A few days ago as I was writing this final project, my mom insisted that I watch a new Netflix cartoon called Over the Moon with her. The last thing I wanted to do was sit down and endure a kid’s movie for two hours, but my mom would not take no for an answer. Set in China, the film is about a young girl named Fei Fei who grew up loving the legend of the Moon goddess Chang’e, where the goddess drank an immortality potion which forced her to lose her lover and ascend to the Moon for eternity. The first few scenes are set in Fei Fei’s family kitchen/workspace where her mom and dad make and sell mooncakes for the village. When watching the beginning shots, my mom kept on interrupting saying with a giant smile, “That’s how my mom made mooncakes!” and “Doesn’t this mooncake song make you so happy?” My mom’s joy was utterly palpable and honestly contagious. I realized, then, that not only did my mom love this movie because of the Chinese representation, but also because of its deep connection with food. When flying mooncakes were singing and dancing (we don’t need to go into specifics of why this was happening), she was laughing so hard our couch was shaking. While my mom didn’t know the specifics of my project, she knew I was writing about Asian cuisine and her reaction was to show me this film. My mom’s love for this little cartoon movie showed me how powerful food is, how someone can feel so connected to their culture by visual representations of foods they are familiar with.
My mom is a first generation Chinese American, but doesn’t know a lick of Chinese. I’m really not over-exaggerating as sometimes I even have to correct her pronunciation when she says dishes like Jiaozi incorrectly. When her parents immigrated to the US to study engineering and biochemistry, they were told not to speak any Chinese to their children. If their kids didn’t speak Chinese, then maybe they would be seen as more American. However, it was difficult and sometimes frustrating for my grandparents to communicate with my mom and her siblings because they were still learning English. Food became a way for communication, it became a way to unify the family as they all ate their Pai Huang Gua together for dinner. My grandmother passed down her recipes to my mother, and so I also grew up in a household where we ate Chinese food the majority of the time (my white father would sometimes cook up some burgers or sausages on the grill). My mother has always been passionate about her cooking because food was one of the only real ways she could connect to her culture. It was almost a way for her to prove to everyone that she was not a white-washed Asian American. Food is not only just a staple in everyone’s life, but is also a way for non-whites to remember their heritage while continuing traditions and celebrating one’s familial ties.
However, my mom also often recalls how food made it hard for her to “fit in” amongst her white schoolmates when growing up. Even though she spoke perfect English, dressed “cool”, and tried to live outside of every stereotype box of an Asian American, she could never hide the smell of Chinese food when her friends came over to her house. She dreaded every time her friends asked to come to her house because she was always asked “what that smell was” or was given the occasional racist “oh, that’s where your scent comes from.” Her shame around her family food’s odor and how her meals were so different than her white friends’ caused her to sometimes be resentful that they couldn’t just have cheeseburgers and hot dogs like other Americans.
Nowadays white chefs and trendy foodies are on a constant search of that same smell and flavors that my mom was so ashamed of. How could the very food that my mom tried to hide become the biggest, latest trend? This project is my stream of consciousness of how I explore the ideas behind authenticity, trendiness, and stereotyping within “exotic” cuisines. By looking at my family’s and my own experiences, I show various cases of how food colonialism, orientalism, and “Othering” still thrives within American culinary culture. The project is separated into three different parts that touch on various topics that intertwine with each other.
It is important to note that while reading this you must know I come from a place of immense privilege and little background of other people’s experiences. Being someone who is half Chinese and half white, I have been able to venture back and forth between both worlds. I have been able to claim and embrace Chinese food while also be white passing. I can enjoy “exotic” food without being othered, unlike so many Asian Americans. My experiences are very limiting and so most of this project’s case studies focus on personal events and knowledge.
Food is a reflection of how people perceive and this project seeks to explore these perceptions. As someone who loves, LOVES food, it was hard to write on topics that I so often find myself guilty doing. While there is no definite conclusion, I seek to challenge my views and practices as well as expose the inherent white supremacist structure on how we view food.
Is that authentic?
About two months ago at Wesleyan, I was cooking my housemates a nice dinner. I wanted to make something that was quick and easy, but also something that could impress. After all, cooking in my house is a subtle slow roasted battle of “who’s the best chef under the roof?” I made them a dish that I had every week growing up, a dish so simple, yet so familiar. One of my housemates in particular was really, I mean, really over the top excited about eating tonight. I asked her if she’s ever eaten the dish and she replied eagerly, “Oh yeah, Robi, of course I’ve had fried rice. But this fried rice is probably so much better than what I’m used to.” I looked at her, a bit blindsided, and asked “What do you mean?” and she replied simply “I mean, it’s authentic. Real Chinese fried rice! It must be so good because you made it and you’re Chinese!” I nodded like I pretended to know what she meant and continued eating my dinner. While finishing up my meal, my housemates praised my dish and declared that this was their favorite meal they’ve had so far this year. Now, I would like to think that this was because of my amazing and awesome cooking skills, but I began to think that it was related to something else.
In bed that night I kept repeating the whole dinner’s interaction in my head. I was almost laughing at the thought that my housemates thought the fried rice was “authentic. ” Little did they know, I got it from a white chef’s page on Bon Appetit. My housemates immediately assumed that since I was Chinese, then the food I was making had to be authentic. However, as I began to analyze it more, I realized that a little part of me knew that this was going to happen. Deep down inside, I knew that they would think the fried rice was “legit” because of how people associate exotic food and authenticity. I had subconsciously fallen into the authenticity trap, where I flaunted my “exoticism” to my white counterparts to be deemed valuable and good (Eater, Kay). I had used the concept of “authenticity” to benefit myself. That is when it clicked in my head that authenticity is merely a way for non-whites to market themselves to the white foodie. Non-white people must prove themselves to be authentic in order to be considered legit or high quality. How could I internalize authenticity to reproduce a form of othering? Is my self-authentication a product of white supremacy and assimilation?
I want you to take a moment and think about how many times you’ve used “authentic” in a sentence regarding food. For example have you ever said something along the lines of: “Hey Becky, I found the most authentic Thai food place across the corner. They literally have the best Pad Thai!” If you’re like me, you’re shaking at the thought of how many times you’ve used the word to validate a cuisine as good. At the top of my head, I immediately think how I always gain approval and validation of my quick yelp searchers for new dinner spots if I say it’s a “little authentic place.” Authenticity is a concept that is so broad that often people, particularly white people, use the idea of “authenticity” to showcase their knowledge and claim authority over a cuisine. When labeling restaurants as “authentic”, consumers confine cuisines into a rigid, uncompromising standard that cannot be changed. The language surrounding the idea of authenticity allows for Western (white) cuisines to be more creative in their dishes because there are no stereotyped expectations. They can claim their dish is “authentic” without knowing what authentic even means. Today, millennials are on a constant, never-ending journey of finding the next “authentic” spot. Authenticity is wanted in everything, particularly within “exotic” foods. In non-European cuisines it is expected, even demanded to perform a certain image. Sara Kay, a masters graduate in Food Studies from NYU, wrote her master’s thesis entitled “Authenticity in Online Ethnic Restaurant Reviews: Revealing Conflicted Nationalism in Multicultural Consumption” where she analyzed more than 20,000 Yelp reviews of ethnic cuisines in New York to explore how authenticity labels are a product of white supremacy. Through her research, Kay explores how Yelp’s section on authenticity is not only utilized as a marker of quality, but also a way for employers and consumers to “evoke a homespun or faraway romanticism” around “exotic” cuisine (Eater, Kay).
On food review apps and websites like Yelp and Foursquare, reviewers can check to see if a restaurant has different qualities such as “kid friendly” and “vegetarian options.” These websites also have options of “authenticity”, “ambience”, and even “apparel” for how to dress at the restaurant. In her research, Kay read more than 20,000 Yelp reviews from the top ten most popular cuisines in New York City which were Japanese, Thai, Mexican, Chinese, French, Italian, Korean, Indian, Mediterranean, and Soul food. According to Kay’s data, the 85% of the Yelp reviewers that mentioned “authenticity” associated “authentic” with characteristics such as dirt floors and plastic stools (Eater, Kay). However, when discussing White/European restaurants, authenticity was connoted with positive characteristics such as “elegance.” For example, when reviewing a Korean restaurant called Jongro, one reviewer commented “we went for this authentic spot with its kitschy hut decor much like those found in Korea.” The term “kitschy”, which is usually noted as a negative word closely related to words such as cheap and tasteless, was both used to describe the dining aesthetic and was also the reasoning behind the restaurant’s authenticity. When reviewers “picture authenticity in food, they mentally reference all the experiences they’ve had before with that cuisine and the people who make it” (Eater, Kay).
In this case, the kitschy-ness and the “hut decor” of the restaurant allowed for the reviewer to deem this place as authentic because of her own perception of Korea. However, this review reflects the subtle, yet highly visible racism and exotification against “other” cuisines.
Kay’s research revealed that Mexican food and Chinese food, followed by Thai and Japanese cuisine, are impacted the most with the “authenticity” question. In the table on the left, Kay created an “Authenticity Score” which demonstrates how often authenticity is mentioned when eating a certain cuisine. The data exposes how there is a -.17 between the rating and the use of the word “authenticity,” meaning the more authenticity is discussed, the more the star ratings disappear. When labeling restaurants based on their authenticity, an authenticity trap begins when reviews “reinforce harmful stereotypes that then become nearly impossible for restaurateurs to shake off negative traits” (Eater, Kay). If chefs want to make dishes other than their stereotype, charge higher prices, be more creative with the menu, or get rid of the “gaudy” decor, they will not be seen as authentic. Immigrant and non-white chefs are expected to perform authenticity in the “right” way: The “right” way, aka, what white people project and expect from that particular cuisine. It is a lose-lose situation, either non-white chefs stick with the stereotypes and are deemed authentic but receive lower ratings should they branch out and risk being deemed inauthentic. Some Asian chefs have been able to break through the stereotypes and expectations such as chefs David Chang and Amelie Ning Kang. Chang, owner of the Momofuku ramen empire, has made himself a household name and a pioneer for “hip” expensive Asian cuisine that demanded world-wide respect. Kang has opened the MáLà Project in NYC’s East village where she refused to have any dragons of Chinese stereotypes. She has noted that since Chinese food is deemed second-class status, ranking far lower than Japanese and Italian, she is working to change this perspective around other foods. However, many non-white chefs have not been able to break through this trap.
The very essence of authenticity is inherently contradictory. Authenticity is a vehicle for white supremacy to confine, label, and further subvert “other” cuisine. The language revolving around authenticity hands white Eurocentric people the power to control how food is perceived. They can control the narrative of which food is understood as “good or bad,” what is deemed acceptable and what is not. Anything beyond the normative paradigm of food comfortability is deemed wrong. Authenticity, essentially, is a way for white people to experience ‘the exotic’, but only through a specific Eurocentric/Anglo-American lens of viewing ‘the other.’ This authenticity trap penetrates into cuisines where immigrant and non-white chefs have to cater to white images of authenticity in order to be accepted. Restaurants run on a fine line in creating and fulfilling an exotified fantasy that white consumers require. However, by submitting to these harmful images, these groups further entrench themselves within these stereotypes. This is where authenticity works to the benefit of white supremacy as it both allows white restaurateurs to consume “otherness” while keeping the actual “other” trapped within a stereotype faraway. This idea behind authenticity is fundamentally inauthentic for it is a “single ideology that supports the most powerful social group: white people” (Eater, Kay).
White chefs have also been able to claim authenticity when cooking different Asian cuisines. Chef Alex McCoy, “Food Network’s 2015 Star”, opened up a restaurant called Alfie’s in 2015, where the focus was Thai food from the perspective of the traveler (Eater, Kay). When interviewed about his upcoming restaurant, McCoy stated “authenticity is the goal, but that doesn’t mean only serving regional Thai items. When you travel in Southeast Asia you have two experiences: the cultural experiences with the temples, food, and people—and then a phenomenal traveler’s culture, too. The restaurant’s concept will also draw on expat traditions, like beet and grilled pineapple-topped “Aussie burgers” that one finds among the many Australian travelers, or Balinese dishes. That’s the inspiration for this place. We want to introduce people to Thai cuisine, but frame it in the eye of a traveler” (Washingtonian, Anna Spiegel). The interviewer later writes how “McCoy used his knowledge to breed a dining concept that conflates the authenticity of Thai food with the dynamic experience of a traveler eating it. The result is a unique, charming restaurant serving passion-infused dishes reflecting Thai culture with a tourist’s twist” (Washingtonian, Anna Spiegel). I’m sure the meaning behind this self-described “travelers bar” can speak for itself. McCoy’s conception of an authentic restaurant that caters to expat community is a clear example of white Euro-centric supremacy. It is quite ironic to claim a Thai restaurant is authentic while serving “Aussie burgers.” But that is how authenticity works. The white man can choose what is considered authentic and what is not. Alfie’s is a tangible representation of authenticity—food must be catered for the “traveler’s eye” (the “white man’s eye”). The “exotic” cuisine is borrowed in order for non-Asian people to feel like “the other” for a moment in time. As anthropologist Lisa Heldke writes, “novelty is also attractive to adventuring food colonizers because it marks the presence of the exotic, where exotic is understood to mean not only ‘not local’ but also ‘excitingly unusual.’ The exotic, in turn, is an indication of authenticity. Exotic food is understood as authentic precisely because of its strangeness, its novelty” (Heldke 181).
You know what’s funny; I could probably take a frozen bag of dumplings from Trader Joe’s and make it for my housemates and tell them it was a special authentic recipe from my grandmother and they would think it was the best thing ever because I called it “authentic.” The same goes to going to shabby hole-in-the-wall for its “authenticity” to feel you’ve made a rare “discovery.” In all honesty, authenticity is meaningless. It is a subjective perception that is created by different imaginations, judgments, and previous experiences. Yet white people are able to give authenticity power and control. Under white dominance, non-white people can begin to self-authenticate, similar to how I did in my fried rice story. Non-whites, particularly Asian people, must internally try to prove to white audiences that their meals are “authentic” in order to be validated. We are expected to do this, even demanded, to put on a specific performance for what white people deem is truly “authentic.”
Could I have a Spicy Tuna Avocado Roll with a side of General Tso Chicken?
During my first week at Wesleyan, I was excited to find some good Chinese restaurants that could bring back some nostalgic memories of my mother’s kitchen. After spending my high school years studying in Puerto Rico, I had little access to Chinese food that wasn’t Orange Chicken. Maybe Middletown had some restaurants where I could find Xiǎo Lóng Bāo, Hóngshāo Ròu, Biang Biang Mian, or Má Pó Dòufu. Along with my cravings for some familiar foods, I also was on a search for some fresh sashimi and hand rolls. While I knew my knowledge in sushi was small, I still wanted some fish that wasn’t accompanied by cream cheese or avocado. I was hopeful on my quest, until I saw with big letters a place called Asian Restaurant. I stared for a long pause and thought there’s no way this is actually real, right? The moment my brother and I saw it, we looked at each other and immediately started laughing. I even took a picture of him in front of the sign and posted it on my Instagram with the caption “NO!” There’s no way people actually go here for good Chinese food, I thought. I was utterly wrong. The restaurant itself has become the go-to staple for many Wesleyan students due to its vast menu of ambiguous Asian cuisines such as “Asian fried rice” where they can make it in Hibachi, Thai, or Chinese style. When looking up the reviews to Asian Restaurant, it even has an astounding 4.5 stars on Yelp.
I find it quite interesting that my friends are the biggest supporters of Asian Restaurant. I once asked my friend why she considered Asian Restaurant her favorite place to dine in Middletown and she replied saying it was the best, most authentic Chinese food she’s ever had. At that moment, I was absolutely appalled that she thought her regular order of General Tso chicken was actually “legit” Chinese food. This had me thinking, what dishes do my friends think of when ordering Chinese food? For this project, I texted a few of my non-Asian friends what dishes come to mind when thinking of Chinese cuisine. They replied with dumplings, Chow Mein, egg rolls, General Tso chicken, fried rice, Sesame Chicken, and Lo Mein. One of my friends even said “Asian restaurant in Middletown has my heart.” I was in shock to say the least. All those dishes that were listed seem like they came off of a Panda Express menu. Intrigued, I followed up and asked what food they thought of when ordering Japanese food. They replied California, spicy tuna, rainbow, avocado, and Alaskan rolls along with spicy mayo – their favorite condiment. These rolls are the most Americanized versions of Japanese sushi, yet they were the first ones that came into my friends’ minds. Now, I wonder if my friends just don’t know any better? Do they refuse to try different Japanese dishes or do they just not know there are different dishes out there? How are Asian cuisines confided in a certain stereotype? How do certain Asian cuisines become associated with only a few Americanized dishes? Can assimilation through certain foods work?
A majority of people in America love Chinese food, well a very specific type of “Chinese” food I should say. I mean, look at the classic Allison Gold’s song entitled “Chinese Food” where she sings about her love of “Chow Mein mein mein mein mein” and “Egg Rolllyyy rolls.” Most Americans frequent places like Panda Express or Pick Up Sticks, but will refuse to eat something that is outside the realm of Sesame Chicken. There are even more Chinese restaurants than McDonalds, Burger King, Wendy’s, and KFC combined (Netflix, Ugly Delicious). To many, there is one monolithic view of different Asian cuisines. For Chinese it’s General Tso chicken and Lo Mein, for Japanese it’s spicy tuna and California rolls, for Thai it’s Pad Thai, and the list goes on. However, dishes like General Tso chicken, egg rolls, spicy tuna rolls, and California were all invented in America.
People in America grow up thinking particular Asian cuisines have to fit the exact taste they have imagined, or else they are disappointed. Asian chefs have to ask themselves when making a dish “will white people eat this?” and if the meal is out of the white person’s comfort zone, the answer is probably a no. While many Japanese and fusion restaurants have been able to elevate themselves and galvanize respect and “worth” from Americans, many Asian cuisines are still considered “cheap” and “low quality.” A good example of this is how there are only a few Chinese restaurants in the US that are not seen as takeout or low grade. Since the 1800s, Chinese immigrants have been deemed dirty and unwanted, which prompted the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, the first immigration exclusion act within the US. Many Chinese immigrants were forced into two businesses that were seen as non-threatening to white men and women: laundry and restaurant workers. Nowadays, this prejudice has seeped into stereotypes around non Chinese but Asian immigrants including but not limited to Thai, Vietnamese, Hmong, and other Asian immigrant communities. According to the documentary Ugly Delicious, about 90% of Chinese restaurant workers come from one region of China called Fuzhou. The region is known for restaurant training schools which teach Chinese citizens how to work in the American restaurant world. In Heather Lee’s chapter “A Life Cooking for Others”, she explains how thousands of Chinese immigrants served American people in the 1920s despite the strict immigration regulations (Lee, 54). Starting as small restaurants to serve Chinese laundry men on their days off, Chinese restaurants slowly became “Americanized” and a way to cater to the white majority. Today, the easiest way for Chinese immigrants to immigrate to the US is work in restaurants that serve food like sesame chicken and egg roll. If a Chinese chef wanted to make something outside of that realm, it would be considered weird and gross. Americanized Asian food was a way for Asian immigrants to assimilate, it was birthed out of a plea to appease white xenophobic hysteria.
As Asian chefs are bound to dishes dictated by white consumers, white chefs have been able to appropriate from Asian cuisines to make their dishes “exotic.” For example, Andrew Steinthall, the CEO of the website The Infatuation, once wrote a review on Kings County Imperial, a new Chinese restaurant in New York City, where he explained how he was glad a “pair of non-Chinese Chinese food enthusiasts decided to open a restaurant.” (Eater, Dai). Steinthal, a white man, elaborated on how “eating Chinese food in this city is generally an exercise in extremism. You can get gross and roll around Chinatown or Flushing. You can go big and have yourself an out of body spice experience at Mission Chinese or Han Dynasty, or you can overload on delivery, which prevents anything productive from happening the day after. It’s rare you find a hip, cool, fun Chinese restaurant free of meat sweats and MSG. Kings County Imperial may not be traditional Chinese, but it officially serves our favorite Chinese in New York City” (The Infatuation, Steinthal). John Grinker, the white chef of Kings County Imperial was celebrated by Steinthal for making Chinese food “exciting” and “clean” by not having dirt floors like in Chinatown or ingredients like MSG; even though MSG is used in most chips, fast food, seasoning blends, condiments, frozen foods, soups, and processed meats (Ku, 163). Steinthal’s review actively demonstrates how Chinese food is either seen as dirty and cheap or overpriced and gaudy with no middle ground. The review taps deep into white people’s deepest prejudices and assumptions of Chinese cuisine, where the food is associated with grease feelings of “overload” and “unproductivity.” So often you hear people say “I’m scared of Japanese food, I’m scared of Korean, I’m scared of Indian” but are they just scared of the people making the food? Grinker’s success shows how there is a greater admiration and awe for white people who can cook Asian food. White chefs that make “exotic” food can perform whiteness, but also capture the “other.” They can make “hip, cool, and fun” Chinese dishes that are not General Tso chicken because their whiteness gives them free range for creativity. White chefs can pull from all aspects of the “other” to distinguish themselves as unique, but will never be considered “the other” themselves. As Heldke writes in her chapter “Let’s Eat Thai”, the white chef and white foodie become the “exotic once removed” (Heldke, 181).
Going back to MSG, the negative connotations behind this ingredient is a tangible and easy example to demonstrate the xenophobic prejudice behind Asian populations. This ingredient, that is so commonly said to give you horrible headaches and back pain, can be found in the all American Campbell soup, the beloved ranch dressing, Doritos, and the list can go on (Ku, 162). This backlash behind MSG helped create a term called Chinese Restaurant Syndrome where people would begin to feel “numbness at the back of the neck… and general weakness” about fifteen minutes after eating Northern Chinese food (Ku, 78). With little to no scientific evidence, white consumers began to complain about the ingredient despite still frequenting Chinese restaurants often. Quickly, Chinese restaurants had to announce that they were “MSG” free so white restaurateurs could trust them. The use of MSG became synonymous with dirty and unhealthy, despite its recurrent use in other American food. To this day, no factual research has suggested that MSG leads to any of the effects alluded to in the so-called Chinese Restaurant Syndrome. This myth around Chinese food was an easy way for white consumers to paint the general Chinese cuisine as “unhealthy” and “dirty” while also enjoying the same Chinese food served in those restaurants that decried the use of MSG.
Asian restaurants’ aesthetics are also bound to the same stereotypes of service expectations. A certain “exotic” picture is tied to Asian cuisine where a fantasy of oriental femininity and servitude is imagined. So often women are expected to be the servers in Thai, Japanese, Chinese, Korean, and other Asian restaurants. Asian women at restaurants are assumed to be docile and servile to the white guests, often projecting white people’s oriental perceptions of femininity. In her chapter “Let’s Cook Thai”, Heldke mentions a cookbook by Jennifer Brennan entitled The Original Thai Cookbook. Brennan opens her book by describing the reader’s arrival at an elegant Thai home “where you are greeted by an exquisite, delicately boned Thai woman, youthful but of indeterminate age” (Heldke, 179). This beautiful yet mysterious Thai woman perpetuates a view of “the Other as existing to serve and please” the consumer “by creating a vision of this Other culture as exotic and alluring” (Heldke, 180). The “ethnic Other”, the server in this case, is a simple resource to fulfill one’s desires and enhance one’s identity. Asian immigrants and Asian Americans can be seen as exotic in cuisine, but they cannot be seen as a threat. This sexualization and Orientalizing of waitresses can also be translated to how “exotic” food is eaten by white foodies. They can admire, fond over, and take advantage of the delicious aspects of the food, but they will still consider it less than.
Uncle Victor’s Lunches
Every time I visited my Uncle Victor when I was little, we always had the same routine. He would make me a big bowl of Dao Xiao Mian and I would thank him with a smile so big that my eyes bulged out. Like clockwork, he would look at me with a long pause and say “I hope your love for Chinese food never dies.” The first few times I would reply “what do you mean?” or “of course I’ll always love Chinese food!”, but I realized no matter what reply I gave him he would tell me about how his journey of being a proud Asian American was tied to the very noodles I was eating. “When I was about your age,” Uncle Victor would say, “I was so embarrassed to take your pó po lunches to school. The last thing I would want was to bring a stinky Chinese meal to my all white elementary school.” On the queue, he would pause for me to ask “What do you mean?” and every time he would give a very timed sigh of “Well, you see, Asian food was not “cool” back in the day. I would bring Dao Xiao Mian or Yao Mein to school and my classmates would make fun of me saying stuff like ‘does that come with gizzard’ or they would taunt me by slanting their eyes while I ate my meal in silence. One day, your pó po packed me lunch and I refused to take it. I told her I wouldn’t eat lunch until she made me normal American food like pasta or cheeseburgers.” At this point, he would look at me for a response and I would give him all the theatrics and audible gasps he needed to get through his story. He would continue, knowing he was reaching the peak of his story. “The moment I said pasta, your wàigōng started laughing in the background. I asked, what’s so funny Daaadd! Your wàigōng replied that pasta actually came from China! At first, I scoffed at wàigōng’s nonsense. But then, he explained the history behind Marco Polo, how he came to China and saw our noodles and brought them all the way back to Italy. The Italians learned how to make pasta from the very noodles that you’re eating right now!” I would then give a big “wow” or some type of exclamation so he could wrap up the story. “The next day at school, I opened up my lunch box and proudly ate my noodles in front of my classmates and before one of them could say something, I turned quickly and said ‘Hey, those pasta noodles came from China!’ At that moment, I finally didn’t feel embarrassed to be Chinese, I didn’t feel like I needed to hide my lunch from my white friends. Yes, there were moments growing up where the embarrassment settled back in, but I always thought back to this story in my moments of weakness.”
Of course, this story was both overplayed and a bit over the head for a ten year old, but it has been coming back into my memory as the years go on. Other than the fact that my uncle had the nerve to back talk my wàigōng and pó po, I honestly never thought much of this tale. It wasn’t until a few years later when I noticed the long lines outside cool ramen shops that I started to think about my Uncle’s story again. Suddenly in high school, my friends would ask me if I knew what Xiao Long Baos were, or if I knew any fresh sushi places (my non-Asian friends tend to assume I somehow know all Asian cuisines). These dishes I grew up with were now becoming popular plates to eat amongst my friends. My uncle would always say how I was lucky that I didn’t need to hide my food, that I didn’t need to feel shame when eating my mother’s home cooked meals, and now I understood. My mom would tell me stories of how when she entered Chinese supermarkets she would become paralyzed in fear thinking about what her friends would say about the smell of fresh sea creatures in the store. However, we live in a time where now some Asian dishes are admired. Some of the food my relatives were ashamed of have become the trendiest items in the culinary world (even Asian supermarkets have become popular amongst non-Asian people). However, just how white Americans are the markers for what is authentic, they are also the judges of what is deemed “cool.” White people can hand pick specific aspects of a cuisine and label them as exciting and categorize unfamiliar items as gross and strange. I am grateful for not having to be humiliated by the food I eat, but my friends’ idolization of certain Asian cuisines also rub me the wrong way.
“Dude, you’ve never sake bombed?”
I’ll never forget walking into a party where the theme was “Around the World.” The invite to the event said something like “Explore the World’s Best Drinks” or “Try All the World’s Alcohol Flavors.” Whatever it said, it was essentially an excuse for college kids to creatively drink different types of liquor. Every room in the house was supposed to be a different country with the country’s most famous drinks. As I walked into Russia, Moscow mules in copper cups were thrusted into my hands. Paris’s room had towers of cheap champagne and wine. A Pilsner beer keg laid empty in German land. When strolling through the different “countries”, I could hear a loud chant in the last room. Nearing the entrance to the final room, my stomach started to churn as I read the country on the door: Japan. “This can’t be good” I thought. I opened the door and found a dozen white men chanting “Ichi..ni..san…sake bomb!” as they slammed their fists against the tables to drop the sake from chopsticks into a pint of beer. As they all chugged down their glasses with beer dripping down their V-necks, I stared in both fascination and disgust. A few moments later, as if to really encapsulate this whole spectacle, one white guy (who we will call Person 1) went up to his friend (Person 2) who happened to be the only Japanese person in the room. Person 1 cheerily padded his friend’s back and asked if he did a lot of sake bombs at home. After telling Person 2 told him that he had actually never seen a sake bomb performed in his life, Person 1 acted completely shocked. “Are you serious dude?,” Person 1 exclaimed, “How have you never done sake bombs and you’re actually Japanese? They’re like the most hip thing. I’ve gone to a few new Japanese barbeque and sushi restaurants that opened in LA where we get totally wasted. Even when I was in high school, we would go sake bombing all the time because they didn’t card us at the less trendy, smaller places.” Before Person 2 could respond, Person 1 was dragged back into the next round of “bombs.”
Now, besides the active stereotyping and horrible connotations around the theme, this interaction stuck with me the most. I don’t know if it was the almost all white room yelling “Ichi…ni…san…sake bomb!”, the acceptance and celebration of an almost all white room doing this, or the fact that a white man was patronizing the only Japanese person on his knowledge of the drink. Sake bombs are said to have been created by American soldiers when they occupied Japan during World War II (TasteAtlas). It has since been served in cool Japanese and Asian-fusion restaurants. It checks all right boxes, honestly, in terms of American standards. Essentially, American soldiers occupying Japan drank Japanese liquor only if it was dropped by utensils that they seemingly hated into a big glass of cheap beer. Fittingly (irony and repugnance intended), they named the game sake bomb, and you can assume why. It is a tangible example of how white people have been able to take food and culture from ‘the other’ and manipulate it into something that is exotified. Sake bombs are a way for a white people to project their perception of ‘the other’: wild, messy, and “savage.” As Person 1 said, while they are served at trendy restaurants, they also can be found at Japanese restaurants that are taken “less seriously” because they do not ID underage drinkers. A duality forms where good Japanese cuisine must be either at high-end chic places or hole in the wall finds.
Determining whether or not food is “in” or “trendy” is a way for white consumers to remain in control of narratives around food. While it is sometimes refreshing to see people’s newfound admiration of Asian cuisines, it also shows how fleeting these fetishes can be. “Trendiness” is a mere validation stamp of what is acceptable to eat during that specific time period. Like how my Uncle had to give validation to his noodles, Asian cuisines have to be legitimized in order to be accepted. Just fifty years ago, for reference, Japanese Americans were literally interned in camps in the United States. Now foodies around the nation flock to the newest Japanese restaurants in admiration. While food colonialism might seem positive to some, its transient effects are damaging to “Other” cuisines. Similar to how settler and franchise colonialism work, white people are able to search for something “new” and exciting in food and culture with little to no expense to them. How can trendiness serve as a platform of othering and exclusion even though it’s a form of “celebration”? White consumers can “celebrate” and even integrate exotic food and otherness into their life, but they can pick and choose when. They can strive to be seen as different through their exotic dishes, and are even seen as “cool”, “experienced”, and “worldly” for having a mature taste palette, but they won’t be seen as “The Other.” Wanting to be seen as exotic is not a threat to one’s whiteness. This type of culinary colonialism decides what is “in” through somewhat obscured stereotypes, familiarities, and biases. Non-Western cuisines are used as pawns where people “who set out in search of ever “newer,” ever more “remote” cultures which they could co-opt, borrow from freely and out of context, and use as the raw materials for their own efforts at creation and discovery.” Immigrant food in the US has become “discount tourism” where foodies can feel “worldly without leaving the comfort of their neighborhood” or stylish by going to “high-minded fusion where American chefs use other culture’s cuisines to reap profit. The dishes of America’s recent immigrants have become check marks on a cultural scavenger hunt for society’s elite” (Washington Post, Ruth Tam).
So, What Does This All Mean?
To be frank, I’m not sure. As I’ve stated before, I absolutely love food. When I wake up, my immediate thought is “what am I gonna eat today” and while I am eating my first meal I dream about what I will chow down next. I live to eat, as my mother often says. Writing this though, I realized that I am one big giant hypocrite. As a self-proclaimed foodie, I also love to venture and try the newest trends and biggest fusion restaurants. Being half Chinese, I have always excused myself from being a food colonist or appropriator. “How could I be co-opting ‘otherness’ if I myself am considered “other”? Well, after writing this project, I realized that being half Chinese does not allow me to eat spicy tuna sushi or going to a trendy ramen restaurant without any consequence. It only shows me the privilege and ignorance I have. I had convinced myself that I was a food master in all Asian cuisines, just because it made me sound more “legit” to my white friends who also knew nothing about food. What I have learned is that the need for authenticity, the stereotyping of certain cuisines, and the search for the next trend in “ethnic cuisines” are all intertwined. These three ideas are inherently controlled by white perceptions and are used to cater to white consumers. Food colonialism and authenticity badges are used for white people to absorb otherness and exotify themselves while also distancing the “other” in a faraway box. Eating “exotic” food and choosing what is “authentic” and “trendy” is a way for foodies to believe that not only are they interesting, but they have a mastery and claim over Asian cuisine.
Now, I believe there is a certain approach one must take in order to eat other cuisines. I have not exactly found the solution, but all I know is that one must eat other cuisines with appreciation (not to be mistaken with fetishization) rather than appropriation.
Bibliography
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Written by Anna Spiegel | Published on August 4, 2015. “5 Things to Look for at Food Network Star Alex McCoy’s Petworth Restaurant: Washingtonian (DC).” Washingtonian, 4 Aug. 2015, www.washingtonian.com/2015/08/04/5-things-to-look-for-at-food-network-star-alex-mccoys-petworth-restaurant/.
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