I Stand Corrected Page 7

  Unlike my East Coast colleagues, those on the West Coast brought their private lives to the office. Histories of substance abuse were revealed and then revisited during staff meetings, as were details of surrogate birthing options. It wasn’t only the office that invited sharing: personal information flowed freely between near strangers. The most staggering example introduced itself at a dinner party when the man seated next to me, late to the table, informed me that he had been in the bathroom checking the color of his urine.

  My slack-jawed reaction did nothing to stop him from sharing more.

  “Clear urine is a sign my system is prepared to digest another meal,” he wanted me to know.

  L.A. is a place thought foreign even by its own countrymen. In many ways, life there was my preparation for the eventual experience of living in China. Like people in Hollywood, people in China seem unable to explain what is wrong with what the larger world considers cheating. And both places required me to function in an elliptical state wherein I was never entirely certain about the direction things were heading, especially in business.

  In L.A., business lunches give the misguided impression that all at the table are friends who happen to be doing business. In China, people bring strangers to business lunches who have absolutely nothing to do with the business at hand. This might explain why, during the summer I was writing my book in Beijing, I was asked to a lunch with ten people I didn’t know.

  A Chinese friend had come from New York on business. She is a financier. One of her clients is a major Chinese cell phone company. As a favor to her, I joined the lunch in honor of the company’s president. He arrived at the restaurant with a retinue; never more than a foot away was his young, vividly alert vice president. The president spoke no English. The vice president did. He was what is known in China as a haigui, or “sea turtle,” a young Chinese who comes back to China after being educated in the West.

  The lunch conversation unfurled in Chinese, making it difficult to understand if the person who was talking to me was the same person I should be paying attention to. So I sat, smiling and silent, until the end of the meal, when the president said something obviously meant for me.

  “Our president has asked if you know Angelina Jolie,” translated the young vice president.

  The question was hilarious, but I understood enough about mianzi, or “saving face,” to know that even a fleeting appearance of levity would be a serious mistake.

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t,” were my carefully measured words.

  The time it took the young man to translate my answer far exceeded the brevity with which it had been conveyed. Without the benefit of linguistic reference points, I was reduced to watching facial expressions. It looked to me that whatever was being said on the other side of the table had already set in motion circumstances in which my no was not the end of something, but its starting point.

  “I understand you lived in Los Angeles,” said the young vice president.

  “That’s right.”

  “But you don’t know Angelina Jolie.”

  “That’s right.”

  There was more discussion on the other side of the table.

  “Do you know anyone who knows her?” asked the vice president.

  “Do you?” pressed my friend. “Take time to think,” she instructed.

  After more thought, I remembered that the producer of one of the actress’s earlier movies was an acquaintance from L.A. That obscure piece of information caused a rush of activity. Several at the table made phone calls; others took notes.

  “Our president would like you to write your friend and ask him to tell Angelina Jolie that we want her to represent our new smartphone,” said the young man. “It comes out next month.”

  He was serious.

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t imagine Angelina Jolie would agree to promote a smartphone,” I told him. “And in the unlikely event she would, I doubt she’s available in the next two weeks.”

  The silence that followed made obvious that the young man had no intention of translating what I said for fear that his president would lose face. It was my misstep. In the West, candor does the work for honesty; in China, it results in a humiliating loss of face.

  My friend suggested that I go to the ladies’ room.

  “But I don’t have to use the ladies’ room,” I told her.

  “Just go,” she insisted in an anxious whisper that left no doubt it was what she needed me to do.

  I excused myself for the ladies’ room, where I waited for a few minutes before returning to the table.

  When I took my seat again, my friend told me something that required repeating.

  “They’ll pay twenty thousand dollars to write the letter.”

  “What?”

  “They’ll pay twenty thousand dollars to write the letter,” said my friend again.

  Hearing the absurdity spoken for the second time released my disbelief at having heard it at all.

  A riot of thoughts swarmed my head, but the only conclusion I could come to was fairly rudimentary: that something I probably would never understand had happened in the short time I spent in the ladies’ room.

  “You’re looking at me as though I’m suggesting something illegal,” said my friend.

  “Well, are you?” I asked.

  “They’re just asking you to write a letter.”

  “No one is paid twenty thousand dollars just to write a letter.”

  “In this case, you are.”

  “Let’s say I write the letter. We both know Angelina Jolie won’t do it.”

  “That’s not our problem. And on the off chance she can, I’ve negotiated a percentage of the take.”

  “You did all of this while I was in the ladies’ room?”

  “Yes … but don’t write the letter until they wire the money.”

  “This is insane. Are you sure I’m not breaking a law?”

  “This has nothing to do with the law,” my friend pointed out. “This is about guanxi.”

  How, why, when, and with whom things are done in China depends, on a certain level, upon guanxi. Like most idioms, guanxi is not easily translated into a single word that mirrors its meaning. “Relationships or connections outside the family” is the closest one might come to the meaning of what is at the very core of Chinese society and culture.

  In China, the systematic reciprocity that is guanxi produces a never-ending cycle of favors. Among its obligations is to uphold the idea of mianzi, or “face.” Mianzi cements the relationship in place with an acknowledgment of each other’s personal dignity—a dignity based on status and prestige.

  Even in neocapitalist China, dignity is infinitely more important a commodity than money. Keeping face is paramount; losing it, disastrous; taking it away from someone else, unforgivable. Any form of refusal costs face, which is the reason one should not be direct in saying no in China. Conversely, one should never assume that a yes in China is reliable, for the Chinese yes is a transitory, flexible concept.

  Since guanxi is the tangible result of connections, wealthy Chinese who wish to display their social advancements are increasingly seeking direction on how to entertain Westerners in their expensive houses. Well and good, but after the host and his guests are seated around the dining table in his home—no matter how expensive—all are expected to know table manners.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The first book devoted exclusively to table manners was written by Bonvicino da Riva, a Milanese monk, in 1290.

  It suggested that “a dinner guest should not blow his nose through his fingers; nor should he scratch himself in any foul part while eating.”

  Not a bad start. But for most of us, some more direction is needed.

  Table etiquette is important to the Chinese. They believe luck is brought with good table manners and shame is the result of bad. Since rudeness can occur without the utterance of a single offensive word, Chinese traditions that govern dining begin with the placement of guests at
the table and then address how they are welcomed once they are seated. It remains universally accepted that the most honored position is to the immediate right of the host.

  Stationed at the top of ancient China’s social pecking order was its imperial court. Next were the grandees and local ministers, followed by members of trade associations. Last—if they made it to the table at all—came the farmers and workers. The post–Cultural Revolution simplification of the four-tier system reduced it to only two: the host and the guest of honor, with the seat of honor reserved for the guest.

  Dining tables in China are circular. The lazy Susan—a rotating tray positioned in the center of the table—is employed so that all are an equal distance from the food. The guest of honor starts the meal by serving himself, then turning the lazy Susan clockwise. In a show of hospitality, the host forfeits his place and serves himself last. From the start of the meal until its end, deference is shown to the guest of honor, who is offered the last bite of the most coveted dish on the table.

  Imagine, if you can, how bewildering it must be for a Chinese guest at a Western dinner in a private home. Rather than being seated at a round table, which would enable him to observe the other guests, he is flanked with blind spots created by an unyielding, right-angled table. He is expected to know how to help himself with unfamiliar implements to food he cannot identify each time one of the several dinner courses is served by someone who mysteriously appears from behind or to his side.

  While writing my chapter on dining for The Tao of Improving Your Likability, I put myself in that same lost place of confusion.

  → LESSON 8

  When you are invited to dinner, immediately inform your host whether you are attending. If you delay your response, you prevent your host from planning ahead. A dinner invitation, once accepted, is a responsibility not to be subsequently subordinated to a better offer. Never ask who else is attending; although the host might volunteer the information, it is not obligatory to do so. Arrive on time, or only slightly late (no more than ten minutes). Do not, however, arrive early. When your host announces it is time for dinner, go straight to the table. If you have not yet met the other guests, introduce yourself to the people sitting near you. There are usually four courses to a Western meal: a first course (customarily soup or an appetizer), a main course, a salad, and a dessert. With the exception of the first course, you are often expected to serve yourself from a platter that is being passed or is placed in front of you. Take a portion closest to you, put the serving fork and spoon back together on the serving platter, and wait for your host to begin before starting to eat.

  It must be a relief for the Chinese to know that dining at a Western table is limited typically to four courses. Alas, that cannot be said for a Westerner in China, where the meal begins with a set of cold dishes, followed by various courses of vegetables, even before the soup makes an appearance. Next is meat. Then fish is presented, often served whole and never flipped to its other side, which is an unlucky gesture that symbolizes capsizing a boat. Since protein and vegetables claim a higher nutritional rank, starch is consumed as filler if the diner is still hungry. When bowls of rice and noodles are placed on the table, it usually indicates that the meal is drawing to a conclusion.

  Much of social life—and a great deal of business—revolves around food, and I am of the mind that one should know how to behave at the table of people with whom one happens to be dining. Eating in China can be a terror for the uninitiated. At one time or another, I have been immobilized by dishes with ghoulishly unappetizing implications: “pig hoof gruel,” “fried goose intestines,” “chicken without sexual life,” “pockmarked old-lady’s tofu,” “fish smell like pork,” “lover’s lung.” The real showstopper: “lily bulbs and deer’s penis.”

  Even though I have managed the body parts of both small and large animals, I continue to be outdone by various crustaceans, which appear to require a full set of surgical tools to consume. Not only do I leave the carnage of giant crabs on their serving plate—the unsightly proof of my unsuccessful amputations—but even when I manage to transfer the hacked-up crabmeat onto my plate, I fail to ensure its clear passage to my mouth. A shortcoming with shellfish is but one of my failings at a Chinese table. My mistakes with chopsticks are notorious. I have enlisted them to impale uncooperative food in a last-ditch effort to eat what has been placed in front of me. I have wrongly employed them to pick through the food on my plate, a gesture that represents digging my own grave. And I have used them to pass food, which conjures the passing of cremated bones between loved ones at a funeral. I have left chopsticks sticking out of my rice bowl, a look reminiscent of incense sticks, which burn in veneration of the deceased.

  Assisted by my sometimes invincible ignorance of Chinese dining superstitions, I have foretold the impending deaths of everyone at the table and have reminded them of the past deaths of their loved ones. So when it came time for me to offer advice to the Chinese on the fundamentals of Western cutlery, it was my fondest hope that they would succeed where I had so obviously not with chopsticks.

  → LESSON 9

  A table setting for a four-course Western dinner includes the following:

  · Soup bowl

  · Dinner plate

  · Salad plate

  · Dessert plate

  · Bread plate with butter knife

  · Napkin

  · Soupspoon

  · Dinner knife

  · Dinner fork

  · Salad fork

  · Dessert fork and spoon

  · Coffee spoon

  · Water glass

  · Wineglass

  · Coffee cup and saucer

  Utensils are placed in the order of their use, starting from the outside and working in. The exception is the dessert fork and spoon, which are placed above the dinner plate. Forks go to the left of the plate; the knife and the soupspoon go to the right of the plate. The butter knife rests on the bread plate, which goes to the left of the dinner plate. The glasses to the right. One way to remember this: food to the left and liquids to the right.

  The ancient Greeks used the fork to hold meat while cutting it. The Italians employed the early use of the fork on its own, but that system failed to win over the English until the late seventeenth century. The dinner knife—which replaced the sharp tip with a rounded one—was not put to daily use until the eighteenth century, when Louis XIV—after discovering its practicality—became an enthusiast. Since its purpose was no longer to prick a piece of food off the plate, but to help with cutting it, the king took advantage of that advancement and banned pointy knives from the dining table.

  → LESSON 10

  There are two ways of eating in the West: the American way and the Continental way. The Continental way of eating is more streamlined and—to my mind—easier. The fork is held in the left hand and points down. The knife is held in the right hand and low to the plate. They stay exactly that way throughout the meal. The advantage of this method is that you need not constantly pass the fork from your left to your right hand, as you must in the American way. When not cutting, the knife helps guide the food onto the fork. Once you lift your utensils from the table, they stay on your plate and do not go back on the table. Your knife and fork should be put in the resting position on your plate when you raise your napkin to your lips between bites, take a sip of water or wine, or have an extended conversation.

  When I lived in L.A., the simple interaction of inviting people to dinner was complicated by their numerous dietary issues. Guests would phone the day before and negotiate the meal, requesting it be dairy-free and reminding me that they don’t eat bread after 11:00 a.m.

  L.A. is not a reference point for Western normalcy, and so I alerted my Chinese readers that at most Western tables bread will inevitably be served and is usually passed in a breadbasket.

  → LESSON 11

  If you are the one who begins to pass the bread, pick up the basket and offer it to the person to your left. After that p
erson takes a piece, help yourself to a single piece, place it on your bread plate (or on the left side of your dinner plate if there is no bread plate), and pass the basket to your right. If you would like butter on your bread, take enough butter from the butter dish to cover the whole piece of bread and put it on your bread plate; never butter your bread directly from the butter dish. Do not take the entire piece of bread to your mouth and leave a dentist’s mold of your bite. Break off a bite-size piece of bread from the piece you have placed on your bread plate, and butter each piece as you eat it.

  Between what is done at the table is what is said at the table. It is the obligation of the host to make sure his guests are engaged in good conversation, and it is up to the guests to make sure the host does not regret inviting them.

  PART FOUR

  The Art—and Perils—of Conversing

  Although there exist many thousands of subjects for elegant conversation, there are persons who cannot meet a cripple without talking about feet.

  —Chinese proverb

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  At times, there is a mangled charm when the Chinese attempt small talk with Westerners. Their total lack of inhibition is the refreshing opposite of the West’s politically correct and often spontaneity-killing approach to conversation.

  It turns out that the Chinese are capable of asking what most people want to know but, with the exception of young children, are too polite to ask.

  Having been interrogated about my age, how much money I have, and why I was not married, I’ve come to enjoy the guileless manner by which the Chinese plunge forward in their conversations with me. For other Westerners, however, the Chinese take on social conversation can seem stunningly taboo-free—to the point of causing discomfort. Making matters worse is that in China grinning serves to lessen embarrassment or to deal with awkwardness in a social situation. Such extreme oppositions in comportment collide when the news of misfortune is met with laughter, and the reply to a Western admonishment for such laughter is yet more laughter.