The sign in Chinese over the gate read “Xiang Yang Tun,” or Village Facing the Sun. Pretty name for a restaurant, I thought, until my colleague explained the connotation: “The sun referred to here is Chairman Mao. During the Cultural Revolution, many towns in China took his name to show their allegiance to him.” She had told me we were going to a theme restaurant, but it hit me then that this was no Planet Hollywood.
But definitely planet China, 1998: The Middle Kingdom, embracing all that is global, has added theme eateries to its ever-expanding economy. “Socialism with Chinese characteristics,” as the Communist Party dubs the nation’s boom, has birthed a new middle class queuing up to eat burgers at Hard Rock Cafes, but also to sip tea at places like Beijing’s touristy Lao She Teahouse, where artists stage ancient arias. Hong Kong’s newest attraction is the Red Star Cafe (a sort of anti-Fascist, not Fashion, Cafe), where visitors can dine under Mao Tse-tung’s grinning visage.
Movie star Jackie Chan and 40 of his closest cronies have just begun Star East, Asia’s answer to Planet Hollywood.
But another more serious, and uniquely Chinese, theme restaurant is gaining popularity on the mainland, from Beijing to Chengdu: Restaurants devoted to recalling the Cultural Revolution.
To some Chinese, the notion of eating under reminders of 10 years’ worth of suffering sounds about as appealing as picnicking at a concentration camp. Many others, however, see the restaurants as places for conquering remembrances of things past. The restaurants also act as a way of teaching the next generation of Chinese, and foreigners, about the decade of madness triggered by Mao’s declaration that the “four olds” (ideas, culture, customs and habits) be eradicated. The result was an uncultured revolution that closed schools, smashed temples, burned family heirlooms and birthed scathing interpersonal vendettas that left thousands dead, hundreds of thousands “sent down” to learn from the countryside’s peasants and an entire nation of over a billion bruised from the turmoil.
M-m-m-m, let’s eat!
The irony of stuffing one’s face in such a museum was laughed off by our group immediately upon entering Xiang Yang Tun’s gate. The bistro’s door bore a plaque reading “Su Ren Jia,” Poor Commoner’s Home. Parked in its shadow sat a shiny black Mercedes S-series.
“China past and present,” my colleague smiled. “Chirony,” I thought, struggling to put into a word the special sort of Chinese irony that isn’t very funny at all.
Inside, she led our group of middle-school students down a narrow corridor lit only by uncovered 40-watt bulbs. The walls of the hallway were thick and cold, decorated with framed propaganda paintings from the “Wen hue da ge min shi,” or Cultural Revolution. We brushed past images of lantern-jawed Chinese peasants producing bumper harvests, or gazing steely-eyed while standing beside their factory.
We were led to a private room at the end of the hall and, pushing back the curtain, entered a bunker-type room wallpapered with yellowed newsprint. The datelines read 1966, 1968, 1972 — all front pages from the People’s Daily during the maelstrom. Framed propaganda pictures of Chairman Mao hung throughout. One wall had no paper, but bore a huge peeling mural of Mao and legions of the proletariat bearing the Soviet flag.
Our group gasped in amazement, with a dose of heebie-jeebies tossed in. Xiang Yang Tun restaurant can give you the creeps. The tables are rough and hand-carved, and a raised platform with thin pillows for seats makes everyone sit in a circle to dine. The bowls, tea cups and serving dishes are all rugged and earthen brown. The paintings and newspapers are water-stained and reek of mold. The place feels like a tomb, which is the point. But it’s also a place to eat and make merry. The waitresses wear bright red-and-pink-flowered tops, and the sealed windows have gay curtains cut from the same cloth. It helps about as much as seeing a “Have a Nice Day” T-shirt at a funeral.
The attitude of the patrons helped more. One Chinese teacher, his family punished while he was a child, ran his fingers over an article. Suddenly, he burst into Chinese song. “The East is red/The sun rises/China produces Mao Tse-tung/He gives the people happiness . . . .” He sang with deep emotion, then turned to explain how everyone had to know this song back then. The students — a middle class mix of young Chinese, Americans, Koreans and Japanese — stared, transfixed.
Soon we were all reading the walls. A 1975 photograph showed an aged Mao welcoming Philippine President Ferdinand Marcos, with his well-heeled wife grinning beside the two. A 1966 editorial proclaimed, “Mao Tse-tung Live Forever!” 1968 articles showed Tiananmen Square filled with thousands of pig-tailed young girls, all waving their Little Red Books at Mao’s passing motorcade. A 1966 picture showed Premier Chou En-lai (currently being canonized for his neutrality, in this, the 100th year of his birth) smiling with Mao’s wife, Jiang Qing, later imprisoned for being a perpetrator of the Cultural Revolution.
The pieces fascinated us, and only the arrival of dish after dish pulled us back to the table. “During the Cultural Revolution,” my colleague taught us, “we never had meat, so this food is similar to what we ate then. Think of it as a reminder of how far we’ve come.” Thus began a feast of eggplant, battered lotus, pig skin, tofu, corn bread, green veggies, peanuts and, as a treat, fried scorpions.
Students grunted and moaned with the presentation of each new plate. “Oh God, why do they call this `Ants Climbing Trees’?” But one taste of the superbly prepared food kept everyone stuffing their faces until the walls beckoned them back.
David, a Chinese literature student of mine, stood on a bench to read the articles pasted on the ceiling. He found one front page, from 1969, devoted entirely to criticizing writer Lao She. Then, as now, one of China’s most famous modern writers, Lao She was an enemy of the people who should be killed because of the poison his words were to the masses, according to article after article. He died soon after. I asked David, who read Lao She in class, how he felt about seeing that. “They were crazy,” he answered.
I asked my colleague who “they” were. “Us!” she responded. “So many students now say, `Oh, I hate China, China is so dirty, Chinese people are rude.’ But I want them to understand why these things happen. A lot of bad things in China today come from the Cultural Revolution.
“That was a really bad time. All the schools were closed and we were told to just go out and take the train and wave your Little Red Book everywhere.”
We turned to study pictures on the wall of politician Lin Biao, once Mao’s second-in-command, but labeled a pan tu (traitor) and killed during the Revolution.
“I don’t like this place,” she continued. “I don’t want to remember this time; I lived during it. But it’s a good place for children to learn about China and what happened.”
It’s also a good place for foreigners to learn about Chinese history, a little weightier fare than ogling Beijing youngsters sipping beer at TGI Fridays or Chili’s. If you can’t speak or read Chinese, arrange a guide, as the staff at Xiang Yang Tun speak little to no English. Ironically, the eatery is in the university district in the northwest of the city, near Beijing University, where students-turned-Red-Guards began the destruction of the Cultural Revolution.
Yet where I saw more “chirony” in the restaurant’s location, my Chinese colleagues saw just desserts.
IF YOU GO
– GETTING THERE
Xiang Yang Sun restaurant is at 15 Wan Quan He Lu in the Haidian District of Beijing. It is open seven days a week from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. and 4 to 9 p.m.
Cash only, no credit cards. Reservation recommended three days in advance (have someone who speaks Chinese call: 10-6261-4715) to reserve a special room, which has a 10 percent service charge. No reservations or service charge for those eating in the main room. A meal for two with drinks will be about $12.
