Dan Washburn  in Shanghai  

I ate lunch for 12.5 cents today. And it filled me up good. Mom, you don’t have to worry about me going hungry  in Shanghai. I could easily write a book and call it “How to Eat Reasonably Well in the Pearl of the Orient for a Dollar  a Day … and Still Get Back Some Change!”

Well,  actually right now it would likely be more of a pamphlet,   consisting primarily of the vendors occupying the alleys   and streets surrounding the Yan Chang Campus of Shanghai University. (Certainly, the text would not be of a lengththat would merit such an awkward and absurdly wordy title.)

It’s; true, though: When hunger strikes in Shanghai, I often hit the streets. More like the backstreets, really, where everything is dark, dank, seedy … and delicious. It was duringa rather lavish lunch — I think sometime after the sixth course and sometime before the ninth — that I admitted this to the vice dean of my department. “I think it’s unhygienic,” he proclaimed while spitting a piece of crab carcass onto his plate. He  wondered aloud why I hadn’t given the school cafeteriasa try. (I had, and I thought what I ate there tasted like stir-fried crap.)

I haven’t gotten sick once from eating on the street, ;and food poisoning is considered a rite of passage of sorts ; for visitors to these parts. True, most street-corner kitchens ;aren’t going to get high marks from the health inspectors ;(the open flame on its own is likely some sort of code violation ;… the cook has to light his cigarette somehow), but ; these guys cook your food in enough hot oil to kill a small ; horse, let alone some measly bacteria. So it’s a slow ; death, not an immediate one.

There’s an alley full of street stir-fry artists about ;50 yards from campus. We call it, well, we call it “the ;alley.” Early in my stay, I became a regular at one ;of these stands — basically, a table, a gas flame ;and a fry pan — and then one night, the stand wasn’t ;there anymore. So I turned around and became a regular somewhere ;else. My new guy now smiles when I enter the alley. I smile ;back — he hasn’t disappeared yet. ;Back in the alley, I generally order "dan chao fan" (egg fried rice), which my guy tosses in a fry pan with ; assorted vegetables, leafy green things and, of course, ; oil. Some days — I haven’t been able to figure ;out what determines which ones — he offers to add ; yellow curry powder into the mix, and I let him.

Curry or ;no, a heaping portion of dan chao fan costs a whole 3 yuan, ; or less than 40 cents. (The exchange rate is roughly 8 yuan ; to the dollar.)Of ;course, the alley offers more than just fried rice. I’ve ; seen the menus. They are long. They are also in Chinese. ;So unless you’re in the mood for a little restaurant ; roulette, it’s best to go with what you know — ;in my case, very little — or whatever’s easy ;to point to. Be careful, though. Lighting can be misleading ; back in the alley.Things are equally shady closer to campus, where I regularly ; purchase two of my other staples. As of press time, I have ; no idea what either one is officially called. The first ;is basically meat-on-a-stick, shish kebabs cooked over a ; bin of hot coals attached to the side of a bicycle. The ; owner of the bike-slash-barbecue is a pleasant ;— he always says “Hey” in return. How much per stick? One yuan. I’ve been told that ;the meat I’ve been eating is lamb. ;Across the sidewalk, sits the “Chinese burrito” ;stand, another place at which I always get a nod of recognition. ; (The vendors don’t have to keep too many white people ; in their mental Rolodexes.

In fact, while standing in line ;recently for a burrito, I startled the pig-tailed 9-year-old ; girl standing in front of me. She got her burrito, turned ;around and saw my waist. She looked up, saw my wide eyes ;and opened hers just as wide. “Ooh. Waiguoren,” ;she said, sounding a bit shocked. In America, this would ; be the equivalent of seeing a Chinese guy on the street ; and exclaiming, “Ooh. Chinese guy.”)The burritos — which you won’t find on any menu ;and, if you do, they surely won’t be called burritos ; — are cooked by a couple who roll in every day at ;dinnertime. The batter, which becomes the burrito’s ; thin shell, hits the circular ;it’s an egg, some green stuff, some brown stuff, some ; yellow stuff and some more green stuff. (She always pauses ;before adding the hot peppers, waiting for my nod. She doesn’t ;do this with her Chinese customers.) One big crunchy thing, ;a few quick folds and 1.8 yuan later, I’ve got myself ;a tasty meal. Don’t ; pay until you get your food, though. These temporary canteens ;have wheels for a reason. How else can they expect to outrun ; the police? On the street, word of a sneak attack by the ; fuzz spreads faster than a Hong Kong whore. While ;for dinner to cook, you turn around for a moment to peruse ; the day’s selection of black market DVDs. Turn back ;around and no burrito couple, no meat man, no nothing. Police ; lights flash and plastic bags toss about like tumbleweeds. ; It’s a disappearing act straight out of “The ;Spanish Prisoner.” ; Believe it or not, some places I eat in the neighborhood ; actually do have walls, seats and, ;one would assume, permits. ;The first Chinese phrase I learned was, “Carrot dumplings. ;Eighteen of them.” I still use it often at the jiaozi, ; or dumpling, restaurant across the road from campus. (At ;that time, I could only order items in increments of one, ; two, three … or 18.

My knowledge of numbers has improved ; since then. By the way, ;I call the dumpling restaurant “the green one” ;because, well, because it has a green sign, and the color ; is the only thing on it that I understand. I had a Chinese ; colleague of mine decode the restaurant’s name for ; me: “North Eastern Dumplings Cooked in Water Restaurant.” ;I still call it the green one. Walk into the place and it sounds like you’ve stumbled ;upon a French kissing contest for sufferers of sialorrhea. ; Slurp. Slurp. Slurp. ;If spitting is the Chinese national pastime, then slurping runs a close second. ;For more than a month, all I ate at the restaurant was carrot ;and pork dumplings, because that’s the thing I knew ;how to order. But one day, much to my dismay, they were ;out of carrot dumplings. I thought about leaving, but they ;brought me a different version instead. Cabbage, I think. ;It wasn’t bad. Now I know where on the menu wall to ;point if I don’t feel like carrots.The green one serves more than just dumplings.Every day, ; I’d see students enjoying a variety of noodle dishes, ;and I thought maybe I would enjoy them, too. But I didn’t ; know how to order noodles. I didn’t know how to ask ; what the dishes were called. I didn’t know where to ; point on the menu, either. Thanks to my students, though, ; I can now order oodles of noodles if I want. They wrote ;the words down for me and helped me with my pronunciation. There is one other local restaurant worth mentioning. I ; call it “the red one,” but several others have ;taken to calling it “The Doctor on the Corner,” ;and not because of the healing powers of its food. The doctor ; is one of the only nearby eateries to have an English menu. ;Actually, it’s a photocopy of the Chinese menu with ;some English words scribbled in pen beside some, not all, ; of the dishes. On the menu’s cover are the following ;words written in felt tip pen: “Menu for the Doctor ; on the Corner.”

Now, this restaurant is technically ;not on a corner and reliable sources have told me that none ;of the Chinese characters on its red sign mean “doctor” ; or “corner.”Here’s my hypothesis: Once, not long ago, there was ; an English-speaking doctor in the neighborhood. And yes, ;he lived on the corner. Being a doctor, he was popular with ;the locals and, as a sign of gratitude, they had the menu ; of his favorite restaurant translated into English for him. ; The doctor may be long gone now, but his legacy — ;a single menu — will live on forever … or until ;it gets soaked in soy saucesUpdated ;11.10.2002: Um yeah, looks like I was wrong. Turns ;out the sign does say something like "The Doctor's ;Corner" — thanks for the translation, Johnson ;— but it's not a medical doctor, it's a doctor of ; academia, which is why there was some confusion originally. ; But, it kind of makes sense since the place is right down ;the road from an institute of higher learning. Still, I ; like my version of the story better. And anyway, the place ;isn't on the corner.) ; English menu and all, confusion can still set in there. ;Like trying to order eggplant and getting scrambled eggs ;and tomatoes instead. That happened once. But at least we ; found out a place we could go for a semi-Western-style breakfast. A short walk from the doctor is one of several shops in ; the area serving baozi, a bready dumpling steamed ;in bamboo baskets and served with a variety of fillings, ;including pork, vegetables and a sweet bean paste popular ; for breakfast. You get five of them for a whopping 1 yuan. ; (Lots of carbs in my neighborhood, I know. Call this the ; anti-Atkins diet.)There are other stories to tell here. Stories of eating ; duck tongues and jellyfish; of Brazilian barbecues and fancy ;Western meals that cost the same as 5,500 baozi; of trying ; to avoid eating American fast food and waitresses who snigger ;when you fumble with chopsticks.

But I just checked my word ;count and it’s already beyond 1,500. Besides, I’m hungry. It’s time to head down ; to the alley. Not sure what I’m going to get, but ;whatever it is, I know it won’t come with a fortune ; cookie. That’s one thing I have yet to see in China. Pass ;the beer, mom: After reading my Hong Kong diary ; entry, my mother e-mailed me: “Loved your photos … ;but it sounds like you drink too much beer!” Well, ;that may be true, but at least I no longer have to drink ; too much bad beer. After many long nights of taste testing, ;I have finally found a Chinese beer that I like! It’s ; called Xinjiang Black Beer — that’s right, a ; dark Chinese beer — and I can get it for 4 yuan a ; bottle, which is a bit better than the 60 yuan I paid for ; a Kilkenny’s draft recently (OK, it was at the Ritz ; Carlton). I bought a 20-bottle case of Xinjiang last week. ;Mom, you’ll be happy to know that I still have 18 ;bottles left. They’re all full, too. ;You can visit Dans web site ;for more insights and photos on life in Shanghai. ;Thanks to Dan for the story and photos