My lesson in integrity...

It’s about 13:42. I’m sat in a quaint Chinese restaurant in an English city centre enjoying a Friday lunch. It’s well-lit, thanks to the over-sized panes flanking the entrance; the tired wooden furnishings don’t say much and they have the Chinese equivalent of Busted blaring out of the “entertainment” system. And I’ll stop there as this is starting to sound like a restaurant review.

Behind me sit two middle-aged Britons – with pints of Carling - incessantly discussing the finer nuances of premiership management. To my left are sat 3 Anglo-Chinese girls (American, specifically) and a Swedish girl. I feel sorry for the European, as she seems to have been roped into a “let’s get you into Chinese culture” excursion, whether she liked it or not.

They shallowly discussed their relationships with their grandmothers and Vivienne Westwood fashion in between the echoes of colloquial American conversational disbelief. “Ohmygod… you absolutely HAVE to holiday in Mexico” said the first girl, “Ohmygod, it’s soooo amazing” suggested the second, “You wouldn’t believe it, like, ohmygod” reiterated the third (actual conversation).

Well, three paragraphs in and instead of concepts about integrity, all we have are (mistaken) stabs at East Coast Americans. So, what about this integrity? Well, how about seven-pound-sixty of it? My week-end Chinese experience cost a total of £7.60.

So…? But before you say anything else, let me reveal:

The dishes weren’t the striking scintillating exotic portions that I expected, but in their stead lay seven or eight of the more “popular” (read: accessible) ones that do well across the lake. The crockery wasn’t the intricately decorated delicate bowls but rather extra-large Sunday roast sized platters. The chopsticks weren’t finely decorated ivory or finely carved Japanese Yew wood but rather vulgar unkempt birch implements stashed in a used curry tin so well hidden, I was amazed I found them.

After all of this I was still disappointed when, instead of a beautiful set of a tiny Chinese tea jug and cup, I was greeted with a standard British pot, cup and saucer; and my green tea without any tea leaves in it.

When I pursued the girl behind the counter about this blasphemy, she remarked that it was because the clientele didn’t like the leaves in their tea, so they use tea bags instead. Fuck me; we aren’t serving Earl Grey here. The English equivalent would be would be to walk into a carvery and a cosy Sunday afternoon and remark: “Hold the yorkshire geeza, I’ll ‘ave a large pancake instead”. Aren’t people missing the point?

It wasn’t the price that fuelled this rant; nay friend. I would’ve happily pay £10, £13 or £16 for a good meal. In fact, I enjoyed great authentic Chinese cuisine just down the way with a girlfriend, where I paid £42 for her and my meal.

I realised that what I really wanted was an authentic experience, all with a post-midlife-crisis Jackie Chan belting out Mandarin versions of Celine Dion’s extended discography in the background. I want four grey oriental guys sat in a corner digesting lemon-chicken and loudly debating the recklessness of the younger generation, while simultaneously watching China Central Television, and trying to cheat each other at Mahjong.

I want my little decorated food to be served in little decorated bowls, with little decorated spoons and chopsticks. Most of all, I want my Chinese tea with Chinese tea leaves in it.

I want restaurants that say “Chinese food” to serve Chinese food, not bastardised Anglo-Chinese derivations that have come acceptable because the public will not accept change or something that’s outside their comfort zone.

Where buzzards walk, turkeys will follow…