Guest Post: An excerpt from Kate Hendricks' journal in Shangahai

The following guest post was written by my communications friend, Kate Hendricks. We both did master of communications programs (MPC) in Perth and Sydney, respectfully. Kate is currently living in Shanghai with her husband, teaching English and sampling delicious foreign treats. The description of Shanghainese pastries, hot pots and dumplings in her last e-mail made my mouth water.

Below, Kate describes an experience eating lunch in a Shanghainese school cafeteria. I admire her fluid, elegant prose:

Let me tell you about my lunch on Friday. Imagine yourself in a queue with all the other teachers from your school, approaching the glass-enclosed cafeteria counter (which looks 100 per cent more sanitary than the counter where you signed in at the hospital with your earache, thankfully(!?)). The staff hand out tin tray after tin tray, just like the ones they use to serve meals in a prison cafeteria, each one exactly alike with a measured scoop of that, that, that and this.

You get to the front of the line, here comes your tray through the window. But wait! You're a white person; you must be hungrier than every single other teacher in the room! “More rice?” they gesture silently at you? You decline without blushing and take your tray. Side-stepping the oncoming teachers, who haven't bothered to pause when you paused, you collect your standard-issue tin bowl of soup and a spoon (you've always been relieved that they don't use chopsticks at school).

Weaving through narrow aisles, balancing tray, spoon and soup, (and a pocket pack of tissues squeezed in your armpit – there are no napkins here!), you sit at a table with two Chinese teachers. Pleasant greetings are exchanged, but they are certain that this is time for eating, not chatting.

Feeling hopeful, as you're hungry and lunch is generally tasty, you survey your tray. In the first rectangular compartment is something unusual – it's green, it's overwhelmingly salty, it's rubbery, it's cold, it's tied into knots, and it looks deceivingly like green pasta. Don't eat it! It's the worst seaweed ever. Alongside that is something hiding in dark brown sauce; the sauce is sweet and not too bad, but what are the chunks? First, you taste meat. OK, it's pork (always pork), but wait...umm, it's fatty, very fatty, and is that the skin? Right, it's marinated pork rinds or something equally delicious. Fine, well never mind that.

Hmm. You look to the small circular compartment, which is usually empty, and there is a special treat today. Everyone around you is pleased with this treat. What is it? Well, no one knows the English word, so let's use your powers of observation. Each one is the size of a dollar coin, slightly oblong, definitely wrinkly and maybe it was once purple, but don't worry because now it's a much more safe shade of brown. There are three of them, hmm, it must be...three prunes! We all need our lunch time prune fix, certainly. You decline to pop the whole thing in your mouth, despite the example set by those pit-spitting people around you, and carefully wheedle your spoon through the flesh to taste a small bit. Thank goodness for that! Any more and you might have gagged. It's sickly sweet, and yet why does it taste nothing like prune and instead taste almost exactly like smoke?? You will not know the answer; there is no suitable English word known to explain. "Smoked?", "Barbecued?", "Roasted?", "Cooked over fire?" and "Injected with nitrates?" bring only blank stares.

But, do not dismay, there, in the last rectangular compartment is your rice–lovely and white, untainted by MSG or skin or smoke. Seeing it, familiar and fluffy, you might be tempted to think forlornly about the extra scoop you were offered. Instead fix your attention firmly on the soup. It appears today's concoction is more than the usual colourless, salty broth. Could it be a tomato-based soup? Yes, and it's got cabbage and onion. Sip. This is not bad, seriously, not bad at all. Why, when you put the half-cup of rice together with the cup of soup it's a whole meal really. I mean, when you think about it there's nothing to complain about, nothing at all.