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Honestly though?
I've never read a menu in a Chinese restaurant until I set foot in Melbourne’s Chinese restaurant.
Menu with pictures in a food court? I understand.
But a proper book menu, with words?
Come on man. I came here to eat; not to read. Here's how it works in a proper Chinese restaurant for a Chinese, alright? You book a table for 12, you walk in, you state your name, and you demand your 'captain'. "Where's Sam? Sam’s is not here? How about Patrick? Give us Patrick then." Patrick doesn't appear immediately, no, you sit down, maybe in your private room, and you nibble on your plate of peanuts, then Patrick will emerge, looking busy yet relaxed at the same time. Like a Swiss Bank account manager, he starts with some chitchat, - the weather, the government, some celebrity scandal, before whipping out his notepad. And it always goes like this: The appetiser - always something auspicious.
Be it 'The Four Seasons' or 'The Five Prosperity Gods' or 'The Eight Deities' - a mixture of meatballs, veggies, spring rolls, crab cakes to kick start the night. Then you have the soup.
Usually, it's 'shark fin' soup. The shark fins are fake, made from rice vermicelli. The hero is the crab egg drop soup base. We all douse it with black vinegar to hide whatever was in it. Next up is a protein dish.
A choice of roasted goose / pork / chicken / duck. Grilled, fried, stir-fried, kung pao style, Peking-duck style. With fried buns, with steam buns. Then we move on to steamed fish.
Ideally a giant grouper, in your face.
Cantonese style, or spicy Teochew style, Thai style, black bean style. We ask Patrick what’s good. Then, whole prawns or scampi.
It could be the standard deep-fried with butter version, or the oatmeal version, or tossed in sticky black sauce. Sometimes, the chef will wheel in a cart of prawns, alive and jumping, and he'll fill a bigger bowl with Shaoxing wine, vinegar, chili, and swirl all the prawns in it until they pass out. Voila, drunken prawns. The modern ones will flambé for food safety purposes. Then we move on to some weird broccoli, mushroom, sea cucumber, and abalone in an oyster sauce concoction. For the illusion of health. Where're the scallops?
Either braised with cabbage or stir-fried with vegetables.
It’s the one day of the month grandma does vegetarian, so a plate of stir-fried garden pea sprout with garlic and beancurd skin for her. The crescendo is the king of seafood, like the boss in an episode of Ultraman. Giant crabs, or giant lobsters, with claws, crustaceans to affirm that we have evolved with opposable thumbs to dominate, remove and suck whatever’s left in those shells. Do not drink the bowl of lemon water, it’s to wash your hands.
After that, to cool down, something in a clay pot. Tofu, more seafood, more mushrooms, more sea cucumber, with snow peas sticking out, bubbling away, which makes you ponder: Rice, where’s the rice?
How can we not have rice? If you haven't ordered white rice to go with the fish from the get-go, fried rice and noodles are the signs that you're at the 31km mark of a marathon. Steamed glutinous rice, in the shape of a dome with lap cheong, spare ribs, mushrooms.
If an aunt is visiting from interstate or overseas, perhaps a serve of 'Emperor's fried noodles' - egg noodles stir-fried with delicate soy sauce, meat strips, and bean sprouts with more prawns, more scallops. XO sauce, perhaps. Dessert is fresh fruits on a weekday.
On a good day, sweetened red bean soup with orange peel, glutinous rice balls in ginger soup, boiled snow fungus with lotus seed and lily bulb. If swallow's nest is in the mix, someone either scored straight-As or has recently received a promotion.
The captain's job, really, apart from singing some unwarranted karaoke songs and throw us some freebies when the kitchen screws up, is to guide the father and answer questions. Are 10 dishes enough? Shall we add sweet and sour pork? Lobsters, are they Alaskan, Australian? Please refill the peanuts, give us the good tea, a glass of warm water for the madam, and oh, don't you fucking dare charge us for the hand towels that smell like a prostitute's motel.
Every Chinese who's been through a Chinese banquet, a reunion dinner, knows this blueprint by heart. The dad knows this. The captain knows this. The five-year-old kid knows this. The structure is the same, we’re just playing with the lyrics, stanzas, rhythm.
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