The Mystery Of The Solemn Ontario Chinese Restaurant
David Segaert
mystery
1. Something that is difficult or impossible to understand or explain
solemn
1. Formal and dignified
2. Not cheerful or smiling
I lived the first half of my life in small-town Ontario and the second half in Ottawa, which for the purpose of this essay we’ll call big-city Ontario. The differences between the two are many. So many and so staggering in fact that even upon hours of critical reflection, I’ve come to the important conclusion that the one and only thing that small-town and big-city life in Ontario have in common is the comforting presence of the Ontario-style Chinese restaurant. In this vast and mostly desolate province almost no small town is without one, and the cities are straight up teaming with them. In Ontario you are more likely to have easy access to Chinese food than to a family doctor.
I use the term “Ontario-style Chinese restaurant” with some trepidation, mostly because I’ve never bothered to find out what Chinese restaurants are like in any other part of the world. But I do know this, Chinese restaurants in Ontario are really fucking interesting. I’ve just spent hours poring over old maps hoping that my broad generality of “almost no small town is without” was correct, and I was mostly vindicated when a quick Google search mostly supported this. In almost every small town with a population of at least 5000 souls you’ll find a Chinese restaurant, despite the conspicuous lack of Chinese people. I spent 22 years in Wallaceburg and Lindsay, with populations around the 15,000 mark, and both towns were fortunate enough to have been blessed with two. As a kid I remember travelling to different towns to play hockey and usually, tucked away on the main drag, was a Chinese restaurant; dimly lit with sparse patronage, a strange and shimmering needle in the monotone haystack of small-town Ontario. Sometimes there was even “Chinese writing” on the sign, and in that time and place, it was the only time you’d bear witness to a language other than English. As a kid I remember that they always filled me with wonder. A mysterious and forbidden place, an exotic temptress, a phenomena unlike anything I’d experienced.
If you think I’m being over-the-top or perhaps even a bit dramatic then you may not have grown up in small-town Ontario during the 80’s and 90’s, or more specifically you may not have grown up in my household. For one thing, the population down there was 96% white, with very little big-city experience, almost zero insight into other cultures, and a fierce lack of desire to find out. And I can tell you that in the first 22 years of my life I ate a Chinese restaurant exactly one time. Not because my family was afraid of other cultures or “exotic” food (as it was called back then), but because my family literally never ate at any restaurant. Even so, I was always fascinated by the two omnipresent Chinese restaurants in my home town; The Rice Bowl and China House. At this point you may be, but are probably not asking yourself why I was so fascinated by these restaurants at which I was never a patron, but when you live in a town that size you will literally drive past the same places almost every day. Both restaurants were on main roads, and I saw them thousands of times, and a few times even got to go into The Rice Bowl because my mom provided some financial services to the owner. A few things always struck me about these restaurants. Why were there never cars in the parking lot or anyone inside eating food? And why was the overall vibe of these restaurants so solemn and filled with mystery?
Every day on my merry march to school I walked past the China House, and sometimes I would curiously peruse the menu which was stuck to a large window with Scotch Tape. It had to have been at least two hundred pages of text with no pictures, each containing vast lists, broken into categories separated by meat type. I often wondered how I would know what to order, because most of the words were not in English, and it might take 30-40 minutes just to read through it all, let alone come to a decision. The rest of the windows were always covered with thick curtains, advertisements, brochures and calendars so you weren’t able to peek inside. The windows of The Rice Bowl were similarly obstructed but on those few occasions when I was able to go inside, there was revealed a world beyond wonder: carpet in an eating area, expensive-looking dining furniture with chairs and benches covered in luxurious deep red velour, strange smells, statuettes of golden cats, and lighting so dim that even my young mind sunk into images of strange and dirty romance.
In the college town of Lindsay, which was basically Wallaceburg infused with a bunch of horny college lads accidentally impregnating the locals, the experience was similar. Two restaurants, both on the main drag, both with no porthole to get a glimpse of what happens inside. The names didn’t exactly inspire confidence in the quality of the product. OK Chinese Food (now called OK Restaurant) and Friendly Chinese Restaurant (now shortened to Friendly Restaurant). The food is just OK? Is the owner telling us that it’s friendly to assuage any fears of evil communists lurking inside? Perhaps these are reasons why my roommates and I never bothered to try it out. Or was it because we didn’t have enough money to eat anything other than 5 Arby’s roast beef sandwiches for 5 dollars? All I know is that we never went, and neither did anyone we knew. They gave off the same vibe as the The Rice Bowl and China House. Nobody ever eats there. The prevailing theory that they were just a drug front. All nonsense of course, because they wouldn’t exist if no one ever ate there. Right?
So for 22 years the Chinese restaurant experience was always in sight but unattainable. Small-town dine-in mystery venues, existing mainly as an ever-present and underwhelming exterior, with only a faint whiff of the dingy but strangely palatial gooey centre.
From this complete lack of knowledge I then moved to Ottawa where I was thrust into the world of Chinese restaurants at full-throttle, my next 22 years filled with enough experience in Chinese dining that even the most seasoned dietician would find it disturbing. But in Ottawa they’re different. In the small towns they were always unnecessarily large and comfortingly solemn dine-in restaurants. In the big city most are nothing but a small room with an ordering counter, a couple of shitty old chairs, far too many calendars, and the familiar golden bobblehead cats. But despite the curtains opening, some mystery remains, and the solemn nature of the noble Chinese restaurant is intact despite all evidence pointing to the contrary.
Before I go any further I have to say that I’ve watched enough Dave Chang TV shows to know that there are two types of Chinese restaurants, and yes I know that Chang is Korean. One type serves actual Chinese cuisine and is patronized by a heartwarming mix of all global citizens, including Chinese folk. The other type, the type that is the most common in Ontario, is the one which serves that amazingly dirty and delicious “American-style” Chinese food, and caters mostly to white people that don’t know any better.
This second type is the one that I love dearly, and when I moved to Ottawa, burst through the impenetrable fortress and started to partake, I quickly realized that I’m a sucker for Chinese chicken balls, crispy beef, sweet and sour pork, and chop motherfuckin’ suey.
I now know that there are many fascinating aspects of the Ontario Chinese restaurant. Menu’s containing literally hundreds of options. Customer service that is sketchy at best and occasionally non-existent. Sometimes a complete refusal to clean the interior of the restaurant. Often it seems like there’s only two people in the whole place, banging out all that food while also handling the cash, answering the phone, and sometimes simultaneously watching TV. And the only innovation I’ve seen in 40 years seems to be that they mostly gave up on dine-in and shifted to the take-out game (long before Covid by the way).
I guess everything I’ve mentioned here so far contributes in some way to my love for Chinese restaurants and also piques my curiosity. It’s an experience. Who wants the sanitized corporate blah and predictably mediocre food of a Lone Star when you can go out on a limb at a place with questionable business practice and order something that you literally have no idea what it is. It always tastes great though. Even better the next day. And you absolutely will have some the next day, because unless you’re just ordering a 2-item lunch combo, you only have the one option: giant portions of one thing. If you want more than one thing you’re getting enough food for 6 people. As for the difference between all these hundreds of restaurants, I’m only one man and my research barely qualifies as thorough, but in all objectivity I can say that I can rarely taste any difference from one restaurant to the next. I swear that there is only one supplier for every Chinese restaurant in Ontario, and no matter where you go you’ll see the same menu and taste the same product. Who cares. It’s awesome.
After reading this article you may find it hard to determine whether most of the words here are positive or negative. Hell, even I do. All I know is that in my heart of hearts it’s always love, and maybe the ambiguity is part of the mystery. And perhaps the biggest mystery of all is the outrageous staying power of the Chinese restaurant. Every one that I’ve ever known has been there since forever. In an industry where 50% of new restaurants close within 1 year, and 80% close before their fifth anniversary, the Chinese restaurant does not close. Ever. Despite minimal effort put forth to ensure success. When pondering these facts I’m reminded of the Dominion Tavern in Ottawa. I lived in the Byward Market for 15 years and in that time witnessed the grand opening of countless bars and restaurants. No expense was spared. The finest interior design, the fanciest chandeliers, the daintiest glassware, the coolest owners. Many of them lasted a year or two at the most. The Dominion Tavern is still there though, clad in the same wood panelling from the basement of your youth. The cheapest décor they could find. The shittiest beer. The dirtiest washrooms. Despite all odds and the vigors of reality it’s still there, just like the Ontario Chinese restaurant. Is it the food? Or is it something else, something mythical, something that can’t be quantified, something found deep in the heart of this mysterious formula that works so well.
Nobody knows. Perhaps we’ll never know.
