Two things came to mind recently: 1) May is Asian American and Pacific Islander Month back in the United States, and 2) the only places that I could ever be considered a “regular” at in Oxford are Chinese restaurants.
Regarding the latter, I know I’m a regular someplace when I find myself going once each week or every two weeks — subject to occasional outliers, of course. That’s at least ten visits to each place throughout my months here at Oxford, and sometimes I might even go multiple times in one week. The subjects of my regularity are as follows: Dishion, the Chinese noodle shop next to Westgate; Sichuan Grand near the Gloucester Green bus station; the Gloucester Green Outdoor Market’s Chinese food stall that has no visible name, but serves my favorite braised pork rice here in Oxford; and Zhang Ji on Cowley Road. Dishion wasn’t yet open when I first started at Oxford, but the number of times I’ve visited has surely leveled the playing field. It makes the sheer quantity of my visits compared to all other Oxford restaurants truly remarkable.
I’m not a maths person, though, so let’s look beyond metrics. The way I really know I’m a regular is when the staff start recognising me. They’ll say something when I walk in asking for a table for one or sit down, like, “Long time no see,” or “You come so many times” or “What would you like to order this time?” Despite being a regular customer, I’m not always a regular when it comes to ordering. Occasionally I like to switch it up. Life’s too short to stick to the same dish all the time.
Sometimes it’ll just be a subtle nod and smile, the kind that’s hard to describe, but you know it by the glint of warmth. It’s the recognition in their eyes that says: “It’s you again.” It’s the way they, by default, start speaking in Mandarin once they see me come in because I always try and order in Mandarin, even if it means pointing at pictures and saying “this.”
I was always afraid of becoming a regular. I don’t think I ever truly achieved regular status at any restaurant in my undergraduate years just because there were endless restaurants in Los Angeles to try. At home, it’s always my family and I going out to eat, so if anyone ever recognises us, it’s always my family as a collective. I’ve never truly been a regular recognised for myself, by myself — if that makes any sense. I guess part of it is due to the fact that I grew up in a Chinese household where food was a love language, but it often also served as benchmarks for external judgement.
Similarly, my fear of being a regular stemmed from a fear of judgement. Yes, I love noodles, which are carbs and were blamed by my relatives and subsequently, myself, whenever I gained weight. I loved braised pork rice, which my grandmother would deem oily and unhealthy. I love spicy food, like Sichuan twice-cooked pork slices, which is why my relatives would say my acne never ceases.
It’s funny that, as a self-proclaimed foodie, I have such a complicated relationship with food. When you’re a college student living alone, you have more freedom to eat what you want. I know what foods I like to eat, so that means eagerly anticipating the times I get to eat them. Still, I can’t help the irrational fear that I’ll be scrutinised even more as a regular, as if the staff will think to themselves that I really shouldn’t be ordering so much white rice every time or that they’ll look at my inflamed acne and laugh to themselves how much I self-sabotage my skin by eating so much spicy pork belly. I’m aware I have a tendency to overthink, but part of it also comes from my cultural background. Sometimes, when I overthink, though, I want to go to these restaurants less. Fade into oblivion so I’m no longer a regular.
Part of it is also the fear of connection. I’m someone who fears judgement, so naturally, I’ve never been someone with a lot of friends. The few friends I do have, I have because I know their judgement of me comes from a long-sustained mutual understanding. When you’re a regular, though, the primary context for any kind of conversation is what you eat: your purpose as a customer. I don’t want to be judged for the food I enjoy; when it comes to the dining experience, it’s almost as if I crave anonymity.
Lately, whenever I find myself questioning if I should skip going to one of my favorite Chinese restaurants, I remind myself of “Chinamaxxing:” that social media trend where suddenly everyone is “at a very Chinese time” in their lives. I don’t know if it’s just more visible to me because May is a month for celebrating my cultural heritage, but I keep seeing non-Chinese people posting how they’re becoming Chinese because they engage in cultural practices common for Chinese individuals, like taking your shoes off inside the house or drinking boiled water.
Evidently, the trend is great for Chinese soft power, especially in the Western world where Sinophobic rhetoric has been common. I’ve always said that being Chinese is cool, and it’s time more people recognise that. Like others have said, though, I think the trend can veer towards reductive when it frames Chinese identity as just a few selective elements of culture for the purpose of trendiness while disregarding the lived experiences of actual Chinese individuals across the diaspora. I envision “Chinamaxxing” as a way for Westerners — both non-Chinese and Chinese — to understand parts of Chinese culture without suddenly “converting” to Chinese identity, but mostly, I view “Chinamaxxing” as a way for Chinese people to take pride in our culture in our own ways.
For me, engaging with the “Chinamaxxing” trend means being a regular at Chinese restaurants around Oxford. It means having the Chinese employees speak Mandarin to me the moment I come in. I tell myself that if non-Chinese people are having the time of their lives claiming that they’re Chinese, then I should too, in the way I know best: through food. I’ll go to Sichuan Old Grand and Zhang Ji and get those twice-cooked pork slices and spicy pork belly. I won’t be scared of being a regular, because to me Chinese identity is also about building community and collectiveness with other Chinese people.
I’ll admit I still don’t have many friends here at Oxford. Yet, I’ve achieved mutual understanding nonetheless with the employees who I make conversation with and who learn about who I am in return, even if I’m just a Chinese American who’s trying to speak Mandarin more and who frequently visits her family in Taiwan. If any kind of judgement does come, I’ll just tell myself that I’m used to it.
I grew up Chinese in a Chinese household where eating meant scrutiny, but also connection. In that light, going to Chinese restaurants and food stalls here at Oxford comes naturally to me because it feels comforting. I know culture isn’t just food, but food can be an accessible way for outsiders to know about a culture. That’s also why I think anyone who claims to have “become” Chinese should pair that with becoming a Chinese restaurant regular and actively supporting Chinese restaurants and staff.
When you’re a regular, what might have just been a one-off social media post becomes a cultural reality. That reality is how I know I’m at a very Chinese time in my life.