As we waited for the elevator, I started to get that sweaty feeling that spreads when you know someone you care for is about to offend you. “Don’t say it, don’t say it,” I thought to myself as my friends and I decided on a restaurant for dinner. Food isn’t always as harmless of a topic as one might think. “They serve Chinese food, but …” he paused as I braced myself, “elevated.”
To be fair, his comment was nowhere near the worst thing you could say to someone whose entire extended family had worked in Chinese restaurants for decades, starting as dishwashers and eventually becoming proud owners. But after watching one too many episodes of reality cooking shows where the judges’ main criticism of Chinese dishes were that they weren’t “elevated enough,” I lost it. What is so inherently undesirable about Chinese food that it must be elevated to be deemed worthy? Why is Chinese food more celebrated by the general public when it’s served in a restaurant that has twinkly lights, a name that could also be mistaken as a startup or allergy medicine, and a largely white customer base?
Chinese food in America is riddled with stereotypes about exotic mystery meat, cheap and greasy takeout, dirty kitchens, and the sleep-inducing flavor enhancer MSG. More recently, Chinese restaurants have become stigmatized as COVID hotspots. These stereotypes have consequences.
When you talk about food, know that you’re talking about people.
When my mother and grandparents first came to the U.S. as ethnically Chinese Cambodian refugees, they had their first big break in the Chinese American restaurant business. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, mother, and cousin all lived in the same tiny apartment when they fled to Houston from a Thailand refugee camp. To survive, my three uncles and grandfather worked long hours as dishwashers while my aunt cleaned houses. My grandfather would commute to Chinatown to work at a xiao long bao, or soup dumpling, restaurant. After…
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