TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 113

[Tobie Shapiro]

January 7, 2000000000000000000000007


Dear You Who Read and Write,

	Every week on Saturday night, we four go 
to a Chinese restaurant for dinner.  The same 
one.  Every week.  This tradition came from our 
going to another Chinese restaurant every 
Saturday night for years.  It was called, The 
Shin Shin, and was on Solano Avenue in Berkeley. 
They were the greatest.  We'd shopped around and 
found them.  The decor was like the inside of a 
community swimming pool, but the food was 
unparalleled.  We went there so much that the 
owners got to know us pretty well.  Pretty well 
as in exchanging gifts on holidays and birthdays 
and recognizing my voice on the phone when I 
called in to make our reservation.  We got the 
same table every week, and it got to the point 
that one day I called in to make the reservation 
and just told Elena to invent a meal for us.  She 
knew what we liked.  She invented a meal that 
consisted mostly of things that were not on the 
menu.  Lots of organ meat, and real down to earth 
Chinese food, the kind that you don't find in 
restaurants because they are skewed to white 
tastes.  (Unless you're in China, and then they 
are skewed correctly).
People would come and gawk at our million dishes 
stacked up on the turntable and they'd ask Elena 
to make that one, or this one, and she'd just 
say, "Special customer.  Not on menu.  Sorry".

	Then about a year and a half ago, the 
Shin Shin went out of business.  They were weary 
of restaurant work, and thought of retiring down 
in Sunnyvale, which is about 35 miles from here. 
We were crestfallen, to say nothing of 
disappointed.  They lasted a few months in 
Sunnyvale before they had to open another 
restaurant because they were bored to death with 
retirement.  Now they have a tiny little take out 
place which has the potential to make the best 
Chinese food in the area.  So every once in a 
great while, we'll call Elena and make a 
reservation for Saturday night, and drive all the 
way down there for dinner.  It takes a while. 
And we hit the traffic.  But it's worth it, just 
to see the variety and invention on the table. 
They don't have enough serving platters or 
glasses, so they put out plastic sometimes.  And 
they have to shove several tables together.

	So, in the meantime for the other 
Saturday nights, we went searching hard for a 
substitute and finally came up with a restaurant, 
but it just doesn't stand up.  In fact, it's 
getting boring.  The menu is limited, and the 
food isn't as good, and we miss the Shin Shin. 
We have become a staple there, though, and when I 
call in for a reservation, they recognize who it 
is as soon as I say, "Four people, Saturday 
night, the name is...."  How long will we have to 
go there before I can ask them to make up a 
banquet for us, just invent something?




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The cleaver story

	On my first trip to New York City to 
court the music business, I stayed with a German 
fellow, Eugen (Oy-gen), or Hans Roth.  I'd met 
him at the Federated Societies for Experimental 
Biology convention where I went with my parents. 
Eugen had started up a flirtation with me and I'd 
responded positively.  I don't know why.  He was 
vain.  He looked at himself in the mirror 
constantly and dressed foppishly, slathering 
himself with attention and extra little touches, 
like the perfect shoes that set off his legs and 
the Mercedez Benz to match them as a much needed 
accessory.  We drove up from Atlantic City to New 
York with our bags in the back, neither one of us 
having expected to be in someone else's company 
when we first set our feet inside the convention 
hall of the FASEB.  In fact, Eugen lived in 
Passaic, New Jersey, right across the waters and 
the state line from the big city.  Passaic was 
the place my father was born, and I'd been there 
before when I was very little and not so little, 
doing the rounds of relatives on my father's 
side.  They were a different kind of neurotic 
from my mother's side, who were all California 
Jews.  The east coast family were louder, 
pushier, had abhorrent accents and tossed their 
Judaism around flagrantly.  They were more or 
less an embarrassment.

	But I was there to chase the music 
business and flatten Eugen Roth's bed, not to 
visit relatives, so I contacted no one on the 
long list of people I should contact according to 
my father.  He'd even given me a short list of 
people in his family who were remotely connected 
to show biz and therefore could help me out.  I 
had an audience with one of them who listened to 
my music and scoffed that I needed to write 
spiffier tunes, write new old standards, 
essentially.  And this relative dismissed me with 
a rude lecture on what's commercial and what 
isn't,  Art being not commercial and therefore 
not worth my time or his to explore, or even 
listen to.

	Eugen lived in a high rise and he rented 
a two bedroom apartment with a roommate, another 
transplanted German, both working for Hoffman La 
Roche.  The exchange was that I could stay there 
for free if I cooked for them.  And this was more 
than fine with me.  I imagined all sorts of 
terrific meals, hacking, chopping, slicing and 
whisking in their little kitchen, presenting them 
with my edible gifts from the heart.  But this is 
not how it turned out.  When we arrived in the 
apartment, Eugen introduced me to the kitchen and 
encouraged me to look around, get my bearings, 
see what they had in store, and what they didn't 
have.  Well, essentially what they had was frozen 
pizza and elbow macaroni, with a large order of 
cockroaches and mold.  The garbage bag was hung 
on the inside of the door under the sink, and 
when I opened that door, I was struck in the 
teeth by the stench.  Then I noticed the 
scavengers and parasites.

	They had no salt or pepper, no knives to 
cut with, no spoons to stir with, nothing.  And 
they had one set of flatware.  By one set I do 
not mean four place settings.  I mean they had a 
fork, a dull knife and a spoon, all purchased at 
the local super market, no doubt.  I imagined 
dinner with Eugen and roommate in this fashion: 
the scintillating conversation would be, "Could 
you please pass the fork?"  In the refrigerator, 
there was, to their credit or debit, a small 
stack of processed, pasteurized, real imitation 
food type cheese sheets, each slice separated by 
a piece of wax paper.  They were curling up and 
darkened at the edges.  So goes it in Passaic, 
New Jersey.

	I had my work cut out for me, and not 
even with one of their knives since they didn't 
have any.  I embarked on a cleaning campaign and 
announced that there would be no dinners until 
the place was inhabitable.  It could be a few 
days.  I scrubbed, I polished, I  emptied, I 
lined shelves, I washed the glass they had, and 
went out to purchase others.  Eugen, seeing my 
ambitions, handed me a fat check to furnish the 
kitchen with whatever I felt necessary.

	"Buy good German products."

	"I may buy good American products, good 
Chinese products, and good Japanese products as 
well," I told him.  "Maybe even something from 
Bulgaria if it suits.  I'll know what to do."

	"You'll know what to do," he repeated, 
smiling his smug, flirtatious smile.

	I went off to a local store and bought 
supplies and fresh food, only as much as I could 
carry in my arms on each trip.  To furnish a 
kitchen from ground zero is an expensive 
proposition.  Everywhere I turned I found I could 
not make the dish I wanted to make because of 
some thing or things wanting.  A salad would be 
simple.  But they didn't have a salad bowl, or a 
large pot to use as such, or anything to use as 
servers.  There was no olive oil or vinegar.  How 
about a plain old baked potato?  Well, that's 
nice, but you need tongs, or at least a couple of 
pot holders to take them out of the oven with, 
and plates to serve them on.  A meat loaf needs a 
roasting pan.  A piece of fruit needs a paring 
knife.  It was endless. How did they manage 
before this?  They ate out all the time.  All 
that requires is money, and they had plenty of 
that: two single, childless men working as hot 
shots at Hoffman La Roche.  But the kitchen got 
more or less in shape, and the praise I got for 
very plain meals was almost laughable.

	"What is this thing that you used on the vegetables?"

	"That is called a steamer, my man."

	"And what is this strange thing?"

	"That is a skillet."

	Pathetic.

	After a couple of weeks of this ordinary 
fare, I began to long for a well supplied 
kitchen.  And I missed  --  what did I miss?  I 
missed being able to cook a Chinese banquet.  I 
had learned from Harry Lum how to cook Chinese 
dishes, had gotten skilled enough to make 
elaborate banquets for eight or more people.  I 
had even gotten hired to cook a banquet or two. 
Oh, but that's another story.  I ached to put 
together a good Chinese meal.  I asked Eugen if 
there were anyone he knew of in the building who 
had a well supplied kitchen and would let me 
borrow it for a banquet.  Naturally, they would 
be invited, and I'd even leave them all the 
leftovers and the wok and cleaver.  Just let me 
use the equipment.  Eugen knew of a gay couple, 
both also working at Hoffman La Roche, who were 
interested in cuisine.  They lived a few stories 
up.  He would ask them.  The answer came back 
quickly.  They would be thrilled to have me come 
play in their kitchen.  One of them even wanted 
to take notes.  Did I mind?  I did not mind.  I 
was hungry for this experience.  I would give 
this guy something to take notes about.

	I'd actually seen both of these men in 
the elevator and the lobby at various times. 
They had their homosexuality well disguised in 
their business suits and official wing tips.  But 
at home, in their private element, it was another 
story.  I was introduced to them and their 
kitchen, had come to case the joint and see what 
was needed.  In private, their names were not Dr. 
Hadfield and Mr. Pinney.  They were, "Pooter", 
and "Honey cakes."  They sat on each other's 
laps, cooed, nuzzled and spoke baby talk.  I was 
careful to tolerate this even more than I would 
have tolerated it in a heterosexual couple. 
These men had something I wanted, and I wasn't 
about to poke fun at them, or retch at the words, 
"Snookie - ookums".

	I determined what I needed to procure for 
the banquet, and headed off to New York City's 
Chinatown to buy a wok, a wok cradle, and a good 
sized cleaver that could chop straight through 
bones.  When I got up out of the subway, I was 
greeted with the sounds sights and smells of 
Chinatown.  I gave a huge sigh of relief, thought 
of Harry, and my uncle Kuo and dove right in. 
Everywhere, people were rushing about and the 
crowds of Chinese women were picking over the 
produce, clogging the sidewalks, bumping into me. 
"My people!" I thought, and I felt right at home. 
From my childhood, I'd been surrounded by Chinese 
artifacts and Chinese culture.  There was San 
Francisco, the number one city.  There was my 
Aunt Anne and Uncle Ping Chia Kuo.  There were 
all the things Aunt Anne sent home from China 
while she was living there.  I could not remember 
a time when I couldn't use chopsticks.  Oh! 
Chopsticks!  Another thing to buy.

	In Chinatown, prices vary greatly from 
one shop to another.  You really have to walk 
around and compare to get the best deal.  I found 
a store that specialized in the hardware of 
cooking: steamers, woks, cleavers, strainers, 
serving platters, bamboo scrubbers.  I walked in 
and started poking around.  I was soon approached 
by a middle aged man who did not do his race 
credit.  In fact, he was the stereotypical 
Chinese caricature.  He was pejorative.  I was 
embarrassed to stand in his presence because he 
so insulted the senses.  Where did this guy come 
from?  All my life I had revered and admired the 
Chinese, their brains, their culture, their art, 
their great thinkers, their resourcefulness, 
their beauty.  And now, I was face to face with a 
stooped over, broad nosed man with wisps of hair, 
yellowish skin, slanty eyes and goddamn it, buck 
teeth.  It was as if I'd been confronted with an 
honest to goodness Jew boy, the one with the hook 
nose, the greasy ear locks, the hunched over 
shifty look, the thick heccent and the self 
effacing gestures.  I was appalled. 
Nevertheless, I had a job to do.

	"I'm looking for a cleaver."

	And then he spoke.  Oy!

	"Oh!  You want cweava."

	"Yes, I want one that can chop through bone, a big one."

	"Oh!  Numma one cweava.  Cut bone."  He 
climbed up on a ladder, reached into a box and 
brought out an all metal cleaver.  The metal 
handles are no good.  They get slippery and 
dangerous.  Best to get one with a wooden handle. 
Carbon steel.

	"No.  I want a wooden handle and carbon steel."

	"No.  No maw cahbon steew.  Stainwess 
Steew,  numma one stainwess steew.  Nevah bwake!"

	"No carbon steel?"

	"No. No maw cahbon steew.  Seven fifty, 
stainwess steew.  Nevah bwake!"  He shook the 
thing at me from up on the ladder.

	"Seven fifty?  I can get that for three 
dollars in San Francisco.  Forget it."

	He got down off the ladder bringing the 
offending instrument.  "No.  No maw thwee dolla. 
Seven fifty, stainwess steew.  Nevah bwake!"

	He showed me the cleaver and added, "Be 
vewy cafuw not cut yo fingah".  I took the 
cleaver from him and demonstrated how to use it, 
folding my left fingers over an imaginary piece 
of meat so that my knuckles would guide the 
cleaver, protecting my fingers.  His eyes lit up.

	"Weah yo wearn use cweava wike dat?"

	I thought of explaining my exact 
relationship to Harry, but thought better of it. 
I said, "My husband is Chinese."

	"Oh!" he said, definitively, "Fie dolla!"

	Then I made a mistake.  I told him I 
could get it in San Francisco for three dollars 
and, thanking him, went on to another store to 
compare prices.  It turned out that the, "Fie 
dolla," was indeed a great bargain, and there 
were no wooden handled number one cleavers in New 
York's Chinatown, not that I could find, at any 
rate.  I found my way back to the first store a 
couple hours later, ready to take the stainwess 
steew neva bwake cweava for fie dolla.  But when 
I entered the store, the caricature was not there 
any more.  In his place, was a youngish man who 
spoke perfect English.  He said it would be seven 
fifty, and, trounced, I shelled it out.



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-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net