NANJINGNOW

Xinjiang Muslim Restaurant on Chengxian Street, near Southeast University, in Nanjing, might never be the same again.

I’ll never forget the first meal I had there, that sweltering summer evening when I walked through those constantly swinging greasy glass doors with red Chinese inscription on them- “welcome-air conditioned inside”.

Once indoors, I was taken aback. The place had double the temperatures outside – no wonder most of the male diners had stripped half naked, most of the ladies were fanning themselves.

The place was buzzing with activity-beret clad waiters wading between tables full of diners carrying platters half their size, full to the brim with fried chicken and potatoes- the specialty dish here- “Da Pen Ji”, which literally means-“a big plate of chicken”.

All the wooden tables were full of diners - eating, drinking, chain- smoking, cell-phoning, and shouting at the top of their voices (that is what it sounded to my unaccustomed ears-they might have just been talking). This got worse when someone told a joke and they all burst out laughing, the place actually reverberated with the sound of their laughter. Any louder and the wooden structure that is Xinjiang Restaurant would collapse.

The restaurant manager had been taking orders when I entered and was somewhat surprised when he lifted his head and saw me-a foreigner - in the restaurant. From the confused look on his face, I could tell what he was thinking as he ushered me to table 7-right at the corner-“do I address him in Chinese? …Can he speak Chinese?”

By the time I sat down, I already had a thick sweat on my brow from all the heat inside, my universal-grey T-shirt was soaking wet. As the sweat poured out from the pores of my skin, I felt uneasy because all the other customers seemed to be poring over every pore on my body. I was not used to people staring at me as it is in China and this feels worse especially when one is new here and of course not used to it.

I had only been in Nanjing one week with no background knowledge in the Chinese language whatsoever, so when the manager pushed the menu over to me and mumbled something in Chinese (which was definitely something like, “would you like to order please?”), I was totally lost.

He began pointing at the items in the menu-the Chinese characters, that is all there was- Chinese characters. This was his way of trying to help but it only pushed the situation out of the frying pan and into the fire. And indeed it did, because when he realized we were not getting anywhere by way of conversation he gave up on me and walked away. I was left wondering what in the world was going on, and just when I was about to give up and go, one beret clad waiter brought a plate full of mutton fried-rice to my table…

That is exactly what I had wanted, fried rice …any kind of fried rice and it had happened without me uttering a word. From that day onwards I have had my meals there countless times. The guys in there are no longer beret-clad waiters and the manager but close friends.

Last week after a brief sojourn in Beijing and Shanghai I was surprised to find it closed at midday. “We are renovating” the sign on the door says-I felt lost and a bit sad. Let me explain.

Of course I want Xinjiang Muslim Restaurant to have a working air conditioner and clean walls-not greasy ones. But I don’t want it to lose its authentic touch-I am talking about the wooden furniture with jasmine flower engravings. The restaurant’s sign written in white Arabic font on a green background like the Saudi flag. The friendly and fleet-footed waiters, not the cold silk clad waitresses you find waiting about in any other Chinese restaurant. If all this changes, then the Xinjiang restaurant that I knew and loved will not be the same. Of course one can argue that so long as they have the same chefs the food will be the same. Yes, but that is not why customers pay $ 3.50 for a latte at Starbucks, is it?

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The perspective above was brought to us by Mr. Arthur Mumelo.