Choice Words

by John Christmann

Like a lot of people, I have ordered Chinese take-out food since I was old enough to cook for myself. This is about when I discovered that after a long day, the Joy of Cooking is an oxymoron. I suppose my parents had a similar attitude toward cooking, because my earliest memory of eating Chinese take-out is as a boy. I was six years old and had to be rushed to the hospital during dinner one Friday night because, being new to Chinese utensils, I accidently stuck a chop stick in my eye.

Unfortunately, as carry-out food goes, Chinese food has a pretty bad reputation. This is because unlike the other take-out staple, pizza, which can still taste pretty good even when it is bad; Chinese food, when it is bad, can be really really bad. Anyone who has encountered a half finished carton of Moo Shu Pork in their refrigerator the next morning will attest to this. But despite the irregularity in quality, nothing beats the tasty variety of food that can be secured, enjoyed, and cleaned up in such a short period of time with such a minimal amount of effort. It is the ultimate fast food, and has earned a prime position in our culture. Chinese take-out is now as American as Apple Pie with Honey Walnuts.

Although there are dozens of Chinese restaurants where I live, I have ordered take-out from the same establishment for years because I don’t want to learn other menus. The restaurant, Chan’s Choice Chinese Palace, is clean, but plain, and all of the meals on the menu—all 147—are $8.95. No matter what I order, it can be picked up in ten minutes. And no matter how much I order, the bill is always rounded to the nearest dollar. At Chan’s Choice Chinese they don’t like to be bothered with time consuming stuff like calculating sales tax and counting pennies.

But like many things Chinese, the take-out menu at Chan’s is a paradox. The long list of dishes only presents the illusion of choice, because in the end I order the same few things over and over again. After many years of sampling their food, my family is down to the two or three dishes that work for us. The remaining dishes are ordered by everybody else or by people with very peculiar taste buds. Forgive me, but I just don’t know that many people who order #57 Sesame Crusted Seaweed or #143 Tofu Trapped in Pigs Feet.

All of this came to light the other night when my son, who always wants General Tso’s chicken, asked, “Dad, why are there so many items on this menu? Do people actually eat all this stuff?”
Taking the menu from his hand, I picked up the phone and dialed one of the many telephone numbers listed on the back of the menu.

“Chan’s, may I help you?”
It was the owner, Jimmy Chan, who I have come to know over the years. Jimmy is a clever and energetic Chinese man who immigrated to America in the 1960’s. He now owns a chain of five restaurants which are run by his children. He also owns the strip malls where they are each located.

“Hi Jimmy . . .” I began over the phone.
“Ahhhh. Mister John. You want same, General Tso’s Chicken, extra spicy?”
Jimmy speaks in clipped English and is forever answering my questions before I ask them.
“Yes, but first I want you to explain something,” I said.
“OK, sure. I tell you. I make up fortune. Put paper in cookie before bake.”
“No, no, that’s not it,” I said quickly before he could interrupt again. “I want to know why there are 147 items on this menu.”

There was a brief pause on the telephone, followed by a sustained cackling sound as Jimmy started laughing. “Old Chinese proverb say: Man without choice like man without nose. Can’t pick.” At this he laughed even harder.
“But why so many. . .?”
“Same reason wife have so many shoes—many choice much happiness.”
“But . . .”
“Choice American way,” he continued, then in his next breath asked, “Mister John, how many pair pant you own?”
“I don’t know, maybe a dozen,” I replied.
“Why you always wear blue jean?”
“Because they are my favorite.”
“Exactly. No have favorite until own many pant.”
“OK, but how can you make . . .?”
“Very simple. 147 dishes, only one pot.”
“Do you mean to tell me . . .?”
“Pepper here, orange there. All same. Taste different. Everyone happy.”
My head was spinning as Jimmy continued to cackle at my expense.

“Mister John, you get #145 General Tso’s chicken. Also try #146 General Tzu’s Chicken. Name after famous general, Sun Tzu. Write book on war.”
“General who’s chicken?” I asked, confused by what was being ordered.
“OK sure, I also make you #147 General Who’s chicken.”
Jimmy chuckled again, and before I could say anything he added, “Many famous general, only one chicken. Pick up number 15. Ready in ten minute. Twenty-seven dollar.”
And then, still laughing, he hung up.

Twenty minutes later we were all dining happily on three cartons of assorted vegetables and chicken which we placed in serving bowls on the kitchen table. One chicken dish had a whole pepper thrown in and was really hot. Another dish sported a few orange rinds, and the third was sweet and crunchy with walnuts. Other than that, they were all about the same. But it didn’t matter; accompanied by a large bottle of Tsingtao beer, all of the food was tasty.

“So Dad,” said my son wolfing down a chunk of glazed chicken, “what did you learn about the take-out menu?”

My head was still hurting from my elliptical, one-way conversation with Jimmy Chan. But I attempted to explain the importance of choice to my children.

“Well, not many people know the origins of Chinese take-out food,” I began, “which explains why they are afraid to eat it. But from what I can tell Chinese take-out was invented in the 6th century BC by the famous Chinese general, Sun Tzu, who wrote The Art of War and liked chicken. You see, the general sustained his army on supplies they took from the many foes they vanquished. He ordered his troops to stuff what ever food was available in their helmets and carry it away by the chin straps. A while later, when shiny cardboard was invented, the helmets were replaced with take-out cartons.”

My kids looked at me in silence; staring blindly through the sun glasses I made them wear to protect their eyes from mishandled chop sticks.
“Are you telling me that the Chinese invented cardboard?” asked my son.
“Well, they invented paper.” I replied. “They also invented the first moveable block press so they could print take-out menus.”
Nobody said anything, so I continued.

“Chinese take-out as we know it was introduced to America in the 1800s by hard working immigrants who built the railroads that shaped our nation. As the tracks moved steadily across the country, so did the restaurants. But the concept of take-out wasn’t immediately successful because Americans couldn’t decipher the long menus. It wasn’t until Levi Strauss supplied us with a durable pair of comfortable jeans that we understood that you have to try a lot of Chinese food to know what you like. Take-out soon fueled other innovation: Thomas Edison gave us the light bulb so we could read the menus, Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone so we could place our orders, and Henry Ford gave us the automobile so we could go pick it up.”

“So you see,” I concluded, “the Chinese take-out menu is all about choice, choice is the mother of invention, and freedom of choice is what makes America great.”

“Daddy,” said my daughter, “you made that all up.”
“Did I?”
I broke open a fortune cookie and read it aloud: Many calculations, victory. Few calculations, no victory. - Sun Tzu. The fortune was then followed by a series of Lotto numbers.

“What does that mean?” asked my daughter.

I chuckled. “I think it means that we should put on our favorite pair of shoes and walk to Baskin-Robbins 31 Flavors for some ice cream,” I replied.