooth, against which the specks of intense green provided by the chives and scallions stand out beautifully, all delightfully contrasting with the sweet fresh crispness of the beansprouts.

The table service at San Sun is a bit casual. But they expect you to have a pretty good idea about what you want, and when your food is ready they'll deliver it with no fuss. If you want to read the newspaper while eating, or play with your cell-phone, that is up to you. Friendly people, but unobtrusive.
There will be no artsy drama student oozing up to your table to aver that their name is Gottfroid they'll be your waiter today, and then reciting the long list of specials with dramatic cadence. If that was what you wanted, you could've gone to a place serving California Cuisine and paid a hell of a lot more for food a hell of a lot less yummy.

And you wouldn't have gotten the 凍咖啡奶 (tung kafei nai - ice coffee with condensed milk) either.


San Sun has the full selection of Vietnamese and Chinese dishes that feature souped or fried noodles: broad rice stick, narrow rice stick, bean thread, egg noodle, or wheat flour, dressed deliciously and appropriately. There's also a good selection of appetizer type thingies, as well as funkadelic cold drinks of the tapioca ball, jelly sliver, and chilled squiggly in syrup variety.
It's all affordable, and the place is comfortable, roomy, and clean.
You could even take your mid-western cousins there.

Judging by the little girls at a far table gleefully tackling something steaming, and the Chinese business man with an electronic device at a nearer table, as well as the passel of chicas happily slurping huge mouthfuls in the corner, this place really has it going on.
There's a bunch of Shanghainese somewhere, I can hear their hissy language.
Seems like everybody was happy with what they ate.
And that's a very good thing.



AFTER THOUGHT

Kearny Street is quite beautiful at twilight on an Autumn Sunday, dark velvet greys and glowing yellow pools of light, with pink streaks in the sky. Hardly any cars, and only a few pedestrians heading back to their hotels or towards Bart. It's peaceful.
Amble slowly, so that you finish smoking before you return to the office. Good tobacco needs time.
The Occidental is now open on Sundays; no brilliance figuring out where you're going later.

If I hadn't been smoking a pipe, I probably would've dropped by the Yummy Bakery on Jackson for a pei-dan-sou.
Maybe next weekend. There's always time.


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