Wherein Carrie drinks the Iron Tigers of Yongzhou Communism under the table.

Jesse:  Having been told to call our Foreign Affairs assistant Miss Liang at three to help us move into the apartment (finally) and once again having called Peter to order lunch for his two pale, illiterate and mute children we sat down at the hotel restaurant. The noodle dish had just hit the table when Peter called us back. He had just finished a meeting with the Principal of our School and the Party bigwigs for Yongzhou and they wanted to have us out for lunch. Carrie ran to change and I, at my most surly considering our laundry and living situation, refused to. In an amazingly short (China time) period of time, Peter arrived in some sleek, black and official looking car. We where whisked of to a riverside restaurant and ushered into a private dining room. In case we forgot to mention, every meal with more than 4 people takes place in a private room. I think it's that so only the waitresses see the mess the diners make of things. Just about every meat dish is on the bone and the Chinese style of dining involves picking up the chunk of bone, popping it into your mouth and slurping/grinding all the meat and fat off it. The next three minutes are spent spitting out chunks of bone directly on to the table cloth. It was such an experience at a different meal that triggered a flashback to highschool biology and the stark realization that I had just eaten frog. I suspect there is some grim contest at each meal to see who can make the goriest pile of bones. (For my gamer friends reading this, "Blood for the blood god, skulls for the throne of skulls.")

So it was into the halfway point of the bone pile contest that Carrie and I joined the meal. As usual we delighted stunned onlookers with our infantile Chinese and quickly found ourselves locked into a fierce battle with the demon named Bijou (Bye-joe). Bijou is the chinese white "wine" that constitues a fire hazard at every Chinese banquet. I swear the stuff, which is served in tiny shot glasses, tastes like a combination of industrial cleaner and plum. But after your third or fourth (which is usually about 5 minutes into the meal) it starts to become almost pleasent. The other diners at this meal were pretty much the elite core of Yongzhou's Party leadership. Peter made a quick round of introductions to the Party grand poobah, the Party bigwig, and the Party high potentate (they all have actual titles but I am at a loss to remember them, chalk that one up to the bijou). The point is we were dining with some very important people.

Not long into the meal, the Number one guy there, whom Peter explained is the equivalent of a U.S. Senator, wanted to drink a toast of an enitre 30 oz. bottle of Tsingtao beer with me. I had made the mistake of eating and so was in a tight spot. Etiquette demanded that I drink and my protestations of "Wo chi bao le" (I am very full) fell on deaf ears. So the race was on. Halfway through we both began to take breaks and I was forced to concentrate on making sure I emitted only belches and not a rich melange of bijou, pijou, tea, water, and hot peppers. I watched in dismay as the Party leader killed his bottle while I was left with an inch of warm backwash staring me in the face. After a few moments of groaning burps i was able to finish the bottle and I sat down hard.

Round two: Shortly after the number two guy wanted to drink a toast with Carrie. Peter explained that to show his respect for ladies, the number two guy  would take a head start. So a quarter of the way into the beer he made a slight bow and Carrie hoisted her bottle up and began to chug. As the amount of liquid dissappearing from Carrie's bottle began to outpace the number two guy's, I leaned over to her, with an apropriate Star Wars quote on my lips and said, "Change of strategy, let the Wookie win." Peter seemed to get the gist of what I was saying and told me in his rich baritone, "Nevermind, it does not matter." Thinking that chanting, "U.S.A, U.S.A." might be a unfriendly, I leaned back to Carrie and rapidly said, "Take him down!" With a flourish Carrie killed her bottle and following the custom, tipped her bottle over to show that it was empty. To use a sports cliche, "The crowd went wild." With a sheepish grin the party leader finished his bottle, revoked our residence permit, ordered us to attend a "struggle rally," and assigned us to a re-education camp in Northern Hubei province. Okay, only the first part of that is true, he was very gracious.

Not long afterwards Peter asked me how much Carrie could drink. I looked around nervously, unwilling to harm my lovely wife (and champion drinker's) reputation. Peter said, "Nevermind, they can not understand," so I told him. In traditional Chinese culture the face is kept a mask, inscrutability is the byword, so when I say he looked surprised as I said, "Oh about ten beers in a night," he really looked surprised.

Not long after another bottle of beer toast was suggested, Peter asked me if I would rather drink or have Carrie do it. Without looking up from the bowl of rice I was desperately inhaling in a futile attempt at curving my buzz I hoisted my thumb in Carrie's general direction. The Chinese thought this was hillarious and Carrie again outdrank a lunch guest. Soon after the meal was over and pleasantly buzzed we returned to the hotel to pack for moving into our apartment.

Coming soon, " The Move: or 'I Hate China' "