The BuffetLine! Sounds Of The Satuday Chinese Buffet! And Other Stuff!

Work on the Random Access Thought has throttled down considerably in the last year or so but not for lack of interest. Our executive director George W2XBS has a current work schedule that varies quite dramatically from week to week and now includes extensive weekend work. This, along with the usual family responsibilities, plus a renewed personal interest in health and fitness, has effectively pushed This Week In Amateur Radio to the back burner with only the occasional program update. This is a substantial sea change from the weekly news shows that were once the hallmark of this highly regarded on-the-air and over-the-Internet audio news service.

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Since there is now a certain amount of additional free time to do audio on this end, yours truly has produced some speciality sound for friends who do their own satellite radio and Internet broadcast programs. In addition, I have spent some of that discretionary time restoring vintage audio for a fellow Facebooker who is quite the sound effects enthusiast.
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In a previous entry to this blog, it was noted that I had retired my cheap forty nine dollar RadioShack audio cassette recorder, otherwise known as the C49DRSACR, which was replaced with the expensive two hundred and fifty dollar Olympus PCM recorder, from this point to be known as the E250DOPCMR (that is if I can remember this remarkably clumsy acronym).
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This recorder I take everywhere now, catching recordings of all sorts of things including some of the goings on at a weekly Saturday Chinese buffet get together of local amateur radio operators here in the Capital District. I have started generating a short two or three minute podcast called "The BuffetLine" which I post at http://twaud.io/users/N2FNH on a weekly basis. Basically, we try to determine just what it is we are eating in these joints. But do see my previous entries entitled "VACATION!" and "VACATION?" for my...theories.
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Just how long I can keep this kind of a audio thread going remains to be seen but it is fun to reel in these these sound balloons along with the once in a while photo depictions which I post on Facebook.

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VACATION?

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PROLOGUE: There's a cramped four shoulder-wide little Chinese take-out slot in a wall down at the decaying strip plaza right on the corner here in the village at which I've been stopping by at least once a week ever since I relocated back in 2006. This Chinese take-out is the standard fare that serves the standard fare with the thick, greasy, gooey, artery-choking, junk Chinese food that just about everyone loves to inhale. And true to stereotype, the Boss Lady and her motley minions, including her electronic cash register-wielding ten-year old son, could only manage the slightest grasp of our ever-so-slowly-but-most- assuredly fading English language.
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So difficult was it to exchange typical menu selections by word of mouth, that a mountain of brightly colored menus printed on cheesy, just-a-bit-more-than-toilet paper stock was stacked high on the counter with a worn-to-the-nub Number 2 standing sentinel, impaled in a close proximity plastic tub of invalid rice. In an effort to make each visit as easy and efficient as possible, I would always request the same three food items: two pork egg roll:one quart sweet and sour chicken:one quart won ton soup. This never flagging consistency in menu selection soon jelled into the YOOZHU...the usual.
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In time, this never flagging consistency in menu selection would no longer require any sort of spoken word at all. The scene opens: I walk in. I spy her. She regards me. She questions with but a single nod. I affirm with the same. Observant patrons intercept the Q & A but appear mystified. So focused and so closed circuit the signal. The same signal that also bound me to the same take-out order time and time again. The YOOZHU.
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Picture a fiery, frenetic far eastern woman, say in her late thirties, not unattractive, stiff black hair, severely restrained in a tight bullwhip ponytail. Tiny, but not an oompaloompa. A whirling, swirling Asian Ricochet Rabbita, built like a petite brick shit house, barking out food orders to the minions in her hometown dialect, which was all Greek to me. Her ten-year son, at various assignments: answering the phones, manning the cash register, doing his homework at one of the few tables, at ease, an addict, doing time, in the dim blue flicker of his Nintendo DS Lite.
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Many cooks and ancillary grunt personnel would appear and then disappear with disturbing regularity. This winter, an college-age dark-haired, fair-skinned, white guy enlisted part time, answering the phone and making the deliveries. He spoke the house language like a homie but seemed to regard his employer with just a little less than disregard.
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But always, the Boss Lady, her son and her husband, or maybe he was just the boy's father. They were always there.
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This has changed.
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ITEM No.1: Four weeks ago, I arrive at the take-out on a bland Tuesday afternoon, only to find that the Boss Lady, her son and her husband, or maybe he was just the boy's father, were not there. Who was there was a young studious looking Asian girl, just barely in her twenties, wearing politically incorrect-to-mention Coke bottles. Demur she was, but she spoke the King's English quite well. Her presence and the Boss Lady's absence allowed me to opt out from the YOOZHU so I got an H2 instead, which is a big aluminum deep dish of pork fried rice with a boatload of those blood-red colored meat strips that look like carvings of car seat vinyl piled on top. I thought ask where the the Boss Lady might be, but jepped the query instead.
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ITEM No.2: Two weeks ago, I arrived at the take-out on a bland Friday afternoon only to find the same as before. No Boss Lady, no son, no husband, or maybe just the boy's father. Who was there was the same young studious looking Asian girl. Being a creature of some habit, I got another H2. I thought again to ask where the Boss Lady and the family might be and this time, I did it. "Where's the boss?"
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The young studious looking Asian girl, now startled, nervously adjusted her Coke bottles and groped for the Engrish words that might frame an answer. She then sputtered: "She went to the place!" "Vacation?" I intoned with a arched Spockian eyebrow. At the word "Vacation", a Scooby Doo double take. Then, as if under threat of US Government sanctioned water boarding: "No! No! She went to the other place!" The inquisition was over. It was all too clear. She was truly rattled. I have found that "Vacation" in the ubiquitous Chinese buffet carries with it an unspoken, onerous meaning. I wanted to know what this "other place" was but I had already pushed my luck. I left the Chinese take-out with my H2 concealed in an unmarked brown paper bag.
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ITEM No.3: This past Monday, another typical bland afternoon, I couldn't resist. But things had changed again. At the counter, another young Asian girl, also just barely in her twenties. But she was not studious looking, did not wear the Coke bottles. Could barely utter more than a few words in the local lingo of the land. Curiously, she looked a lot like the Boss Lady, maybe a younger sister, maybe a younger cousin. More delicate and China doll-like. Prettier. Less hardened, less muscular and less sweaty. Her minimum pronouncements would provide no answers. But as I left the Chinese take-out with my new YOOZHU, my H2, concealed in an unmarked brown paper bag, the young college-age, dark-haired, fair-skinned white guy was on his way in. "WHERE'S THE BOSS?" I shouted. "MANHATTAN! PERMANENTLY, I THINK!
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EPILOGUE: Here are the focal points.

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Much like the larger Chinese buffet, employees at Chinese take-outs at strip malls and down on the corner appear and then disappear with disturbing regularity.
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The English word "Vacation" spoken within the environs of a Chinese buffet bears a remarkably significant meaning and tone that is not synonymous with "deportation". This appeared to be further verified during my recent stop-bys at the local Chinese take-out.
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The reference to "the place" and "the other place" seems to match the delivery guy's reference to New York City but mere mention of it also appeared to evoke an intense, far-less-than-positive response from the currently installed prettier, less hardened, less muscular and less sweaty counter girl. Thus, "the other place" just may be the final cattle car off ramp to...Vacation.
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And...Vacation...is another story.
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VACATION!

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PROLOGUE: Just about every Saturday noontime, a bunch of us hams convene at one of any number of local all-you-can-eat Chinese buffets. The usual bunch of bananas includes Tony W2BEJ, Mike KB2VQS, Tim WA2QAC, along with a cast of thousands who routinely rotate their way through a laundry list of weekend Asian dining experiences, with just one of these digitally preselected via e-mail the night before. Here in New York's Capital District, there are many such establishments running in plate-to-plate competition with the more meat-and-potatoes kind of national chains like The Golden Corral and The Olde Country Buffet so there there is certainly enough room to chow down for everyone. A virtual landfill of standard Chinese feasting fare awaits the drooling, dribbling, delighted, double-chinned patron as he or she painfully squeezes through these portals to the orient, festooned with happy, big belly Buddhas and endlessly waving, mechanized Lucky Cats. Lo Mein! Chow Mein! Chop Suey! General Tsaos! Sweet and Sour Anything! Wonton! Egg Drop! And Fortune Cookies! You name it! It's all there!
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ITEM NO.1: Not so long ago, I had an enjoyable QSO over the local 79 repeater with Pat N2HUB (now N2WWW) where the focus was on Chinese buffet food. Pat had taken the time to peruse Google in search of recipes for all the usual dishes but could find precious little detail, either in terms of content or in terms of the cost in preparing the food in such volume for that matter. To be sure, speculation ran high that evening on the most likely core elements going into such common offerings as General Tsaos. And to be sure, the cliched ingredients soon bubbled to the surface: canine, feline, you know, that kind of stuff. It did occur to me that seagulls might be a practical component, since they are prolific in these parts and can be found shopping daily at all the better Chinese buffet garbage dumpsters. AND! There is never a shortage of foodstuffs. A Chinese Buffet never runs out of anything!
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ITEM NO.2: Not so long ago, I performed a late afternoon pig out with Tom N2SQO at one of the more popular China houses in Colonie. We certainly ate all we could eat and then took our conversational banter and Tom's fetid cigarettes out to the parking lot where we made a remarkable observation. A large, unmarked moving van had arrived and was backed up to the restaurant kitchen door. The big meaty stevedores were unloading several single size mattresses, about forty in all, and dragging them in through the kitchen. I expressed amazement at the scene. But then, as Tom arched back and exhaled a blueish-grey-green toxic cloud of vaporized cancerous particulate matter, he calmly advised that this may not be so unusual since he had it on good account that employees at another all-you-can-eat joint in Latham actually slept in the restaurant kitchen and on the dining room floors after hours. So the new mattresses might just be an extra-added luxury for this particular collective of workers.
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ITEM NO.3: Here in the Tri-Cities of upstate New York, just about every Chinese buffet has been systematically raided by the Immigration and Naturalization Service at least once, and usually many more times than just at least once. If you find yourself to be a regular patron to one of these places, it can be quite disarming to arrive, only to find the doors locked with an INS search, seizure and deportation notice attached. Then, two, maybe three weeks later, the same facility is once again open for business just as it was before. Everything inside looks just the same. The same motif. The same tables. The same paintings, The same Far East Muzak. Everything the same. Everything the same, except that all the personnel have been completely replaced. Likewise, such INS raids have also swept through private residences where single family homes have been found to harbor as many as forty illegal aliens at a time.
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Other full scale personnel sweeps may occur, apparently without Uncle Sam's intervention. It has been observed that on several occasions, with the exception of maybe the hostess, all the familiar grunt labor faces are now all unfamiliar grunt labor faces. All apparently swapped over at the same time. Does this staff change carry any significant meaning? Who is to know for sure?
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ITEM NO.4: Some Chinese buffets may offer an interesting dining diversion, sometimes referred to as "The Mongolian" or simply "The Stir Fry", where raw materials, such as meat, vegetables, bamboo shoots, mushrooms and sometimes non-Kosher aquatic foul, is harvested into a bright white porcelain bowl and then summarily flung onto a huge cylindrical gas-driven, heated flattop metal platter. The stir-fry guy then wields his two mighty, three-foot long, heavily charred, scorched and smoked wooden stilettos and splays the ingredients back and forth across the steaming, smoking Teriyaki-stained platter, occasionally dumping in water, usually from a badly discolored stainless steel teapot. At some predetermined moment, he then swipes the contents into a fresh clean bright white porcelain bowl for you to nosh on back at your seat.
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At one such eatery near Schenectady, there was a young Asian stir-fry guy, quite westernized, who spoke the English with a flair all his own. Very likable, he was the kind of fella you would always want to stuff a dollar tip into the always-present plastic one-gallon tip jar. A nice guy. And then one Saturday, the nice guy was gone. I queried the requisite always gorgeous and always mysterious very young hostess as to where the young man was. "Vacation" came the response. A few weeks later: still gone. Same answer: "Vacation". More weeks later: still gone. Same answer: "Vacation". The likable westernized Asian stir-fry guy was never coming back. We would never see him again. It occurred to me that "vacation" must have meant "deportation". But then again, deportation in these places is almost always a mass eviction, unusual for just one to be pulled and sent packing. But perhaps the westernized Asian dude just decided to return to his homeland. Who is know for sure?
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ITEM NO.5: It is absolutely amazing how many varieties of Chinese buffet food are prepared using chicken and chicken by-products and also how absolutely amazing that almost none of it really looks or tastes like chicken. Take the time to examine the Bang Bang Chicken. Chunky lumps of meat analog oozing in some sort of thick, murky, yellow-brown goo. But not meat. More like cartilage. Like the plastic stuff in your body that shapes your kneecap or your elbow.
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ITEM NO.6: There's another Tom in this area, KB2NAV, a big fan of conspiracy theories. When talking with Tom, you can never be sure if he is simply relating what he was researched. Either a really good actor, or a true believer. Who is to know for sure? Anyway, one of his ongoing scenarios is that untold numbers of mainland Chinese have emigrated to the United States, legally maybe, but most likely, legally not, and said to have constructed thousands of miles of underground tunnels beneath our cities, the idea being that when World War III begins, the insurgent ground forces are already here, ready to seize and secure our blessed country. True? Who is to know for sure? So in the meantime, starting digging to see for yourself. But if it were true, and if nothing else, an enormous head of human livestock would be corralled just six to twenty feet down, depending on the constraints of local underground infrastructure.
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ITEM NO.7: Not so long ago, upon entering one of our popular Chinese hangouts, the requisite always gorgeous and always mysterious very young hostess beamed oh-so-brightly when my son Zachary and I coursed through the door. "It has been a while since last I see you! Where have you been?". Without thinking, I responded: "Vacation!" A look of primal terror flashed across her exquisite China doll cheeks as she slapped her tiny hands against her bright crimson flushed face: "VACATION!?!" At that moment, I knew. I knew that "vacation" was not "deportation".
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EPILOGUE: Here are the focal points.
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There is never a shortage of food to be found in a Chinese buffet.
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A broccoli is a broccoli. A noodle is a noodle, A pineapple is a pineapple. The meats we consume appear to be analog. The Chicken is another story. The beef is another story's sequel.
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Untold numbers of foreigners enter this country illegally and may be sequestered deep within the physical confines of businesses such as these restaurants, factories or even private residences.
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Conspiracy theory holds that untold numbers of aliens lurk just below the concrete, corralled within a vast labyrinth of tunnels and human mole holes beneath our cities waiting.
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Employees in such restaurants appear and then disappear with disturbing regularity.
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The English word "vacation" spoken within the environs of a Chinese buffet bears a remarkably significant meaning and tone that is not synonymous with "deportation".
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These focal points form the basis of a question.
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What is the answer to this question?

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