Oh, General Tsao, you’re a bloodthirsty foe, but your chicken is delectable
There is a Chinese place near my office where I occasionally get lunch. The woman who runs it might think she’s speaking English, but I know I do, and I can’t understand a single word she says. I always phone in my order ahead of time; the call goes something like this:
“Herro, xianging fa mao su mushu da?
“One order of General Tsao’s Chicken please, to go”
“Shouwen zixi bushou ma”
“Uh, OK, thank you.”
Whatever we are saying to each other, it seems to work: fifteen minutes later my lunch is always waiting for me there.
