The hidden message in Chinese food 01: based on homophones

The language of Chinese food is observed in everyday life events, usually those that are of some significance.  

On the wedding day, the man goes to collect his bride, and they serve tea, on their knees, to her parents, for her to say farewell to them, before going to his place to serve tea, on their knees, to his parents, for her to pay her respects to her new parents and for them to welcome her into their family.  

Then the couple retire to their bedroom, where they share a bowl of sweet clear soup:  sweet for a sweet start to their new life together as a couple; the clear bit is probably partly because most Chinese soups are clear, and partly for the obvious symbolism (clear as opposed to cloudiness).  

In the soup are: 枣子 zǎozi (红枣 / hóngzǎo / red dates), 花生 huāshēng (peanuts), 桂圆 guìyuán (dried 龙眼 lóngyǎn / “dragon eyes”; lóngyǎn is more commonly known in English as longan, after the Cantonese pronunciation; the dried form is called 桂圆 guìyuán and is a common ingredient in Chinese herbal medicine), and 莲子 liánzi (lotus seeds).  

The zǎo of the red dates is the same sound as the zǎo of 早 / early.  

The shēng of the peanuts is the same character for “to give birth to”.  

The guì of the dried dragon eyes is the same sound as the guì of 贵 / treasured.  

The zǐ of liánzi is the same character as that for “son”.  

So, the ingredients add up to the phrase: 早生贵子 zǎo shēng guì zǐ / “early give-birth-to treasured son”.

Gender politics (Taipei and London)

Came across this excerpt in Anne of Windy Willows (by L.M. Montgomery) (Book 4 of the Anne of Green Gables series [of 6]):

It was not, perhaps, quite so pleasant to call at the houses themselves and ask for subscriptions for the benefit of the Dramatic Club, but Anne and Lewis took turns in doing the talking.  ‘Take the men if you’re going in that dress and hat,’ Rebecca Dew had advised.  ‘I’ve had a good bit of experience in canvassing in my day, and it all went to show that the better-dressed and better-looking you are the more money — or promise of it — you’ll get if it’s the men you have to tackle.  But if it’s the women put on the oldest and ugliest things you have.’

This reminds me of the advice I was given by the accountant at Conoco Taiwan at the end of my two-year stint, when I had to go to the tax office to get a certificate  proving I’d paid all the taxes required, in order to get an exit permit from the country.  He said something that had never occurred to me before, even at age 22:  “When you go to the tax office, if you have a choice of windows, go to the one served by a man, even if the queue is longer.”  

“Why?  What’s the relevance?”  I asked.

“People are usually nicer to members of the opposite sex,” he said.

I did as he’d advised, standing in the longer queue served by a man, and watched the body language in the meantime.  Sure enough, the manner of the man, and the woman at the other window, varied depending on the sex of the customer.  The accountant was right.  Since then, I’ve tried to put his advice into practice wherever possible, even if it means being stuck in a longer queue.

Some seven years later, I noticed that a female Cantonese-speaking colleague in the film company in London seemed initially a bit “threatened” by me professionally, as she wanted to go on the shoots in China and was worried she might be displaced on account of my being able to speak Mandarin.  When she discovered that there was no danger of that, she started to relax towards me, and then went over to the friendly side socially, singling me out for lunching out, just the two of us — no, she is most certainly not gay!  My interpretation is:  not being one to dress up in a feminine and “sexy” way, I posed no challenge to her where men are concerned.  It’s what I call “sibling rivalry”, which generally works between members of the same sex, people in the same ability group, people in countries geographically close to each other — seemingly “racist” jokes are usually about their neighbouring countries, e.g., the Brits with their Irish jokes, the Swiss with their Austrian jokes, the French with their Belgian jokes. 

(Taipei, 1976; London, 1982–4)

Simplistic but effective communication (Singapore)

An ex-student, Sheila, British, was teaching English at a secondary school Maris Stella (海星) in Singapore.  (2025:  She's now back on my Mandarin course.)

One day, she walked into a clothes shop.

This was the conversation between Sheila and the shop assistant:

Sheila:  (pointing at one of the dresses on the clothes rack)  Can?  (for trying on)

Shop Assistant:  Can!

Sheila went off to the changing room, and upon emerging,

Shop Assistant:  Can?

Sheila:  Can!

Sheila paid and left.

(Singapore, 1980s)

How to expedite matters: 1 (London)

A heavily pregnant student Iroda’s mother had come over from Uzbekistan to be with her at, and after, the birth of the grandchild.  

She came along on the day of Iroda’s in-class listening test, in case the baby decided to arrive early.  

The test was only an hour in all, so I thought the mother could just sit in a corner of the classroom for that hour, rather than ask her to go and kill time in a café somewhere, especially since she was unfamiliar with London and could not speak much English.  

Normally, I could sign people in as my guests, but the porter at the building where the test was taking place didn’t know me and, for some reason, was reluctant to let her in, even after my explanation.  

As it was getting close to the start of the listening test, I decided I could not afford to lose more time bargaining with him, so I put this question to him, “Do you know how to deliver babies?”  

He immediately granted the mother access.

(London, 2010)

Update: 010116:  Iroda the student said the son Nuron was born after the exam, so that was a bit of a close shave.

The motorcycle lane (Taipei, Taiwan)

Valerio mentioning the motorbikes of Rome, in response to my blog entry Traffic around the world: Taiwan 2 (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2015/03/traffic-around-world-taiwan-2-taiwan.html) has brought back this story.

When I was working at Conoco Taiwan in 1975–1976 in Taipei, the place was teeming with motorcycles, as they were cheap to run and also a quick way of getting around.  The riders would zip around, and in between, the bigger vehicles, making a nuisance of themselves.  So, the authorities set aside a motorcycle lane for them, on the pavement side, i.e., the slowest lane, with railings erected, to stop them from shooting out into the main traffic lanes except at junctions.  Therefore, once one got into one of these motorcycle lanes, one was stuck in it until the next opening, which can be some distance away.

Taxis and other vehicles were allowed to enter these slow lanes to pick up or drop off passengers.

One evening, after an office party, I took a taxi home, and offered my colleague Mary a lift part of the way home for her, so that she wouldn’t have to take two buses, just one.

Taipei’s streets are set up in the traditional format for Chinese cities — in a grid — so streets would run in a north-south or east-west direction.  We were going along Nanjing East Road, and I asked the taxi driver to turn left at the first main junction, because that was where Mary could catch a direct bus home.  He ignored me, and carried on.  Mary said she could catch a bus too at the next junction, but again the driver ignored my request to turn left there.  He must’ve thought he wasn’t going to let himself be dictated to by a girl — there’s no other explanation for his behaviour otherwise.  I know, from first hand experience, that London taxi drivers, who have to pass The Knowledge test, baulk at being given the fastest route by a passenger.

When he finally did turn left at the third junction, which was no good for Mary now for her direct bus, I decided not to carry on my journey with him, and asked to be dropped off.  He went into the slow lane, which was chock-a-block with motorcycles and taxis, and Mary and I got out.

My first mistake:  as I paid him, while still in the cab, I decided to give him feedback:  “I was going to take your cab all the way home but I won’t now, because you were rude.  You refused to turn left, not just once but twice, when I asked you to.”

Second mistake:  we then jumped into the taxi behind him.  

The rude driver was so incensed at being told off by a mere slip of a girl (I was 21 and was often told I looked 16, which is quite inconvenient at times) that he left his taxi and came right up to my taxi, shouting at me through the window pane:  “What do you mean rude?!?  You bloody c..t!  How dare you call me rude?!?  I will not have a woman call me rude!  You f...king broad!  Damn you!!”  Luckily I’d wound up the car window when I saw him approaching, because he looked perfectly capable of punching me in the face. 

The new driver asked me what had brought this on.  I told him.  He shook his head in sympathy, sucked in air and said, “Oh, unwise, very unwise.”  I know, I know, I know now.

We were stuck behind him in the slow lane, making us sitting ducks.  The rude driver ranted and raved, raved and ranted, on and on and on.  Our driver was helpless too, having to sit it out.  The taxis and motorcycles behind us started to sound their horns angrily, as the traffic lights at the next opening went green, then red, then green, then red, then green.

After what felt like at least ten minutes, the rude driver walked back to his vehicle, but he obviously hadn’t quite let off enough steam because he then stood by his car door, and fired off more tirade from there.  I could hear him clearly from my new taxi, even with the windows wound up.  The traffic lights went green, red, green, red, green, and the horns kept up their cacophony of furious hornets.

After what seemed like yet another ten minutes, the man finally got into his taxi, and drove off, but slowly, as if he was still considering stopping and getting out to do more shouting and yelling.

For at least half a year after that incident, I didn’t dare flag down a brown/maroon taxi again, in case it was him.  I’d stand for ages shivering in the cold and in the rain, letting all the brown/maroon taxis go, rather than risk it.  If I saw a brown/maroon taxi in my neighbourhood, I’d break out in a sweat, thinking he’d tracked me down.

(Taipei, 1975/6)

(from googling). Quote The Knowledge of London is the world-renowned, rigorous examination for London black cab drivers, requiring them to memorize 25,000+ streets and thousands of landmarks within a six-mile radius of Charing Cross. Introduced in 1865, it usually takes 3-4 years to pass, involving written tests and one-on-one oral "appearances".  Unquote

Cultural practices and cultural usage of language (England)

Vita had come to England in 1968 when the student riots took place in Milan, and gone to live in Oxford.  

    Where she’d grown up, in the mountain area of northern Italy (near Monte Rosa), the local practice was to drape the duvet and other bedclothes over the window sill first thing in the morning, if it was sunny and dry, to air them.  

    She continued with this practice in Oxford, but the locals said it was a bit vulgar, as it looked like she was announcing, and showing off, her bedroom activities of the night before.  She was horrified they should’ve taken it that way, and thought they were a bit racist towards her.

    As she was studying full-time, she got a local woman to baby-sit her son for a small fee, and they got on well.  

    One day, the English woman called her “duck”, which is apparently offensive in Italian.  Hurt, Vita terminated the woman’s baby-sitting services and never spoke to her again.

    It wasn’t until years later, she told me, that she found out the Brits use it as a term of endearment.

duck ³ |dək| (also ducks )

noun Brit.

dear; darling (used as an informal or affectionate form of address, esp. among cockneys).

ORIGIN late 16th cent.

(England, 1968)

An encounter with an old Chinese lady (London)

I was on the Piccadilly Line Tube train for Chinatown, to have lunch with an ex-student at 12noon.  

An old Chinese lady (late 70s / early 80s) got on a stop after me, at Finsbury Park, barely able to get on the train from the platform, in spite of help from a walking stick.  

She laboriously made it to the second seat from the door, and her legs wobbled as she struggled to sit down, saying something aloud.  

The young woman in the seat next to the door, a Westerner in her early 20s, just watched her without even offering a hand to steady her.  

I was at the far end of the row opposite her.  I thought she'd be bound for Chinatown, so I would help her on the stairs up to the ground level at the destination end.  

Sure enough, when we got to Leicester Square, the old lady struggled to get up.  

There were too many people between her and me for me to get to her to help her up, so I got out at my end, and went to her door to offer her an arm.  

She was greatly taken aback, and started to say she could manage.  I stayed with her all the same, and even when we got to the stairs and she tried to dismiss me, I remained behind her, going up step by step at a snail's pace.  

Then, I helped steady her from the stairs to the escalators, and then escalator to the turnstiles, and thereafter the stairs to the ground level.  

I asked her where she was going, but didn’t understand a word of her form of Cantonese.  

At the turning into Lisle Street, one of the streets in Chinatown with a high density of Chinese restaurants, I gestured by way of asking her if she was heading that way.  She nodded her head.  

As we walked along slowly, I saw out of the corner of my eye the words engraved on the metallic skirting board of the building along which we were walking:  The Hippodrome Casino.  

When we got to the entrance, she stopped and said, “This is where I’m going.”

Ah...  All that painful effort for a day in at the casino!

(London, 2015)