You Win Some, You Dim Sum

Dim Sum may be the greatest food, ever.

I took some friends to a Dim Sum place on Grant Street a few years ago. My family has been going there for decades. We usually go to the neighborhood on Geary, but I like this particular deli. Everything is to go. They serve pork buns all-day, not just mid-morning. And I don’t have to embarrass myself when I order: just smile, point, and pay.

I couldn’t name Dim Sum dishes to save my life. My family and I usually talk about the food by description. “The one with the long-white noodle filled with shrimp or beef or whatever in a savory sauce” is my highly technical definition of cheong. I used this sophisticated method once again with my friends: six of the little shrimpy ones, four fried football things, and four chashu pork buns.

A few minutes later, a pair of middle-aged Caucasian women got behind us in line. They peered through the storefront window at the steamy foreign objects beyond. One of them made eye contact with me and pointed to the window.

“What’s that?” she asked. No pleasantries. No, “Oh hello, hi, how are ya? I don’t know you, but what’s inside these bread-looking things?” Her approach was far more nuanced.

“Oh that,” I said, “that’s a baked pork bun. It has a soft, semi-sweet bun with a nice glaze on top. There’s chashu pork inside. It’s sweet and savory. There’s also a steamed version that’s not as heavy…”

“What’s that?” she asked again, pointing to a different item behind the glass. No, “Oh cool, thanks. I am also interested in these other silly treats.” Her cultural exploration was in full-swing, incorrigibly crossing this suspiciously foreign bridge.

Yet my ineptitude started showing, “I don’t know the name, but it has vegetables and meat inside, usually scallions and shrimp.”

“Is there egg in it?” she inquired, changing things up.

“I wouldn’t know, you’ll have to ask the cooks,” I replied.

“Ok. So what’s that?” This went on a few more times until we reached the front of the line, our awkward, one-sided conversation ending as abruptly as it started. We got our pink box of Dim Sum and exited back out the front-door.

I wondered why these women, of all the locals in line far more knowledgeable than myself, chose to talk to me. Before I knew it, my question was answered.

The other woman stopped to thank us for our recommendations. “You looked like you knew what you were doing,” she explained.

Thanks?

My partner and I visited a local South Bay shop a few months ago. They serve everything from har gow to gargantuan noodle party trays, but they are known for their Egg Rolls.

The store had a quaint neighborhood vibe. It was late when we arrived and the tables were mostly empty. We walked in knowing exactly what we wanted — eight egg rolls.

A plump, elderly Asian woman was standing behind the counter fixing up to-go bags, grinning from ear to ear. We placed our order and waited. She looked at us with the same bright smile. I wasn’t sure if it was a cultural barrier or something else. With genuine curiosity in her voice, she turned to my girlfriend as we were paying and said, “You…. are either… Korean or Japanese.”

It was less of a question and more of a statement. My girlfriend laughed nervously. Maybe she was just trying to make conversation. Then she turned to me, her smile never fading, “You… are not.”

Nope, not in the slightest.

(In the very off chance you read this, thank you Lane Nishikawa for the title inspiration.)