Andrew Zimmern and the Chinaman
Two months have passed since the fallout, but for Chinese Americans, time doesn’t heal all wounds.
This story was originally published January 22nd, 2019.
I had lunch with my dad the other day, at one of Austin’s oldest Chinese restaurants. The business didn’t shy away from its age: Red lanterns hung overhead, koi fish swam in several tanks, and jade and jasper adorned the dining room.
Many adjectives could have described that restaurant. “Horseshit” was not one of them.
I’m referring, of course, to Andrew Zimmern’s recent PR kerfuffle. For those not in the know, the famous chef and Travel Channel personality found himself in hot water two months ago, after hyping up his new Chinese restaurant, Lucky Cricket:
“I’m saving the souls of all the people from having to dine at these horseshit restaurants masquerading as Chinese food that are in the Midwest.”
The Asian American Twitterverse blew up, rejecting the notion that Chinese food needed a white savior.
Zimmern issued a formal apology, but it fell on many deaf ears. Still, others said the outrage was blown out of proportion. After all, most American Chinese food is inauthentic, right? If anything, Andrew just mispoke. Yet these defensive takes are, just like Zimmern, tone-deaf.
Andrew Zimmern’s words didn’t ruffle feathers — they picked open a scab of white supremacy in Chinese American history.
In 1849, the California Gold Rush had engulfed not only the United States, but the whole world. China was no exception. Still reeling from the Opium War, Chinese people sailed from Canton in droves — by 1851, Chinese immigrants made up a fifth of the southern California mining population. Along with the laborers came entrepreneurs, knowing the workers would create a market for Chinese goods and services. And, of course, Chinese food.
Californians viewed the Chinese with bewilderment, but also with curiosity. Those who dared venture into the ethnic enclaves discovered an impressive culinary tradition.
While the United States had a nearly nonexistent restaurant culture, Chinese cuisine had been refined over literally thousands of years. In fact, Chinese-run restaurants were considered by 49ers to be the cream of the crop, while American competitors were recognized as dirtier, less professional, and overall poorer.
But this appreciation of Chinese immigrants and their food was short lived, as an all-too-familiar villain reared its ugly, white face: Economic Anxiety.
To unify America coast to coast, the Transcontinental Railroad was commissioned in 1862. This brought new opportunities to Chinese immigrants. The Gold Rush had dried up, and railroad companies took advantage of this dormant labor force.
The Celestials — as the Chinese were then called — were considered a cheap form of labor. They were paid less than white workers, toiled for far longer hours, and were given more dangerous assignments. White laborers couldn’t compete, and began blaming the Chinese for stealing their jobs. “Chinaman” replaced Celestial as the epithet of choice. And when hate crimes and outright violence didn’t bring results, white workers lobbied for litigation to take care of the problem for them.
It’s a song and dance as American as the jitterbug: People of color are subjected to the worst jobs imaginable, only to be punished for pricing white people out of said jobs.
The punishment in this case was the Chinese Exclusion Act, the first of many American laws aimed at blocking Chinese immigration. Legislation was also aimed at limiting careers for Chinese Americans, drawing again on white fear. The Exclusion Act lasted until World War 2, when the Allied military alliance forced its repeal. Nevertheless, other anti-Chinese laws remained in effect until 1965, when the Hart-Celler Act changed US immigration policy.
For the Exclusion-era restaurant industry, only upscale chefs and establishments were considered for merchant visas. Hence, Chinese American restaurateurs had to lay on the opulence — ornaments carved from exotic stone, fine portraits and hanging lamps, and tanks full of exotic fishes. Sound familiar?
Often-used Chinese ingredients like chicken feet and offal weren’t too popular with many wealthy American patrons. Instead, chefs began inventing an American Chinese menu. Chop suey was one such creation, a hodgepodge stir-fry from odds and ends — or “shap sui” in Cantonese.
The rebellious Americans of the Jazz Age fell in love with the dish, and chop suey houses popped up everywhere. Less authentic Chinese food proved more profitable: beloved American veggies like broccoli and bell pepper replaced traditional ones, and sweet, deep-fried items became the norm.
“…worse than food-court Chinese.”
“Words matter” is a recurring phrase Zimmern used in his public relations recovery tour. But while words matter, action and intent matter more.
Lucky Cricket isn’t even trying to save the authentic Chinese restaurant — it’s a giant, whitewashed chimera of tiki bar, Chinese takeout, and 20th century American-Orientalism. It hawks t-shirts with sloppy Chinese that would make Babel Fish proud. It features an area called the Kung Food Room. And its overpriced food underwhelms — Soleil Ho of Eater described it as “an experience that is actually worse than food-court Chinese.”
“I let myself get carried away and have too much fun as opposed to realizing that I was working,” Andrew Zimmern explained to the Washington Post. “You stop being mindful, and you say something flippant. You’re not being precise with your words.”
But Zimmern was as precise with his words as he could have been. Positioning his brand as some altruistic redeemer was, as we can see from Lucky Cricket’s reception, fraudulent. It was a disingenuous attempt to sling mud at his competition: tough Chinese Americans who were working with the hand they were dealt. Zimmern bullied them to discredit their worth, and shifted the blame on them when they didn’t even ask for the situation… just like what happened to the Chinese railroad workers.
Moreover, his phrasing to the Post suggests the problem was simply in broadcasting the statement, as if diet racism is okay as long as you keep it to yourself. But it doesn’t work that way. If you think it, you’re just as guilty as if you say it.
But I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. I believe Andrew Zimmern is genuinely sorry for what he did. Nevertheless, his distress is trivial by comparison. He says he feels bad, but I guarantee you it’s a drop in the bucket compared to how bad Chinese Americans have felt throughout history.
Context matters. The moral of this story isn’t never forgive — it’s never forget.
