fine dining
After a steady stream of feeding dozens of hungry folks yummy Japanese food only a few customers lingered as my shift came to an end.
As I wished good night to the last of the dinner crowd, the chefs made a dash for the nearest empty table. They had in their hands big bowls (I mean like mixing bowl sized) of "soup".
The chefs are an interesting bunch. These sushi and hibachi masters are all Chinese. They speak very little English and a majority of our communication is done through gestures, smiles, and if all else fails finding someone to translate. Some nights there are five guys running the kitchen but tonight it only took three to keep everyone fed.
Occasionally, I will see them with a big bowls of something I don't recognize. A majority of the time the standard response is a big grin and "Chinese food" is the answer. Sunday night there was a big pot of chicken feet being stewed up. Recently I heard rumors of pig's feet. Naturally, when I saw the chefs' giant bowls of "soup" I had to ask what it was. Tonight, our usual go to translator had the night off and so I resorted to gestures. I grunted a pig grunt and pointed to feet to try to ask if it was pigs feet. My response was grins and a welcoming response to indicated I should try some.
After a bit of consideration I did just that. Armed with a small rice bowl I stepped up to the big pot of "soup" on the stove. Gazing down into its mysterious contents I ladled out a good test portion. As I walked over to the table with the chefs slurping away at the noodles I pulled out a set of chopsticks from my apron and took my place at the empty fourth chair.
The hostess left for the evening and it was just me and these three Chinese guys slurping up noodles and miscellaneous soup items. Following the experts lead when I found an inedible mystery meat part I discarded it onto a plate.
They chatted away I had no clue what they were saying but they seemed kind of amused at my willingness to give their "soup" a try. Yellow (a direct translation of his Chinese name - though he is not to thrilled about the derogatory connotations of it) explained that if I can eat this "soup" I can travel to China and eat anywhere. The new hibachi chef I was sitting next to showed me pictures of his wife on his iPhone including some seemingly recent wedding photos. I asked if she was in China - Yellow translated - she was.
I can understand how difficult it must be to be an ocean away from home in a foreign land. Though in my travels I've always had that return trip booked and I knew that the separation from my culture and family would be short-lived. I admire these guys for the courage it takes to be here. But most of all I am honored that they are sharing their "soup" with me. After all, as strange and varied as it can be food is a universal language and in that moment we were communicating quite well. I realized just how lucky I am to get to have that experience.
As I wished good night to the last of the dinner crowd, the chefs made a dash for the nearest empty table. They had in their hands big bowls (I mean like mixing bowl sized) of "soup".
The chefs are an interesting bunch. These sushi and hibachi masters are all Chinese. They speak very little English and a majority of our communication is done through gestures, smiles, and if all else fails finding someone to translate. Some nights there are five guys running the kitchen but tonight it only took three to keep everyone fed.
Occasionally, I will see them with a big bowls of something I don't recognize. A majority of the time the standard response is a big grin and "Chinese food" is the answer. Sunday night there was a big pot of chicken feet being stewed up. Recently I heard rumors of pig's feet. Naturally, when I saw the chefs' giant bowls of "soup" I had to ask what it was. Tonight, our usual go to translator had the night off and so I resorted to gestures. I grunted a pig grunt and pointed to feet to try to ask if it was pigs feet. My response was grins and a welcoming response to indicated I should try some.
After a bit of consideration I did just that. Armed with a small rice bowl I stepped up to the big pot of "soup" on the stove. Gazing down into its mysterious contents I ladled out a good test portion. As I walked over to the table with the chefs slurping away at the noodles I pulled out a set of chopsticks from my apron and took my place at the empty fourth chair.
The hostess left for the evening and it was just me and these three Chinese guys slurping up noodles and miscellaneous soup items. Following the experts lead when I found an inedible mystery meat part I discarded it onto a plate.
They chatted away I had no clue what they were saying but they seemed kind of amused at my willingness to give their "soup" a try. Yellow (a direct translation of his Chinese name - though he is not to thrilled about the derogatory connotations of it) explained that if I can eat this "soup" I can travel to China and eat anywhere. The new hibachi chef I was sitting next to showed me pictures of his wife on his iPhone including some seemingly recent wedding photos. I asked if she was in China - Yellow translated - she was.
I can understand how difficult it must be to be an ocean away from home in a foreign land. Though in my travels I've always had that return trip booked and I knew that the separation from my culture and family would be short-lived. I admire these guys for the courage it takes to be here. But most of all I am honored that they are sharing their "soup" with me. After all, as strange and varied as it can be food is a universal language and in that moment we were communicating quite well. I realized just how lucky I am to get to have that experience.
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