no further than myself

I step into the restaurant, a definite hole in the wall. The din of the street doesn’t disappear but it’s muted by the hiss from the kitchen, the clatter of cutlery, the constant Mandarin that hits my ears.

I stand before the sign, a solid board of characters above my head. I struggle, looking for the obvious: meat, egg, fish. When I mention I don’t eat meat, the cook gives me a funny look, as if there’s something wrong with me, or my Mandarin is so bad I don’t know what I’m saying.

I pile my tray with tofu and rice. This cold tofu dish is all I can eat today from the selections on offer. It is simple and easy to prepare: tofu warmed in its water, diced, mixed through with sesame oil and spring onions. I’m skeptical on my introduction to this dish, suspecting it to be bland; the secret is the sesame oil, which takes it from boring to amazing. I look forward to eating this, and its high protein gets me through a long day, but it’s all I can have and I want more.

I didn’t expect things to be so different. I thought so much would be familiar to me; I’m Australian-Chinese, how different could it be?

These common dishes are the first markers of difference that indicate this will be more difficult than I expected. This tofu is a standout, but like everything else I see daily it’s a holdover from the Cultural Revolution, and it’s made a difference. Xiaocong bàn dòufu, the tofu, fast and simple, good for eating quick and getting back to work. Suanlà tudòu si, shredded potato, flavoursome and filling and cheap. Songzi yùmi, stir-fried corn and sometimes pinenuts. Simple, fast, available. Stodgy but not heavy. After I’ve eaten I’m full but I can still get up to work. And they’re vegetables, a sign that something more, something meaty, is financially out of grasp.

The cook watches as I move away. Are you sure? she asks. I’m sure, and it’s another marker of my difference, that I will never be of here.

I take a bite, and another, and I know I can face whatever comes next.