Ahead Of Us In Line

There’s an old Cui Jian song from the eighties where he makes fun of all the fat-cats who are living the high life on other people’s money and who have “hot pot” all the time.  Most people didn’t regularly head out and have plate after plate of ingredients to toss into boiling cauldrons of spicy, boiling water and oil.  Times, as we all know, have changed. 

I waited till the last minute to prepare the dinner last night.  When my little one returned she was aghast that dinner wasn’t already on the table as she’d been promised.  “Going now to get some ingredients.”  “That’s gonna take an hour.  I’m starving.  Let’s go out!”  I resisted but my wife began to think the same way and soon I caved.  "Let’s go to the Shabu Shabu place in Shine City," the little one insisted. 

I have been once or twice before to the place she had in mind on the corner of one of the make-believe streets in the make believe community.  We walk inside from the cold. It doesn't look good.  Many, many people are sitting on little Japanese-style waiting chairs.  And indeed, fourteen families are ahead of us in line.  We'll be finding another place. 

No one wants Indian food.  We just had Italian.  There’s a Korean BBQ.  What's this place?  Ahh, Qi Lu: Shandong white table cloth and ambiance, amusingly fancy and not at all like the Shandong I knew.  Chatting with the hostess they also have a twenty-minute wait on this Friday evening.  No one's inclined to make that kind of investment for an experiment.  Out back in the freezing night air we consider the Korean place again .  How do you get up there to the second floor?  Before we can find an entrance we pass a hot pot place, which is basically the same concept as Shabu Shabu, with peppercorns. 

Inside it’s packed.  The second floor greets us brusquely.  Speaking loudly into a walkie talkie she the reply is deafening.  We sit by the window in the back.  I pick up a bench myself from a neighboring table and place it down for myself.  Settling in I look around to consider all the many, many young Chinese people who are out on a Friday to have hot pot.  There's a family with young toddlers and big plates of frozen lamb being served to another posse of twenty-somethings.  I wonder if the Cui Jian song every strikes anyone else as an anachronism these days.  Sure, half the country, another six-hundred million people, still can’t afford to go out for hot pot.  But six-hundred million can. 

Saturday, 01/26/19