Shopping for our third annual 4th of July cookout here in the lane, we decided that we needed a cleaver to whack apart the ribs. We found a glass caseful in Metro, a huge German box store that would remind Americans of Costco (and boy has it changed since our first days here when frogs jumped out of a pool begging us to liberate them from the food section — freaked me out so much I didn’t go back for four years).
Anyhow, the cleaver. German, Chinese, what have you, in quite a range of prices.
“We’ll take that one,” I said in Chinese, indicating to the clerk to unlock the case.
“I need your hu jiao,” she replied.
“I get so frustrated with this language!” I said to my husband. “All the syllables sound the same. It sounded like she just asked me for my passport!”
And then she pointed to the sign.
Huh? So that if there is a stabbing somewhere during Expo, the police can check the records and see which foreigner recently bought a cleaver and track down the murderer? Admittedly, there have been some awful stabbings lately in China, widely reported. But aren’t there cleavers in every household? Back when I took a Chinese cooking class, the chef showed me how to whack ginger into cubes with a cleaver and then slice –no more careful peeling with a paring knife.
Anyhow, all ended well. Although I didn’t have my passport with me, in the back of my wallet I found a crumpled photocopy. Got the cleaver and the ribs were scrumptious.
Still, what’s with the hassles to give us a false sense of security here? Last week, at the entrance to Expo, security made a friend of mine apply the lipstick she was carrying in her purse — lest it be what, cyanide coated? Concealing a dangerous weapon? C’mon — lipstick? It’s starting to feel like some other countries I know.