Serve the People: A Stir Fried Journey Through China, by Jen Lin-Liu (641.5951 LIN at Edmonton Public Library) is not only the best piece of food writing I’ve read, but it’s one of the best books I’ve ever read–on any topic. This is not a book review, as I’m not entirely sure I posses enough thinkology to properly review this work, and calling this piece a book review would be an insult to people who can actually craft a proper book review. What follows are my thoughts on Lin-Liu’s work.
This book is great. This book is an excellent piece of culinary journalism, it’s one of the most entertaining and engaging books I’ve ever read. It’s not just another book about chinese food, it’s not a cook book, it’s not a culinary history of China, it is a personal journey through China’s culinary culture. Lin-Liu chronicles her adventures through China’s culinary world, starting as a student at a seedy Beijing cooking school, to a “noodle apprentice”, to a sous chef at an upscale Shanghai hotel, and then back to Beijing as the owner of a new cooking school.
Lin-Liu gives the reader a unique perspective on Chinese cuisine and customs. As an Chinese-American, raised in Southern California and fluent in Mandarin, she can “blend-in” in China and observe first hand how the business of food is conducted in China. On a recent trip to China to adopt our new daughter, our family was constantly drawing stares, smiles and stunned looks everywhere we went. I know we were treated differently. Jen Lin-Liu, I’m sure, didn’t have this problem. While outward appearances suggest she’s a native of China, she’s still 100% American, something she can’t hide. This fact comes to light early on in the book as she describes her cooking classes in Beijing:
Teacher Zhang and I had an uneasy relationship. Most of the time, he spoke with a guttural Beijing accent. But when he turned to me to ask a question, he enunciated very carefully. “Miss Lin,” he’d say with a hint of condescension, as if he were taunting me. He’d pause and take a sip from his glass jar filled with tea or wipe his hands on the sleeves of his ski jacket. “How is food different from cuisine?” Occasionally he’d look at me with his beady eyes and let out a little laugh, shaking his head. The teachers and students were baffled as to why I called myself “Chinese American,” a fuzzy concept in their heads. They seemed unable to conceive that it meant that I knew English better than I knew Chinese, much less that I could be more American than I was Chinese. My Mandarin was not bad, but it was far from perfect. I could hold fluent conversations, even if my tones were a little off. But I had neglected to work on my reading and writing skills after my first year of living in China, and nothing in my previous experiences had prepared me for the nuances of discussing fish guts. While my classmates dutifully copied down what was written on the board, my pen often hovered above my notebook, midcharacter. I had trouble finishing basic culinary words like “sauce” and “steam.”
A month into the class, after about the fiftieth time Teacher Zhang had turned to me to ask, “Do you understand?” and received a blank stare in return, something seemed to dawn on him.
“Miss Lin, Chinese is not your mother tongue, is it?”
The revelation rocked the class, setting students atwitter.
Never mind that I had clearly informed the administration of my identity and my purpose when I enrolled, and that the information had been funneled and disseminated in the usual bureaucratic Chinese way. “Miss Lin is a Chinese-American writer, and she wants to spread propaganda about Chinese food to the American people,” an administrator had proudly announced to the class on my first day.
I had needed assistance to fill out the registration forms. I had assumed that when I interrupted Teacher Zhang to ask questions, he and the students understood that I had to process the information in Chinese first and then mentally translate it into English. Apparently, however, they had simply thought I was retarded.
Probably one of my favourite lines in any book “…they had simply thought I was retarded.” The rest of the book is filled with this style of honest, often self-deprecating humour and observations on the culture of Chinese cuisine.
My favourite chapter is entitled “Noodle Apprentice”and describes Lin-Liu’s stint at a small, Beijing noodle shop. I got the impression that the noodle shop was analagous to a donair shop or a hot dog stand with a few tables. Not very glamourous. Lin-Liu’s description of the work is secondary to her story about the proprietor, Chef Zhang. A man from the country who journey’s to Beijing to try to make a better life for him and his family, he’s a man with a soul. When Chef Zhang’s family comes to visit him in Beijing, you feel the scene as if you were there. Want to know more? Read the book.
I strongly recommend this book to anyone with an interest in China, food, Chinese Food, or anyone who just wants a good read. Five stars out of five, 10 out of 10, 2 thumbs up, 100% certified fresh, etc…
The Universal Chan 