Asian Salad vs. Salad in Asia

Or, “A Tale of Two Salads,” with apologies to Charles Dickens. (Yes, technically it’s two tales of one salad each, but that didn’t sound as nice.)

Salad #1:

We went out for dinner tonight to The Cheesecake Factory, a restaurant that I have been to about half a dozen times in my life. Every single time I have ordered the Chinese Chicken Salad, simply because that was what I ordered my first time there and I liked it. Also, I’ve been too lazy to read the rest of their prodigious menu. Tonight was no different, although when we were seated I vowed that next time I would try something different.

It’s pretty much the same green salad with chicken and mandarin oranges that you can get in any number of chain or even fast food restaurants. Sure, sometimes the ingredients vary a little depending on the place — cilantro, bean sprouts, red cabbage, sliced almonds, scallions, peanut sauce, and crispy tortilla strips (!) have all made appearances in variations I’ve tried at different restaurants. The Cheesecake Factory’s version comes piled high with puffed cellophane noodles. But they all have something in common: a leafy green base that, to my knowledge, probably isn’t very Chinese, Asian, Oriental (grrr), or whatever ethnic adjective that the menu claims it is.

But I usually order them anyway, even though I feel oddly uncomfortable doing so. Maybe it’s because I suspect that these salads are about as authentically Asian as white actors in yellowface. Or maybe I’m afraid of perpetuating some kind of stereotype about Asian people preferring “Asian”-ish salads over non-Asian salads. But I generally do like them over non-Asian salads, so does that make me a walking stereotype?

I hope not. I hope I’m just someone who likes little oranges in her salad.

Salad #2:

A few years ago I went on a business trip to Japan, and a group of female Japanese employees took me out to lunch. They asked me where I wanted to go, and I responded that wherever they liked best was fine with me. I was ready for donkatsu, teriyaki, soba, udon, or any of the other Japanese delicacies that I had heard of, if not tried. I was even steeling myself for something more, ah, unusual — not any specific dish per se, just something that my imagination was having fun concocting for me.

Instead, they took me for my first ever visit to a Sizzler.

Once seated, the most senior person in the office decided that we would all get the salad bar. At first I had been disappointed at the American-ness of our lunch destination* — I wanted culture, dammit! Authenticity! But since I was feeling pretty nervous on this trip already, I decided that the salad bar was the reassuringly familiar anchor that I needed. I quickly fell into making the same salad that I usually make at salad bars – leafy greens, sliced cucumbers, shredded carrots, sweet red peppers, and crispy chow mein noodles. But when we returned to our seats, it was clear that I had constructed an “American” salad. Everyone else had some kind of version of what looked like a three-bean salad in front of them, with nary a torn piece of iceberg lettuce to be seen aside from my plateful.

In a way it was funny, because I had been wondering if anyone would think that I was Japanese. I figured that as long as no one heard me say anything, a woman with Asian features out to lunch with six or seven Japanese women wouldn’t seem out of the ordinary. As it turned out, you only needed to look at our plates to spot the impostor.

*I am actually very touched that they wanted to take me somewhere that would be, uh, familiar to me.