From Hush Puppies to Chicken Without Sexual Life

With the upcoming Beijing Summer Games (auspiciously beginning on 8-8-08), China's hot to trot out preparations for its upcoming world party. Not only has the Forbidden City undergone extensive renovations, but now Chinese menus are getting a facelift.

Being the grammar Nazi that I am, I find menu typos more often than not, on menus of every cuisine type. Some unintentional meanings are enough to dash an appetite before you're through with the complimentary noodles and duck sauce. (One of my all-time favorite stomach churners: "Vaggie Tacos." Double whammy!)

But on Chinese menus, many of the translations are actually pretty darn close to what the dish is actually called in its homeland. Even though the translation may ring awkwardly to our Western ears, to the Chinese, dishes such as "Husband and Wife's Lung Slice" sound downright tasty. (The dish isn't a cannibal combination item, but rather a spiced-up version of beef and ox tripe. Hmm, still doesn't sound very appetizing to this vegetarian.)

Some dishes already on American menus have previously gone through the Sino-cleansing process. The ever-popular mapo tofu is still known in its motherland as "tofu made by a pock-marked woman," a name derived from the legend surrounding the dish's creation.

Wishing to avoid as much ridicule as possible, the Chinese government has issued a guide for restaurateurs on how to translate their dishes. Gone is "Chicken Without Sexual Life," and in its place arrives "Steamed Pullet," which is every bit as delicious but isn't as likely to arouse much colorful table talk.

As much as we may poke fun of misspelled menus and even traditional names, you've gotta admit that our national cuisine has some doozies of its own. Never mind the pedestrian hot dog -- which has nary an ounce of canine in it, if you're lucky -- or the unappealing visuals conjured up by the word "scrapple."

Hush puppies also lack Fido bits, but neither do they contain meat, of nebulous origin or otherwise. While the fried food's exact roots are dubious, most stories point to the round balls of dough being used to shush watchdogs. Only one half of the term "head cheese," is accurate -- the other is more euphemism for those with queasy stomachs. And Spam, that much lauded meat byproduct that has spawned numerous spoofs and pop-culture references, may have taken its name by combining the words "SPiced hAM," although as many other origins have been cited as have been the actual ingredients in the gelatinous meat. (For information on the correlation between Spam -- or as the good folks at Hormel prefer we write it, SPAM -- and cannibalism, read more. Ah, that Theroux.)

Escape From "Civilization" (San Juan Islands, Day 1)

I needed this getaway. Hell, I needed any getaway, but I was overly fortunate that the San Juans fell nicely into my itinerary, due to a business trip in Seattle. I'd had the islands on my travel to-do list for four years, so I didn't even mind waking at the butt-crack of dawn to catch a seaplane (my first) to Friday Harbor.
I'd fantasized about what this island chain would be like, but I was way off. It wasn't the romantically gloomy, fog-enshrouded archipelago my imagination had cobbled up, but the remote world I discovered was just as refreshing, and in some ways even more singular. Where else can you find a community so safe that residents don't even own keys to their homes? What other destination boasts a national park whose sole purpose is whale watching? Such peculiarities seem downright normal the moment you set foot on any one of the isles.

My trip began with a moped rental from Susie's, which brought back memories of my dearly departed Kymco scooter (I'd curse the bastards who stole it, but that would be against the islands' nature) as I tooled around the inner portion of San Juan, the most populated of the islands and the only one with an incorporated village (Friday Harbor). The darkly wooded interior I'd imagined was soon replaced with golden rolling fields reminiscent of Northern Europe, complete with neatly rolled bales of hay wafting warm scents in the afternoon sun. At the start of my jaunt, I was joined by a dragonfly of iridescent blue, who criss-crossed my moped's path in a game of chicken, as if mocking my measly 50cc horsepower. Before the buzz of his wings had even been swallowed by the breeze, a bald eagle soared mere yards over my helmet, and I swear his golden eye was checking me out. Then, as if on cue, a small private aircraft swooped down to land on the airstrip of the farm I was passing.

Down to Cattle Point Lighthouse I puttered, snapping photos of hay rolls, quaint farm steads, and the overly fragrant False Bay, where the deep salt scent lured me though the flies seemed to flee in swarms. At the park's visitors' center, I did as Susie suggested and asked the ranger about the eaglet that had recently been spotted. Sure enough, in the branches outside the building was a nest, stocked with one brown-feathered baby whom the rangers, an elderly couple who delighted in sharing their information of the park, had named "Lucky." I shared their binoculars with the other visitors of the moment, all of us taking turns to watch Lucky hop about the branches outside her aerie.

After strolling the rocky shores of Fourth of July and South beaches, I returned to the road and headed inland for Pelindaba Lavender Farms, which I smelled before even spotting the undulating fields of purple. I would have visited longer, but I had to return my scooter to Susie by 6PM or it would turn into a pumpkin, and I had yet to hit the main attraction: Lime Kiln Park, the aforementioned orca-viewing grounds. Alas, no orcas that day, although the view of my second lighthouse in less than three hours and the sparkling Haro Strait were sights unto themselves. A glance at my cellphone told me that I had less than an hour to make it clear across the island and, knowing my vehicle's aversion to inclines steeper than an anthill and not knowing just how far "clear across the island" actually was, I hightailed it back down Bailer Hill Road, with far fewer photo pitstops than on the way out. When I returned my two-wheeled steed to Susie, she was surprised that I was so early, and when I glanced at my cellphone again, I saw that I was a full hour ahead. Ah, those tricky cell towers! My phone had been picking up Canadian service on the west side of the island, and Canucks don't observe daylight savings.

The cellular mishap was actually a blessing in disguise, because I now had time for a catnap before my dinner at Duck Soup Inn, whose locally grown produce made my meal a standout, especially after the overpriced, overhyped dinner I'd had in Seattle the night before. I would have asked chef/owner Gretchen for the recipe for her simple but elegantly presented twice-baked corn souffle, but I know I would only have mangled it, so it's for the best.

When I finally put my head to the pillow, I was as far away from my life in Los Angeles as I could have dreamed.

Day 1: Escape From "Civilization"
Day 2: Water, Water Everywhere
Day 3: Farewell, Friday Harbor