When I was a boy, I was very suspicious of food I had never eaten before. It didn't matter what it looked like or what it smelled like. If I hadn't had it before, I wasn't having it now. gNo, thank you, not for meh was my mantra. No matter what my mother (gBut I bought it especially for you!h or gTry it, it's delicious!h) or father (gIf you don't eat that, there'll be no dessert for you, young man!h or gHow do you know you won't like it till you taste it?h) said, I wouldn't budge. Read my lips, no new food.
Chinese food however was different. In a Chinese restaurant I became Mr. Adventure, eating anything on the menu, even shark fin's soup. I always wondered what kind of shark the fin came from (hopefully something with an unusual shape or name like a hammerhead or a mako), and what happened to the rest of the shark, the finless bit that obviously wasn't good enough to make soup from. The food had exotic names like chow mein and chop suey (somehow more alluring than chuck steak or pork chop), and contained loads of colourful gooey sauces that were miles more interesting than brown gravy. Sweet and sour sauce: orange! Prawns in chili sauce: red! It was like watching Brazil play football after years of following Derby County.
But what I really liked about Chinese food was where you ate it: in a Chinese restaurant. There was just so much to marvel at: the funny name and the squiggly writing over the door; rich colourful materials that you never saw in the local Wimpy Burger (deep red velvet, for a start); white linen table cloths; big black menus; dishes with cashew nuts in them; waitresses in silk jackets with beautiful embroidery, speaking to each other in a staccato semi-shout that somehow sounded more dramatic and exciting than some tired version of gA burger and chips, with a Cola, for table 3, Sandra.h And tables that you could spin round and round! Hey! This was fun. And what's more, some of it tasted pretty good, too.