[img]396|left|Alex Campbell||no_popup[/img]I’m in San Francisco. My friend Kurt tells me I must go to this great Chinese food restaurant, House of Nanking. I went with two other friends, Rekha and Paul.
As Kurt had warned us, there was a line out the door. I felt like we were entering a high society dance club. You didn’t give your name, you just stood in line and a woman would come out and say a number. If it corresponded with the number you had in your party, you had better speak up so you would get the seats. I heard our number: “Three? Three?” I grabbed my friends and shouted, “Three!” I felt like we won the lottery.
The place was packed. We were seated with three other people, a couple with their college-aged daughter. We exchanged pleasantries and talked about who had been to House of Nanking before and who had not (only the young woman had been there before; the rest of us were newbies).
We ordered, and I noticed a strange thing. No one who worked there made eye contact with the people they were serving. They somehow managed to hear what we were saying and write it down without looking at us at all. Also no eye contact when they brought us water. Which was served in plastic beer steins. Was I in America? China? Germany?
I excused myself to go to the restroom, which was an adventure in itself. There was only one bathroom, and you had to stand in the path of the wait staff, wedged between a sink and the kitchen. To my left were empty beer/water steins. A waiter had me move over so he could fill one from the tap. Now, I don’t know where the water they serve in restaurants usually comes from, but somehow it was a little disconcerting to see it coming from this sink that had dirty dishes in it. The water was a little cloudy as it went to the table.
To my right, I could see a giant rice cooker, and food being prepared. I don’t know about you, but I can’t stand to see food being prepared, especially meat. The less I know, the better. Yes, I’ve read the books and seen the movies about the meat industry. Call me what you will, but I like to block out all the information I know so I can enjoy my chicken or beef dinner.
Am I an Acrobat?
I averted my eyes, and then it was my turn. The restroom was very dark, with one toilet. The seat was broken, and I felt like a performer from the Cirque du Soleil, trying to perform nature’s most basic function without falling in. The tile floor was very greasy. I slid across the floor, washed my hands, and managed to get out of there without breaking my neck.
When I returned to our table, I warned the family we were eating with about the bathroom, then sat down to our appetizer of onion cakes. They were good, but they were drowning in sauce. They were heavy on the batter, light on the onions. It didn’t help that I faced the station where there was a pass-through window. I could see the onion cakes being plated, and the guy ladling the sauce from a clear(ish) plastic container. It was so rudimentary.
I distracted myself by making conversation with my new friends. They were from Chicago, and the young woman was taking a class and studying psychology and marine biology. I told them I had never been to Chicago, but I was a big fan of Oprah, my usual line when meeting people from Chicago. They smiled politely, which is the usual response.
Our food arrived (no eye contact), and we dug in. We needed paddles. Turns out everything was swimming in sauce! The sesame chicken was good, with enough rice, and the sweet potatoes would have been good, had they not been dripping. Our table got two bowls of rice. The Chicagoans got a beautiful blue and white porcelain bowl. We got a silver container that resembled a dog dish. Was I making too much eye contact? Were we too sloppy? I tried to keep my barking to a minimum.
All in all, my adventure with the House of Nanking was…memorable. Lots of action, tons of people, and food that was, to coin a phrase, finger lickin’ good, due to all the sauce. My recommendation? Go for the experience. Just be sure to ask for extra napkins.
Ms. Campbell may be contacted at campbellalexandra@hotmail.com
