How to embarass yourself in an Asian cafeteria

Thai is such a great language to be angry in. You might think that Russian is the language to pick if you’re gonna tell your boss to get her own damn coffee, but let me tell you, say it in Thai and you’ll never have to get coffee for her again.

So after a good fight, through which both of you manage to smile wider and wider, the best thing to do is round up a selection of your closest coworkers and stroll down to the local university cafeteria for a round of very polite complaining. You might as well bring along the strangely-dressed white lady who showed up in your department a week ago and doesn’t seem to want to go away.

This was the situation today as the smiles got bigger and bigger here in the (Unnamed Governmental Ministry) technology department (population: 7 secretaries, 15 personnel, 3 computers). The University is just next door and before I knew it we were walking through swarms of delicate, mayfly-like school girls giggling behind their hands and pulling at my odd light-colored hair.

To arrive at the cafeteria is like stepping into a vast flock of penguins. Everywhere- every bench, leaning against every wall, clustered on the floor, is the black and white linen of the student uniforms, carpeting an area the size of a football field. One wall is solid food stalls, a more permanent version of the street food carts outside. But woe to the enthusiastic- first you wait in like at a little window and buy 50 Baht worth of coupons (about $1.10).

‘Noodle or Rice!’ My guide demands.
‘You suggest!’ I say, pointing to his chest. He seems to think deeply, and then decides, ‘Ueeehhh…..you should have noodle or rice!’

I stand in front of the rice stall and he feeds me words that I have no possibility of ever pronouncing correctly. The woman behind the counter nodds encouragingly every time I say one, even tho she’s already completed my order. She holds my plate hostage until I’ve parroted and blushed my way through each inflection and tonality to my guide’s satisfaction. A small bowl of yellow liquid and a plate of, yes, chicken and rice, is mine, along with two small dishes that hint at chilies. At the lower table, he carefully dips a spoon and fork into the pot of boiling water before placing them on my tray.

Seated at the long benches is most of the department, self-righteous at each other over their noodles and fried fish. Each coffee, bottle of water, and can of soda has a thin straw carefully poking out. Except mine, I forgot. One girl cries, ‘Where you straw? She jumps up to ferry me one from all the way at the other side of the cavernous room. Thinking fast, I say, ‘Um, no, I do not like straws.’ Soon they’ve added ‘Crazy Americans’ to their list of gripes.

The mood mellows as the rice disappears. I’m even using my fork and spoon correctly (fork herds rice into spoon in right hand) At one point, the girl across from me starts to giggle. She points at my plate and nudges the person next to her. She explains that apparently the soup was meant to be eaten with the chicken. ‘For, to…” she pauses and strokes her throat theatrically and points down.

With a more buoyant tone in the air, we return to the office building. I ask my now-jovial guide, ‘So what were they arguing about?’

‘Ahh, is…” He makes nebulous hand-motions in the air. “Is budget.”