God and Chinese Restaurants

When I was nine, we lived on leafy Lajoie Avenue, the bedrock of my childhood memories, with its sturdy old maples towering over the low-rise apartments and triplexes. These giants fashioned a sheltering bower in summer and a sense of being well-guarded in winter. This Montreal neighbourhood in lower Outremont is still my favourite.

One day, my mother and I were food shopping, walking down nearby Van Horne Avenue when we were suddenly stopped in our tracks. A tantalizing aroma had reached us both simultaneously, wafting its way through an open door, calling us with a siren song. We stood transfixed in front of the House of Wong, a restaurant so new they were still painting the name on the window.

In those days, every restaurant was new to me. They were mysterious places, places where every Sunday, my friend Betty who lived in the big house on the corner of Wiseman with her parents and two older brothers, would go to eat at someplace called Miss Montreal.

Our family never ate out. Ours was an immigrant family and my mother kept a kosher home. Or so I was told. We weren’t exactly religious but my mother lit Shabbat candles every Friday night and I was given a few pennies to put in the Keren Kayemeth, the tin blue box where we learned how to be charitable and to help Israel. And we believed in God whose name was invoked whenever I misbehaved or some danger was imminent and Mameh would call out, “Oy! Gottinu, save us.”

On that day, Mameh and I were standing on the sidewalk, inhaling the enticing, exotic scents wafting through the door of the restaurant. When I looked up, I saw a smile on my mother’s face, a rare moment. It made me happy to see.

As a family we had never eaten in a restaurant. But that Sunday, much to my delight, the four of us—my parents, my six-year-old brother and I—promenaded over to the newly-opened House of Wong for our first ever taste of Chinese food. Half a block away, our mouths had begun to water triggered by the pungent aroma of unnamed spices reaching out to welcome us in.

As soon as we were seated in a booth, my little brother started squirming until he managed to stand up on the seat and look around. Everything that didn’t smell like food smelled new, especially the vinyl seats of our booth. Forced to sit down, Moishe picked up a bottle sitting on the table. It was filled with a brown liquid. Looking around at the restaurant half full of diners, Tateh tapped Moishe’s hand and signaled for him to put the bottle down. Sunday was Tateh’s only day off and he wanted to enjoy it, undisturbed.

Meanwhile, Mameh was focused on the menu. As she scanned it her lips tried to mouth the names of the dishes while her finger ran down the food column, then slid over to the price list. Finally, she was ready and turned to the server who had been waiting patiently, his pencil poised over a scrap of paper. Mameh began to point.

“This,” she said, “and this, this and rice.” I understood that she had decided against trying to name the dishes.

Soon, several heaping plates were placed on the table before us. At the time I had no idea what they were called but can now confirm that we each had an egg roll which the waiter indicated we should dip into the translucent yellow sauce. It was sweet and tangy. After one tentative bite, I decided I liked it a lot and swished my egg roll around in the sauce. Bringing it to my mouth, it dripped down my chin and onto my shirt. I quickly looked at Mameh waiting for the rebuke but she was slowly crunching a bite of her own egg roll. Her eyes were closed.

The egg rolls were quickly dispatched. Even Moishe, the family’s picky eater, has finished in record time. We sat waiting in silent anticipation for the waiter to deposit the next dish. It was a platter with chicken pieces, vegetables and noodles like the kind I found in Mameh’s soup every Shabbat. Steam rose up to tickle my nose. Everything smelled so wonderful.

Another dish arrived and I recalled the aroma that had first enticed Mameh and me to the door. On the plate were little rectangles gleaming in a gooey brown sauce. I couldn’t wait to try it. I grabbed a piece by the bone and before it could slip through my fingers, I bit into the best food (except for maybe halvah) that I had ever tasted.

The four of us dug in, eating in a silence interrupted only by the sound of fingers being licked. Neither Mameh nor Tateh had suggested that we use forks or the wooden sticks that had been placed by our plate. I was so enthralled by the dish it took me a while to wonder what it was that I was eating. I had never tasted meat like this before.

“Mameh,” I asked, “is this chicken?”

“Nein,” she said, daintily slipping a rib into her mouth.

“Beef?”

“Umm, nein.”

I stopped to think for a moment. We only ever had chicken or fish, and on rare occasions, some beef.

“Mameh…is this” I asked in a whisper, “…is this chazer*?”

My mother averted her eyes but nodded slowly.

“But chazer isn’t kosher,” I said. “You told me it was a sin to eat chazer. Isn’t it, isn’t it a sin?”

“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “It is. But it’s OK, Rivkaleh.”

Mameh lowered her voice as she looked down at the plate, “It’s good. God doesn’t see us in a Chinese restaurant.”

Reassured that I was safe from the wrath of HaShem, I continued to eat.

*pork