Remember that song “Dim Sum Girl”? It had a catchy chorus with stupid (amusing) lyrics and maybe a music video I also enjoyed because I was young and impressionable. No? I mean, me neither.
I knew a dim sum girl once; I think of her fondly. Let’s call her Ruth. Ruth was young, unlike the other ladles at Tin’s Teahouse, and she clearly was at the bottom of the ranks. She didn’t have the aggressive nature to push big ticket items marked extra-large like roast pork or Peking duck buns. She didn’t even have it easy with beginner’s dim sum such as shumai or har gow, no siree Bob. Ruth was forced to walk up to tables at lunch rush holding a tray of unwanted items. A tray! No self-respecting dim sum pusher would be caught dead without a cart and here she was, trying to make a sale with what looked like a 4th grader’s cafeteria hot lunch when it was mystery meat Tuesday. Exactly what dishes was she hocking you ask? I don’t know, I told you they were unwanted and also I can’t remember. It was a long time ago.
Anyway, weekend after weekend, Ruth would walk up to our table, offering her sad dishes and every time, we would reject her. It was a dance we knew by heart:
“Oh no, Ruth is walking our way,” I’d whisper to Jon. I’d look up at her, our eyes would meet, then we’d reciprocate smiles as I simultaneously shake my head no to which she would return with a nod yes that said, “I understand. My items are trash.” as she walked away to the next rejection. Poor thing.
Personally, I find a strange joy in saying no to the dim sum peddlers. A salesperson with that much aggression in any other environment would render me useless but in the dim sum world, I learned early on that you are expected to say no. If you don’t, you are weak.
“No, I don’t want sticky rice today. Stop waving it in my face!” I exclaimed.
“Oh wait. Come back, was that cilantro and shrimp? Yeah I want that one. Yes, two please. Thanks.”
But not to Ruth. I felt something for her. Something deep inside my bones. I just wanted to give her a win. But she needed to give me what I wanted. I’m not going to give her 3 dollars and 50 cents for nothing. Those dim sum check marks really add up.
Then one day. It happened. She was walking around with the turnip cake.
Why the turnip cake wasn’t with the usual pan fried cart, I have no idea. Maybe the restaurant finally wanted to see her succeed. Maybe the usual person who sells them was out sick. Maybe she picked up the wrong tray or was sick of being the loser and threatened one of the other ladies, “your good tray or your life” because no one would believe “meek little Ruth” has it in her to resort to violence. The point is, when she came around this time, I was ready for her.