Still Tuesday 17th February – Fenghua
I am compelled to admit it, by the time the train arrived at the destination station I was really quite scared. Weirdly, and fitting for the frightened traveler, the station closed up as soon as we had all disembarked this, the last train. Everyone scuttled off in family cars; on foot, arm resting on a long missed friend’s shoulder; by bicycle, by elephant… However they left, the point is that they left and I remained. Alone. In the dark. I remained. Well, I say alone but as the lights were switched off behind me and the shutters brought down, a man emerged. An animated man, he was smoking what I would guess as his 57th cigarette of the day judging by the colour of his hands and teeth. He was an amiable sort of chap who seemed awfully keen to whisk me away in his car. I shook my head, clearly intimating that this was not going to happen and was busy pretending to strangle myself as a possible explanation as to why when my host pulled up, beeped and frowned, bemused. I shook hands with the stranger thankfully still in the dark as to whether he would have been my gracious host or cold hearted murderer.
Bumbling and fussing we arrived and I entered the family home. I was nervous and continued to bumble as I dumped my gifts on a wide eyed grandma. A very nice bottle of Rioja, packet of McVities digestives and pot of pear drops seemed so ideal when I was in the supermarket selecting appropriate gifts yesterday. Now, however…
The family sat, uncles, wives, children around a round table atop which was a large movable glass circle housing various dishes. Uncle ‘head chef’ emerged, professional in his apron, from the kitchen holding still another dish and would continue to do so throughout the meal until he finished, drank pretty much a whole kettle of rice wine and challenged me to a ‘cook off’ – more on that later. I was tense but my saviour was to be a six year old boy. You need not comprehend the language to understand that when presented with a ball of green thickened gloopy slime which when squished through netting looks rather like a hormonal, chip eating lard bathing 15 year olds face, the only appropriate response is to gag and pretend to be sick then top it off by sticking out your tongue. A firm friendship was established. My new little friend and I would communicate through eyebrow movements, hand gestures and winking for the rest of my stay.
A cup of rice wine was filled before me. Emptied, it was filled again. It was the nerves! What I actually love about Chinese dinner etiquette is that they ‘cheers’ – in Chinese – frequently. I was up, down, up, down, up down as often as not, two hands beneath the lifted cup as they ‘clink’ – I was actually having a rather lovely time.
Thankfully, one of my host’s cousins spoke English so translating was not just down to her. This same crafty cousin happened to be good friends with my Mandarin teacher who unbeknownst to me coincidentally lived round the corner. I figured that something was up when everyone kept glimpsing at me and giggling. C.C. as I’ll name him, had called my mandarin teacher invited him round for some cake. Brilliant! I devised a cunning plan to continually have my mouth stuffed with food so I did not have to suffer the embarrassment of speaking bad Chinese in front of these hospitable people. Yet despite my protestations and owing to the fact that between each mouthful, my chopstick handling ability or lack thereof allowed for periods of time where my Mandarin teacher could ask me questions and I had no way of delaying. I was cornered – if such a thing is possible round a round table.
So the rice wine continued to flow and Uncle Head Chef was impressed with my drinking ability. I really don’t know how it happened but somehow, after bragging about how good my roast dinners are, by the end of the night I had agreed (I didn’t really have much choice, it’s difficult to argue in Chinese and simply nodding your head gets you into whole worlds of trouble) to cooking with H.C. at least two dishes which were not allowed to be salad and not allowed to be fish and chips – this combination provoking a serious wave of disapproval! Strangely, the more rice wine that was consumed, the more I understood of my hosts. Genuinely, the more plastered we got, the less my host had to translate. During H.C.’s enthusiastic explanation of how to make rice wine, I understood pretty much everything! Especially how when you heat it, it must not be heated above boiling point – an intricate detail and one I was impressed to have deciphered from his gesticulations. Perhaps I was going to be alright here – if I was continually drunk.
She went to Shanghai 