Chopsticks, mythologized to have been invented 7,000 years ago in China, have become a global symbol of Asian cuisine – more personally, chopsticks have been a two-pronged pain in my side. Difficult to wield and remarkably “oriental-looking,” chopsticks indicated that the food I was about to eat would be exotic, greasy, and full of MSG – i.e., distinctly Asian. As an Asian-American adoptee with white parents, Chinese takeout, even in cultural bastions like San Francisco, was regarded by my household as a quick and dirty late-night dinner option. My exposure to Chinese culture consisted of takeaway boxes, splintered chopsticks, bloated bellies, and stale-fortune cookies. Racist fears of MSG and Chinese Restaurant Syndrome caused my family to speak about Chinese takeout with a distinct level of vulgarity that no one would dare describe Western food. French cuisine was Haute, and New Nordic was chic, but Chinese takeout – no, Chinese takeout was a cheap, albeit tasty, last resort.
That being said, there is something magical about Chinese takeout that continuously draws me to it. The generous gratings of fresh ginger mixed with heavy-handed pours of chili oil, fish sauce, and MSG creates an umami-packed flavor profile that is distinctly counterpoised to the sugary palate of the West. More importantly, consuming dishes so intrinsically tied to the Asian-American diaspora, as unhealthy as they may be, imparts within me a profound sense of cultural connection. Eating Chinese takeout was one of the few moments in which my cultural heritage was made visible. Although my white family disdained the greasiness of takeout, their enjoyment of the flavor profile was unmistakable. Seeing my family engage with takeout, regardless of how begrudging they were to do so, made me feel acknowledged. As such, America’s derogatory assessment of Chinese takeout, therefore, feels almost like an individual attack on my Asian-American joy.
French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu’s theory of food habitus helps explain the devaluation of Chinese takeout. Bourdieu suggests that the manifestation of taste has little to do with flavor profiles; rather, taste is both a creation and a creator of class culture. Concretely, Bourdieu argues that an individual’s tastes are associated with class status, specifically, with how each class perceives a food’s effect on the body. The body, therefore, becomes the materialization of class taste, whereby the upper class prefers to consume “health-giving” foods that are “light and not fattening.” In tandem with the Western perception of Chinese Restaurant Syndrome as the cause of one too many stomach aches, Bourdieu’s food habitus theory explains why Chinese takeout is regarded as a derogatory accouterment for the lower class.
Quick and cheap takeaway shops are frequently the West’s only exposure to Chinese cuisine. Often, their menus include colonized versions of pan-Asian flavors that have been diluted to fit the palate of the West – an example of this is the ever-popular Chop Suey. There continue to be conflicting origin stories of Chop Suey; some claim the dish was created by Chinese miners during the gold rush, while others trace its creation to Qing Dynasty diplomats – regardless, the allure of Chop Suey lies in its enigmatic ambiguity. In general, Chop Suey requires three critical components: 1) stewed meat, 2) stir-fried vegetables, and 3) a thick, corn-starch-based gravy. Besides the various sprinklings of ginger and soy sauce, little separates Chop Suey from a run-of-the-mill pot au feu.
Chop Suey, being both affordable enough to attract the working class and Western enough to be ‘safe’ for consumption, quickly took urban immigration ports by storm during the turn of the 20th century, such as San Francisco and New York. It was not long before Chop Suey became the de facto symbol of Chinese cuisine, and by extension, of Chinese immigration as a whole. In the eyes of American labor unions, both Chop Suey and Chinese immigrants were cheap, greasy, and meant to be confined to the borders of Chinatowns. This rhetoric manifested as various measures passed in 1906 that restricted restaurant licenses to American citizens and barred individuals under a certain age from entering “Chop Suey joints” after 10 pm. The United State’s attack on Chop Suey reveals the crossroads where foodways and racism intersect. Just as we demonize the oil in our Chinese takeout, we equally begin to degrade the peoples and cultures who are intrinsically associated with these cuisines.
Chop Suey’s history in the United States reveals the resilience of Chinese restaurateurs, communities, and cuisines. However, restaurants that serve takeaway dishes like Chop-Suey are labeled by Asian and non-Asian consumers alike as “in-authentic.” Mainstream food writers and Asian-American restaurateurs alike have swiftly debased the “authenticity” of Chinese takeout. And yet, as an Asian-American who has never been back to the homeland, I feel both represented by and resentful of Chinese takeout. If asked by a stranger for Chinese food recommendations in San Francisco, I would not dare send them to a takeout restaurant for fear of disappointing them with in-authentic dishes, and yet, Chinese takeout feels tangibly authentic to my cultural and racial identity. This brings up the inevitable question, is Chinese takeout an authentic representation of Chinese cuisine? Why is it that Chinese takeout, a genre of cuisine that encapsulates stories of immigration and diasporic transformation, is labeled as in-authentic by members of said diaspora?
Authenticity discourse, when applied to items that are consumed for the purposes of conjuring an authentic connection to one’s own culture, necessitates an investigation into the filtration of cultural nostalgia and memory. In “Imaginary Homelands,” famed Indian-born novelist Salman Rushdie explores his diasporic relationship with his homeland, musing that “it may be that when the Indian writer who writes from outside India tries to reflect the world, he is obliged to deal in broken mirrors, some of whose fragments have been irretrievably lost.” The metaphor of a broken mirror, jagged and warped, reveals how diasporic movement, exile, and displacement distort memories to create an unreliable and terse relationship between the individual and their homeland. And yet, the jagged and warped nature of diasporic memories is what causes individuals to cling to falsified tidbits and idealized notions of home. Rushdie writes, “the shards of memory acquired greater status, greater resonance because they were remains; fragmentations made trivial things seem like symbols, and the mundane acquired numerous qualities.” The splintering of the past produces cherished but falsified memories, transforming the shards of glass into a “mirror of nostalgia.”
Rushdie’s framework of nostalgia complicates the question of authenticity. On the one hand, “Imaginary Homelands” articulates the importance of “culinary authenticity” discourse for the Asian-American diaspora; food, as a consumable and mundane item, gains renewed importance for the displaced. On the other hand, Rushdie’s framework presumes that nostalgia contradicts authenticity, undermining the reliability of the diaspora’s memories and perception of what is real versus what is imagined. “Imaginary Homelands” begets two interrelated questions, 1) does nostalgia encourage the diaspora only to remember positive memories of home, and 2) how can we understand the experience of diasporic individuals who have never returned home?
Anthropologist Martin F. Manalansan IV answers the question above in his titular anthology, “Eating Asian America,” where he introduces the concept of the “imagined diasporic return.” While detailing a particularly terse Filipino-American Christmas meal in Queens, NY, Manalansan notices the revulsion on the Filipino guest’s faces when the Filipino host serves them “Filipino-style spaghetti,” topped with American-made hot-dog slivers. Manalansan writes, “some of the Filipino guests responded [to the hot dogs] by being defensive; they said that… other, “more Filipino,” dishes [like Spanish chorizo] would better “represent” the culture, nation, and people.” Manalansan is quick to note that neither Spanish chorizo nor American hot dogs are indigenous ingredients, as both products arrived in the Philippines through foreign oppressors. At the end of the meal, Bert, a Filipino man who immigrated to Queen in the 1970s, explained to Manalansan, “the real issue here is not authenticity because if it is, then many of these Filipino guests would have to admit that they would have used hot dogs in these dishes. Back home, isn’t that what we do? It is actually very authentic, although not pleasing [in regard to authenticity].”
If Rushdie’s framework of shattered glass explains how members of the diaspora conflate positive memories with authenticity, then Malanansan’s observations reveal how members of the diaspora will similarly conflate unpleasant memories with in-authenticity. Manalansan corroborates Rushdie’s sentiment that the diaspora dictates what memories get preserved or rejected; he writes, “the [hot dogs] made people uncomfortable because they had to confront and “return” to unwanted tastes and flavors.” Manalansan’s use of the word “return” introduced the future tense in a conversation about the past, deepening Rushdie’s framework of nostalgia that is solely rooted in the past tense. Manalansan elaborates on his use of the word “return,” writing, “diasporic return is often portrayed as a romanticized endpoint, a moment characterized as either a rediscover or a recovery of authenticity, a heroic and redemptive closure, or an idealized final destination of all diasporic odysseys and linear migratory movements.” As such, Manalansan’s framework of the “imagine diasporic return” places Asian Americans as active, forward-looking agents that define authenticity under the premise of an idealized future instead of just an idealized past. Manalansan’s essays reveal the temporality of authenticity, allowing members of the diaspora with no past memories of the homeland to investigate the question of authenticity.
My love-hate relationship with quintessential Chinese takeout dishes like Chop Suey is rooted in my inability to discern authenticity (or lack thereof). As a Chinese-American adoptee, I have little contact with Asian elders who could have passed me generational legacies of “authentic” foods, so most of my knowledge about Chinese foodways has come from non-Asian sources. When eating at Chinese takeout restaurants with white family members, I duly noted their complaints about the dishes. As health-conscious and culturally-minded San Franciscans, my parents saw the Americanization of takeout as proof of takeout’s lack of authenticity. Similar to the reactions of the Filipino guests who were served hot dogs, the “Americanization” of dishes like Chop Suey sickened my perception of takeout. The authenticity discourse proposed by my white family placed Asian-American foodways in opposition to mainland Chinese foodways that were more “culturally rich” and “health-giving.” The derogatory assessment of Asian-American dishes like Chop-Suey forced me to “confront and return to unwanted tastes and flavors,” leaving me unwilling to embrace takeout as authentic.
When placed in conversation with Bourdieu’s theory of social capital, Rushdie and Manalanasan’s observations allow me to rationalize that my distrust of takeout stems from a desire to conflate positive – “health-giving” – dishes with Chinese cuisine in order to strengthen my perception of my own cultural identity. However, Rushdie and Manalansan’s temporal bound frameworks exclude perceptions rooted in the present. For instance, I have no past memories of eating any Chinese dish besides takeout. When I imagine the foods that I would eat upon my return to the homeland, my mind draws a blank as I have never actually imagined myself returning in the first place. My perception of Chinese takeout has little to do with nostalgic pasts or imagined futures. Rather, my perception of takeout – and by extension, authenticity – has everything to do with my present experience as a member of a shifting diaspora.
As I wrap up this feature essay, I have come to the conclusion that, as an adoptee, I can not define authenticity by nonexistent past and future perceptions of a homeland. I am empathic to arguments that use nostalgic pasts and imagined futures to critique the Americanization and authenticity of Chinese takeout; however, Chinese takeout has allowed me to visibly acknowledge myself and my Chinese-American identity, making the genre of cuisine authentic to my present experience as a diasporic Asian-American. While I am still unsure of how to assess the authenticity of my Americanized identity, I will end this essay with a definition of authenticity that includes the present and situational realities of diasporic communities.
CUNY Professor Ines Miyares uses Professor Jonathan Okamura’s theory of situational ethnicity to analyze how Asian Americans use Americanized dishes as an expression of culture and agency. Okamura’s theory of situational ethnicity suggests that individuals express their ethnicity in ways that respond to “structural” aspects like “social status… and other processes in which those in power… can constrain choices and opportunities” as well as “cognitive” aspects like the “individual actors perception of structural constraints and… the behavioral choices [they] make to adapt to them.” Miyares notes that “Ethnic identity [is] a form of resistance against the homogenizing expectations of local..societies. Native-born citizens… may rediscover their immigrant heritage and choose to become “hyphenated Americans”…tak[ing] on speech and behaviors that make them insiders, members of that ethnic group, in that social situation.” I am drawn to Okamura’s theory of situational ethnicity, as my definition of authenticity is informed only by my present experience as a diasporic Asian-American. Okamura’s theory of situational ethnicity recognizes the Americanization of Chinese takeout, but instead of faulting takeout’s authenticity, it credits the shifting history of takeout as genuinely authentic to the adaptation and transformation of diasporas.
Sources:
- Bourdieu, P. (1984) Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste. Routledge & Kegan Paul, London.
- Noguchi, Mark. “The History behind Why Hawaiians Are Obsessed with Spam.” VICE, 8 Jan. 2016, https://www.vice.com/en/article/mgx7yx/why-hawaiians-are-utterly-obsessed-with-spam.
- Gentile, Dan. “19 Ways to Spot a Fake Chinese Restaurant.” Thrillist, 26 May 2015, https://www.thrillist.com/eat/nation/bad-chinese-food-american-chinese-food.
- Rushdie, Salman. Imaginary Homelands: Essays and Criticism, 1981-1991. 1st American ed. London : [New York, N.Y., U.S.A.]: Granta Books ; In association with Viking, 1991.
- Ku, Robert Ji-Song, Martin F. Manalansan, and Anita Mannur, eds. Eating Asian America: A Food Studies Reader. NYU Press, 2013. http://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt9qg92s.
Leo Hidy is an Oberlin College fourth-year majoring in American Studies, Economics, and Business. Raised in San Francisco, California, Leo loves west-coast style Asian cuisine. Leo will spend the next two years teaching in Machida, Japan, and hopes to expand his cooking repertoire while abroad.
