A (Half) Chinese Girl’s Guide To Dodging Discrimination in Chinese Restaurants
“Are you together or separate?”
“Do you want us to split the check?”
These are questions my family invariably gets when we eat out together. At this point, we’re used to people’s wariness and assumption that we’re not together. It’s sometimes funny when the waitress assumes that my mom and I are mere friends, but that can get tiring too. The situation is getting better as there are more and more interracial families in America; however, Chinese restaurants, where my family mostly enjoys going out to eat, are still firmly stuck in their fairly antiquated ways. Even after the staff discovers that I’m half-Chinese, they still focus only on my black side.
Now, if you’ve never been at a Chinese restaurant, let me break it down. I’m not talking about a Panda Express-esque restaurant either, or even a Molly Woo’s, both of which cater mostly to non-Asian clientele. That sesame chicken may be tasty, but it’s not what Chinese people actually eat.
For authenticity, we like going to places where the staff speak in halting English, or barely at all. This way, we can prove our desire to eat real Chinese food by ordering in Chinese. After all, I am half-Chinese, and I want them to know that I know what I’m talking about. That has been my method to Chinese restaurant success — sneak in a Chinese phrase now and then for the waitress to marvel at my wonderful Beijing accent and culinary acumen.
Often when people eat at restaurants serving food from their own culture, they are welcomed with warmth and reminiscences of the homeland. This is not the case for me. Even after I prove my Chinese-speaking prowess and order hot tea, they still discount me as one of them. I am and will always be the lao wai, the foreigner.
I never understood why my dad, who is full Guinean, disliked going to Chinese restaurants until recently. Now that I’m more perceptive, it’s clear. It’s that pesky racism again. But instead of getting angry, I have a new method to assert my half-Chinese personhood and keep my dad in a good mood throughout the meal. After all, I want us to keep going out to eat, and we can’t do that if he feels uncomfortable. Thus, I offer the following distractions.
Phase One occurs as soon as we enter the restaurant. If the three of us lag behind my mom more than a couple feet, the hostess invariably attempts to seat us separately. I counteract this issue by speeding up close to my mom, and throwing a glance back at my brother and father so she knows that, “Yes, we are together.”
Phase Two occurs after the confusion clears. As we are led to our table, other patrons always turn to look. This is a fairly quick and painless phase, and as long as the walk to our table is less than thirty seconds, my job is easy. If we take more than the allotted time, or if someone has an especially piercing stare, I’ll engage my father in some light banter. This light banter continues throughout Phase Three — the ordering phase — and Phase Four, when the food finally arrives. Sometimes I recruit my brother to help, but the goal is to keep my dad focused on his family and his food.
When we have made it through this phase, we are usually golden. However, there are some things that are just out of my control. If it takes a long time for the food to arrive, or if it’s sub-par, my mom can handle that. But, if the waiters offer terrible service and don’t check to see if we need any drinks refilled or more napkins, my mom waiting to catch a waiter’s eye only annoys my dad. If I notice this (and I am constantly scanning for signs of an eruption), I will begin an anecdote about Yale, because my parents love hearing about my college experiences.
The phases vary depending on the restaurant. My mom is well-known in our local Chinese community, so problems are easily managed at home. In fact, we often get special treatment at our favorite local restaurants. “Complimentary iced milk tea, anyone?” Unfortunately, when we go to an unfamiliar place, the restaurant staff may be inconsiderate, and regardless of what I do to assuage the situation, my father will feel hurt. But even though it is I who offers humor as a sacrifice at the altar of equality, often I’m feeling far from funny.
My dad is clearly not Chinese, but I embrace both sides of my identity. And for someone in a Chinese restaurant to so easily discount that — well, it stings. For someone like my father, who has had to deal with much more forthright racism in his life and who moved to America to escape such persecution, it’s sometimes hard to ignore the ignorant. He is so used to fighting for his rights that he doesn’t realize the battlefield has changed. Actions, and sometimes inaction, speak louder than words. While we don’t have to accept the disparate treatment we receive in Chinese restaurants, we can fight it in more ways than verbal or physical violence. I long for the day when we enter a Chinese restaurant at random in America, and for the staff to treat us like just another regular family. For now, I treat the whole thing with humor. But they better not forget my fortune cookies!
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