We pulled up just outside Xian’s South Gate, facing its 15 meter stone walls and imposing fortress crenolations. The glistening, brass studded red doors stood at attention, sentries eternally preserved yet eternally petrified, a monument never to rust nor again open. On either side of the ancient portcullis, great holes had been carved into the city walls, allowing thruway traffic purchase into the imperial capitol. Where archers once drew their bows, bike tours now whirred their concentric levity around the firmament. Stoplights and crossing guards replaced boiling oil and murder holes. The roads of history diverged on this night, and we chose the western of the two. Giving the cabbie his 30 RMB, we strode into the evening, sheathing fork and spoon at Howard Johnson’s luscious Thanksgiving buffet.
In China, Howard Johnson’s is a five star experience. This may sound counterintuitive, but in China, America’s gutter turns to glory. In Beijing, Pabst Blue Ribbon (also known as PBR, the hipster brew of choice due to its cheap price and self-knowing mediocrity) has been repackaged as a luxury brand. Its ‘oak aged’ vintage is priced at a staggering $40/liter, and sold in the finest gentleman’s clubs and fine dining establishments. Brands such as PBR and Howard Johnsons are seen as typically American, and can thus command great value regardless of their connotations in their native soil. As such, they shrewdly capitalize on their traditional American imagery in an unfamiliar, ever hungry Chinese market.
In a sense, I do the same. Any foreigner who comes to China is suddenly a commodity, and none moreso than the blonde haired, blue eyed male. There is an amount of deference afforded me, an undue respect which is freely given, due to my relative scarcity. As the world opens up, this artificial inflation will slowly diminish, but for the present, both myself and Howard Johnson’s were the beneficiaries of American advertising. I’d toast the trend with a PBR, but at present, it is out of my price range. A sixty cent Dark Knight stout will have to suffice.
As we walked into the marble halls of HoJo, we were serenaded by a player piano, slowly rotating in an enormous crystal enclosure. We were greeted in rote English by a beautiful unsmiling Russian concierge. She took pictures of us as we sidled up by the moat, beside the ferns and the koi. Cameras returned, I paced with my fellows at the Bodi international school towards the buffet.
Prices were western, as was custom. Dinner, including unlimited wine, appetizers, turkey and dessert, came to 120 RMB - a red 100 RMB mao and his lesser orange 20 RMB counterpart. As in all Chinese establishments, tipping was not encouraged, and incomprehensible to the majority of the wiatstaff, so the bill was as is, without any further decision. The meal was a special treat - the feast cost twelve times as much it did in our jaunts through the village. Money works differently in China. When you are foreign and in the company of generous friends, any expenditure is a surprise. Twenty dollars had become a ludicrous expenditure for a good meal, but luckily, our spread was well worth the cost.
I turned to enter the buffet, with its red wine oxidizing under a purple, velvet draped roof. I sampled an excellent pumpkin bisque, hesitantly passed on the turtle soup and lasagna, and greedily snatched from the cheese display and the salads. Salivating, i dressed my salads in caesar, italian, a variety of creamy balsamics. As most Chinese establishments only served thousand island and nothing else, it was a welcome change of pace. I grabbed my appetizers, hungrily tendered my cheeses, and resumed my place at the table.
Cheese is a rarity in China, as a large majority of the population is lactose inolerant. Pizza is a luxury rarely sampled, and when it is available, it is enjoyed as a five star experience. Pizza hut is a jacket and tie affair, with crisp white tablecloths and sommliers touting the wine selections. The pizza buffet was replaced by a single turky, which was sufficient for the entire evening. Most patrons tended towards the sushi, hot pot, and other traditional asian fare.
Though there was no dog on the menu this evening (at least, not labeled as such - Chinese chefs can be tricky), China has yet to accede to the health foods craze of superconscious America. Nutrition labels reflect this divergence, even in familiar brands. In China, Heinz ketchup comes in an aluminum squeeze bottle, spitting forth like crimson toothpaste. In China, one serving of this formidible nostrum contains 1300 mg of sodium - over 60% of the daily value for a fully functioning human being. In Mali they used to trade salt for gold. Somebody should pitch this to Heinz - they’d make a fortune. In my four months here I’ve likely had more MSG than Yao Ming at Madison Square Garden. Don’t worry about me though - I’ve been drinking a lot of (bottled!) water. And if I’ve learned anything in my times at Chinese laundromats, it all comes out in the wash.
As we stabbed pairs of gleaming ebony chopsticks into the freshly minced turkey - one of which was sufficient to feed the uninitiated locals - Jason’s millionaire friend Bo rolled up with his entourage. Toasts were traded, chairs added, and the meal commenced with renewed gusto. Appropriately enough, Bo works at Boeing, where he manages the Xian branch. His father’s franchise is based in Shanghai. Bo frequently rolls up wearing million dollar watches, buying bottle service and flashing meticulously sculpted arms and the whitest smile in the Orient. Evenings with Jason Bo are a blur of Western debauchery coupled with eastern precision. Boeing beer pong at the dubstep diaspora. Bo is better informed about hip hop trends than anyone I’ve ever met. Somehow he finds the time to do this and manage a thriving branch of a multinational corporation.
Toasts, and toasts. I had no work on friday, so the shackles were off. It was a good meal, good company, but typing this now, hundreds of miles away in rural Yichang, it strikes me how surreal my life in Xian was. It wasn’t like China, it wasn’t like America - I can’t even call it the future with true certainty. So much of my stay in Xian felt like a half constructed dream - a blank check fantasia of rags to riches without the provisions of planning or architectural training. In my wild nights in Xian, I rambled through a living theme park whose terse, businesslike childhood had blossomed into a dualistic pseudomaturity - of work undertaken to capture the pleasures which youth denied. An entire generation living in Western frivolity with Eastern efficiency. What strange new animals dance about in Chinese Neverland!
The dinner ended, and my last holiday in Xian came to a reluctant close. We all took new photos with the Russian concierge in front of the rotating crystal piano, and then outside into the open air. Bo sidled into his absurdly luxurious prototype BMW - one of two confirmed in the entire province. Just as absurdly, it was painted in dark blue with racing stripes had the word POLICIA professionally embossed across the side. Bo asked me if I thought it was amazing. Looking at it all under the smoky twilight of Chinese halogen, I could only say, “yes."
No comments:
Post a Comment