Rules of Survival: Chinese Cafe

This is the beginning of a series of blog posts (thanks Wilson) about how to identify, act and escape from these places. 

Everybody knows that in Fiji there is a wide variety of food to be had.  And thus, a wide variety of eating places in which to have these foods.  There is the exclusive, i.e. expensive restaurants that cater to the expats and upwardly mobile.  The market stalls, that have the blue collar workers as their clientele; and a host of other eating places that can accommodate across the different socio economic range.  But in this blogpost, I’m going to write about one particular eating place that I’m sure everybody has been to at least once.  And that is the Chinese café.

I’m sure you’ve seen it.  It’s the one with the cash register in front, a glass counter that has packets of cigarettes fighting for space with chewing gum.  There’s a cheerful Chinese person waiting to take your order, ladies moving around the place clearing the tables.  And if you’re can see into the back, you get to see a gentleman dressed in shorts and a vest moving around from pot to wok, making sure to sweat into each and every dish.  That’s the chef. 

Now, first things first.  When waiting in line, be ready with your order ahead of time.  Speak clearly, loudly and for goodness sake, be specific.  Chances are, English is not the first language of the person taking your order. For example, “Curry chicken, rice, large, eat here.”  Keep in mind, there are only two sizes of meals.  You want medium, go buy some sliced bread. And don’t get cute and ask what EXACTLY goes into what you’re ordering.  One time, there was this American that was ahead of me asked if there was any MSG in the red pork and I could almost swear, the guy serving sprinkled some “special salt” (dandruff) onto the plate.   

   Everything is shared. In the Fiji this goes without saying.  But have you ever shared a table with complete strangers.  Note, I wrote table, not meal.  Go to a Chinese café during lunch hour and you’ll find yourself sharing a table with people you’ve never seen before and probably never see again, sharing sugar, salt, and a plate of chili; but not conversation.  Apart from the usual head nod, there is no talking.  I know I know, no conversation over a meal in the Islands?  Surely I jest.  But trust me, asking how fresh the chicken blackbean is, will get you nothing but a blank stare and an unasked question in to how long its been since you escaped from St. Giles (the local nuthut).  And another thing.  If you think making eye contact in the clubs is risky, try doing that with a person who’s no more than a teaspoon length away from you, and your mouth full of fish and chips.  That’ll bring a whole new level of awkwardness to the situation.

You’ve finished your meal and you want to wash your hands.  You make your way over to the sink (we normally just say “tap”), and what do you find.  A sliver of soap that has molded itself onto the sink and can only be removed if you’ve got the strength of Hercules and a piece of ragged cloth that has seen better days in which to dry your hands.  My recommendation, resist urge to see your meal in reverse a.k.a. throw up, suck it up and wash your hands.  You’ve probably already contracted a host of diseases just by walking into the place, might as well add a few more.  Who knows, maybe they’ll cancel each other out.

I know I sound rather harsh about these eating places, but its all love.   What I really like about it, is that nobody thinks twice about sitting among strangers; a free seat is a free seat, no matter who your fellow meal takers are.  And hey, people gotta eat. You want healthy, go munch on some nuts and berries and wash it down with bottled water.  You want filling, then make your way over to the nearest Chinese café.  Trust me.  You won’t regret it…’til later.

It’s Hibiscus! Well…2 months ago. Taking to heart the concept of ‘Fiji Time’, here’s a video post (part 1) of the sights and sounds that were experienced at the Hibiscus Festival grounds during that week of fun-filled festive freedom.

Note: I am really terrible at naming parts of the car. I will seek forgiveness from my motorhead friends later.

And here’s the Youtube version:

Because we all know how uncivilised chickens can be sometimes…

For those of us not in the know, uncivilised chicken is the literal translation of ’Jungli Murgi’, which is more of a slang description of how the chicken you’re about to eat was raised i.e. not cooped up in some unnatural metal meshed, artificial light, automatically feeding machines environment, fed weight lifting buff up vitamins along the way sorta up bringing.

No. This chicken was raised old school. Like, a simple fence, a tray with water, a little house on the prairie in the corner complete with adoring farm kids to chase them around, squeals of laughter abound, precious exercise for the coming night where the chickens have to play hide & seek with hungry mongoose. These chicken are Darwin darlings, bush bunnies, uncivilised. Ca.

Is there any taste difference between ‘uncivilised chicken’ and the run-of-the-mill manufactured versions? Of course. When you eat ‘jungli murgi’, know that you are consuming the bloodline of a thousand brave and defying chickens who laugh in the face of ‘progress’ and have struck a path on their own, forging through the tall grasses of the dangerous highlands of Naitasiri, pecking away at conventionalism, eating the very hearts of their enemies with cold precise eyes, crowing to the full moon on top of tallest mango trees, their very essence containing the spirit of the land upon which they live on.

Or something along those lines >.>