Queuing up for baozi from the Bun Lady
FOR several days now I have been wondering about the bun shop opposite my house. Outside, huge bamboo baskets are steaming little balls of dough. The stuffed buns, or baozi, must be delicious, because at 7am the queue already runs halfway down Gao'an Road. Clouds of vapor blow into my face as I pass each morning. I peek behind the counter to where buns are being fashioned and placed delicately to steam. "I shall try them," I think.
My first attempt at ordering is a disaster. Faced with an array of identical white buns but no idea what is inside them, my "point and nod" strategy falters and I lose my nerve. Dejected and bunless I return home, but the queue and the aromas continue to play on my mind. "This is not beyond you," I tell myself sternly. Ordering buns My perseverance begins to pay off. I learn the names of several of the buns, each one a distinct ode to flour and filling - "pork", "vegetable", "red bean" and the deliciously cryptic "spicy".
They are deliriously fluffy, small white mounds of happiness, a rhapsody in bread. Above the shop, a menu with at least 20 items hints at breakfasts yet to come. "I will never move house again," I decide on the spot. Before long, ordering the buns has become a daily measure of my progress in China. The bun shop is a slick commercial operation: at 1 yuan (16 US cents) apiece, it is a numbers game. Customers have precisely three seconds to state their request. There is no margin for error. "Wal-Mart could learn from these guys," I think. Bun Lady, as I nickname the server, never affords me so much as a flicker of recognition, but I am enthralled by her nonetheless. Red-cheeked and pony-tailed, she can bag four baozi with one deft hand movement and count coins at the same time. After several days of experimenting, I discover my all-time favorite: black sesame. I practice the Mandarin in my head. "Liang ge hei zhima - two black sesame." Soon I am able to order without hesitation. Within the confines of my morning phrase I am confident, fluent even. I exper! ience a little ripple of excitement every time I say "Two black sesame."
For a few weeks, everything is fine. Sometimes I change it around a little and ask for one or three buns, but she always understands. Whenever I am having a particularly difficult day, I think of Bun Lady and our little routine. Then one day, the unthinkable happens. As I approach, I see she is in a particularly brisk mood; the queue is moving even more quickly than usual. "Mei you hei zhima," she says when she sees me. "No black sesame." For a minute it is as though I do not hear her. "There must be something wrong," I think. "NO BLACK SESAME," she repeats loudly. "Two black sesame, please," I say weakly, but I know that it is futile.
I realize with horror that I have no fallback. I have become complacent. I feel the presence of a growing line of hungry workers standing impatiently behind me. A small trickle of sweat runs down my face. I look up at the menu board in the hope of seeing a word I can read, but the only character I recognise is "bun". In a flash, my entire Chinese vocabulary deserts me. "Meat," I think. "Meat. What the hell is the word for meat?" "Meat," I say desperately in English, but it is too late. Bun Lady is already serving the next customer.
My first attempt at ordering is a disaster. Faced with an array of identical white buns but no idea what is inside them, my "point and nod" strategy falters and I lose my nerve. Dejected and bunless I return home, but the queue and the aromas continue to play on my mind. "This is not beyond you," I tell myself sternly. Ordering buns My perseverance begins to pay off. I learn the names of several of the buns, each one a distinct ode to flour and filling - "pork", "vegetable", "red bean" and the deliciously cryptic "spicy".
They are deliriously fluffy, small white mounds of happiness, a rhapsody in bread. Above the shop, a menu with at least 20 items hints at breakfasts yet to come. "I will never move house again," I decide on the spot. Before long, ordering the buns has become a daily measure of my progress in China. The bun shop is a slick commercial operation: at 1 yuan (16 US cents) apiece, it is a numbers game. Customers have precisely three seconds to state their request. There is no margin for error. "Wal-Mart could learn from these guys," I think. Bun Lady, as I nickname the server, never affords me so much as a flicker of recognition, but I am enthralled by her nonetheless. Red-cheeked and pony-tailed, she can bag four baozi with one deft hand movement and count coins at the same time. After several days of experimenting, I discover my all-time favorite: black sesame. I practice the Mandarin in my head. "Liang ge hei zhima - two black sesame." Soon I am able to order without hesitation. Within the confines of my morning phrase I am confident, fluent even. I exper! ience a little ripple of excitement every time I say "Two black sesame."
For a few weeks, everything is fine. Sometimes I change it around a little and ask for one or three buns, but she always understands. Whenever I am having a particularly difficult day, I think of Bun Lady and our little routine. Then one day, the unthinkable happens. As I approach, I see she is in a particularly brisk mood; the queue is moving even more quickly than usual. "Mei you hei zhima," she says when she sees me. "No black sesame." For a minute it is as though I do not hear her. "There must be something wrong," I think. "NO BLACK SESAME," she repeats loudly. "Two black sesame, please," I say weakly, but I know that it is futile.
I realize with horror that I have no fallback. I have become complacent. I feel the presence of a growing line of hungry workers standing impatiently behind me. A small trickle of sweat runs down my face. I look up at the menu board in the hope of seeing a word I can read, but the only character I recognise is "bun". In a flash, my entire Chinese vocabulary deserts me. "Meat," I think. "Meat. What the hell is the word for meat?" "Meat," I say desperately in English, but it is too late. Bun Lady is already serving the next customer.
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