Dim Sum Hierarchy

Could not resist the temptation to go and see how the Willaimsburg crew were doing. It is quite funny, they are now living in one of the most hip neighbourhoods around, with its suddent growth spurt, yet they moved there years ago to escape the hustle and bustle of the city. The city hither comes.

Their set up is unique. Almost like living in an adult domitory. Almost the entire crew lives in one building, the one small subset of people who live about 5 blocks away do so just because they were not rapid enough to take up the last remaining apartment available in the building. So a bunch of girls moved in there, which might turn out to be a blessing. So, they live in the same building, but it is some chance that they all got there, since it is a collection of people from all over the world, well, all parts of the southern hemisphere. And they have a diverse skill set, and a load of different interests (perhaps the one single uniting factor there is the love of food) and it all comes together to mean that there is always fun to be had there. Doors are always open, visitors are always passing by, someone is always up for a chat and a smoke. It is, as they say, good times.

Got into JFK in the morning, and instead of heading straight back to the tropical paradise, I decided to stay, just for a day and a bit, to say hello. Finding the house was hard enough, there was a big club at the given address, and even the taxi driver was KORNFUSED. The possibilty that my friends had told me to meet them at 8am at a nightclub was remote, but not remote enough to be ruled out completely. It was rather the planning that would have had to happen for a successful 8am club meeting, that I decided would be beyond their control especially if they were out drinking the whole night. For they, like me, have been plagued by indecision for as long as I have known them, and I know how hard this makes coordination.

But it was not long before I found a small door on the side of the building and found my way through a maze of corridors to the right address. The weight of overzealous shopping for spices and nicotine supplies bore down upon me through each corridor.

Before long, we decided to go for some dim sum in Flushing. I was excited at the prospect even though I had been overloaded on chinese food back home. In essence, there is no punishing ramifications for overloading on good, cheap food. In fact, I possess not a real conception of overloading food. Two days ago it hit me, I am never hungry.

An unsurprising lack of coordination meant that we walked an unneccesary five blocks to get to the car, when we should have actually just squeezed in the other car for the short drive. These guys: two audis they roll around in, one silver, that particular one I have very fond memories of, and one white. Good times. With only minor traffic inconsistencies, we were able to get to Gum Wah something or other restaurant in Flushing. A rather ornate, forced building located near a multi storey public car park. But not enough multies, since poeple were regularly 'guarding' spots. The passenger would get down and follow potential spot leavers, while the driver chanced open spots by driving around. With cell phone coordination, it became a much more efficient way of finding spots. Of course, in the car we were more inclined to observe this behavior rather than partake in it, leading to further delays in the dim sum endeavor. It was already 2pm, and for those of you more familiar with the cuisine, it is typically a brunch occasion, which meant that by 2pm usually, as the crowds dwindled, the best dishes would have been tucked away in someone's stomach.

There are ala carte dim sum places, but for the tradtionalist, the cart pushing places are the only way to go. Servers would push around carts filled with bamboo boxes of pork filled buns, shrimp stuffed pastries or my personal favorite, carts with porridge filled wells. By the time we got there, we already knew that we were at the tail end of the daily offerings, and so even though the other car had not arrived, we took almost everything off the first cart. Even though the tiny plates started to full up the table, we were not concerned about over ordering.

These old aunties would be pushing around the carts, dressed in white uniforms with aprons and a small chef style hat. Most of them could only speak the minimum of English needed to communicate which plates we wanted. They would come by and tout some of the dishes, but we were experienced enough to know that the best dishes were never touted, simply because there was sufficient demand for them. The ones that were touted were typically the less popular dishes. So thus the food was moved around the restaurant.

The aunties however, were not in charge of beverages or condiments. Should you need those, or some kind of utensil, you would have to catch the attention of one of the waiters with red jackets, who were conspicuously talented at not noticing a table of fifteen waving their arms. These guys spoke more English, not that it was necessary to perform their functions. They were in charge of the drinks, and would not take any food requests. They did bring the drinks and seem to place them in strategic positions. Strategic in the sense that the food aunties had a propensity to knock them down. Five, no less, were knocked down. Our white table cloth was coke sponge. You have to love these places though, the emphasis is on the food, not on the service. For they were not even apologetic about the spilt cokes, they in fact seemed to think that it was merely an accidental occurence, so much so that they would not even offer extra napkins for removal. Napkins anyway were not the responsibility of the cart aunties, they were the business of the red coats.

When the fifth coke was spilt, we did manage to get the attention of the black coat. I think he was like the floor manager, he did a bit of directing here and there, and you were lucky if he came to your table. He came to bring a coke I think, and he found it funny that four had already been spilt. He was keen though, he had counted the number of accidents even though we had not noticed him. Probably the zenith of the hierarchy. At least the visible hierarchy.

There was also the Cheongsam lady, clad in long Chinese dress with an even longer slit. Her duty was as the receptionist or whatever the person in the front of the restaurant does. She probably fit in between the black and the red coats, although her role seemed to be ceremonial. After she sat you down, she disappeared. But perhaps it was because we came when it was already late, she would have had more juggling to do in a crowded restaurant.

Then there were the kitchen staff. There were the cooks, who looked like they were somewhere in Central America, who came out to eat at about three, having ostensibly been slaving in the kitchen for hours. They might have been bus boys it is unclear. But anyways, they all sat at one table, adjacent to the Chinese cooks, who were similarly attired but eating a completely different lunch, more traditionally 'Chinese' and with more vegetables than the table next to them.


But the idea of the day has to go to the young analyst sitting next to me, who talked up the possibility of a topless dim sum bar, with alcohol.

"Can be done, can be done."

Thus Spoke the Windup Bird

The man inspires many, and it is not the first time that I have followed his lead. I decided it was time for some personal release, after reading Sudhir Thomas' blog at coan.blogspot.com. Thomas is a self styled change agent, and like me, part of the Chengkudu Chump Collective. But there shall be other blog spots for that.I live in Ann Arbor, Michigan now. Well, it is coming to about three years here, although I did disappear for 8 months after taking in me first winter here. Tropical paradise it is. You see, when I was doing a two year course here and counting me days to me way out, I could only complain about the weather. It often befuddled and certainly irked me to no comparable measure how much folks talked about the weather in Michigan. And there are not many sunshine hours in a school year here, which means there are constant rants about the bad weather and overblown blessings offered when there is even an iota of sun peering through the sky curtains. SEE! I am doing it myself now...it is just craziness. So, after I signed my long term service committment to the University, I thought about all the wonderful winters, freezing rains and snow days that I would encounter over the next, say, half a decade or so, and decided that there was only one way to go about it. A change in the psyche. The weather is officially my friend now and I refuse to talk about it. I have embraced the cold, thinned my blood and become a resident yeti. And, as you can imagine, the mind is a wonderful, powerful thing. Thus was born: Musings from a Tropical Paradise.