photo courtesy of Archi-tessica

A jaunt through Little Italy on a brisk winter Saturday, down Mulberry Street and past all the suave Italian restaurant-hawkers, is nothing out of the ordinary for this Chinatown sweetheart. Many a time have I sailed down the street, navigating between tourists, rarely stopping to hear a wistful “Ciao, bella!” shouted at my heels. Last weekend, though, was different. A friend and I decided to make a purposeful excursion through Chinatown and Little Italy on one of Ahoy New York’s food tours. Walking tours are always a great way to get to know the city and this particular tour helped me to see my everyday surroundings in a new light. Sure, I know all about Chinatown, but I never realized how little I knew about our Italian sister just down the block.

We started the tour in the heart of Chinatown outside the New Kam Man grocery store and then made our way down Mulberry. Although this single street is all that remains of the once overcrowded Italian American neighborhood, there is still a thriving community of families who have lived in the neighborhood for generations.

The history of New York is a history of immigrants. The areas we know now as Chinatown and the Lower East Side have long been the first ports of call for “the huddled masses.” Despite gentrification, tenement buildings still dominate the landscape here. Imagine sharing a three-room apartment with 14 other people then times that by 20–tenements typically housed up to 300 people spread across 20 cramped units. Southern Italians began immigrating to the U.S. in the 1880s. They were the next wave in what had been a steady flow of Dutch, British, German, and Irish (think Gangs of New York) immigrants coming to the U.S. since the 1600s.

Ethnic enclaves have played an important role in establishing new groups of immigrants in America. The same is true of Little Italy, but one has to remember that city living (especially in The Five Points district) was no cake walk. Hot, crowded, and dirty–once residents had the means to move to the outer boroughs, they often did. As more Italians moved up into the middle class around the 1920s, many began moving their families out of the city and into the kid-friendly suburbs of New York and New Jersey. By the time Chinese immigrants began arriving in New York en masse in the 1960s and 70s, the neighborhood was ripe for the taking.

Alana, our informative guide and owner of Ahoy NY Tours & Tasting, told us some of the more lurid stories that had taken place on the street; for example, the brutal murder of mafia heavy Joe Gallo at Umberto’s Clam House. The man, who’s life had been immortalized by Jerry Orbach in the 1971 film The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight, was simply trying to enjoy a nice seafood dinner with his family on his 43rd birthday when four gangsters bust in the back door. The night ended in a pool of blood.

I loved soaking up all the history, but most of all, I loved the “tasting” part of the tour. Our guide knew the local business owners well and, for our first stop, took us to Alleva where we ate homemade mozzarella wrapped in prosciutto. This dairy shop boasts a variety of fresh cheeses, cured meats, olives, and a curious-looking round thing behind the counter–fried Italian rice balls.

Next we stopped at the famous Italian bakery Ferrara’s. I’ve had some bad experiences with cannoli in the past, that Italian dessert with a crispy cookie shell filled with sweet ricotta cheese, so I was skeptical that this time around would be any different. I was pleasantly surprised to discover just how good cannoli can taste. An FDNY officer with a thick New York accent (they don’t make those like they used to anymore) followed us from Alleva to Ferrara’s where he picked up a box of cannoli. I took it as a sign of authenticity; we were definitely in the right place. By the time the tour came to a close several hours later, my tummy was happy and my head was ready for a nice long nap. I can’t think of a better way to spend a lazy Saturday. And to think I saw it all on Mulberry Street.

1. Congee (粥; zhōu or juk in Chinese) is a type of porridge made by boiling rice in water over the course of several hours. It’s a popular breakfast dish throughout Asia and can be found in countries as diverse as Bangladesh, Cambodia, and Japan. In China, congee is often topped with salted duck eggs, minced pork, or pickled vegetables–these salty flavors complement the mild, somewhat bland taste of the rice gruel. You might also call congee the “chicken soup” of Chinese cuisine as it goes down easy when you have a sore throat or are feeling under the weather.
2. Yóutiáo (油条) is often referred to as the Chinese doughnut or cruller. This greasy strip of dough is a cross between the Mexican churro and Native American fry bread. Its name translates literally to mean “oil stick,” and once you’ve bitten into one, you’ll understand why. Youtiao is not for the faint of heart.
3. Soy milk or dòujiàng (豆浆) as it is served in Asia is a bit different from what most Americans may be used to buying at the supermarket. This beverage is served warm and unsweetened for breakfast, although you can usually ask for it to be iced or sweetened. The soy bean flavor takes some getting used to, but it’s a great alternative to dairy milk and helps to neutralize the youtiao‘s oily consistency. Just make sure the doujiang hasn’t been overcooked–there is nothing worse than burnt soy milk.

Not too long ago I enjoyed this very meal at Coluck Restaurant, nestled in the small mall that connects Elizabeth and Canal Streets. They have a number of great breakfast deals, most under $5, including other Taiwanese and Hong Kong specialties like fantuan, sweet buttered toast, and shark fin soup as well as Asian interpretations of American dishes like ham & egg ramen noodles and kimchi omelets.

I caught up with Christina Seid, who has been helping out at the store since she was 12 and now runs the business full-time, to see what her Chinatown looks like.

What does Chinatown mean to you?

Chinatown is my community. My grandparents came over in the early 1900s and my father grew up here. Our business has been open for 33 years so all of us have spent a lot of time here. I have a lot of my family history and memories here.

Describe a perfect day spent in Chinatown.

Have dim sum at Ping’s. Spend a sunny afternoon on a park bench in Columbus Park catching up with friends. Eat dinner at Peking Duck House. Drinks at Whiskey Tavern.

What is your favorite spot in the neighborhood?

My favorite street is Bayard. I walk up and down it to get to work and I wave to all my neighbors. It is such a busy street that it feels like you never have the same experience twice.

If you could sum up Chinatown in one word what would it be?

Community

What is your favorite CICF flavor?

I don’t have just one. It depends on my mood but I would say that Almond Cookie, Pandan, and Pumpkin Pie are up there. However, I often stock my own personal home freezer with Mint Chip because that is the one flavor my husband doesn’t eat so I know that it will be there!

To learn more about Christina and CICF, checkout her blog or drop by the store to say hi!

Identity is a slippery thing. There are many ways to explain who and what you are, yet words often fail to encompass the entirety of that identity in all its beauty and complexity. I am half Chinese, half Irish. The dictionary might offer up terms like: multiracial, mixed race, mutt, eurasian, amerasian, or 混血 (mixed-blood). I eschew all of them for hapa or, simply, mixed.

Hapa, like most words, has evolved over the years from its original Hawaiian meaning. If you’ve ever been to Hawaii you know that there is an obvious distinction between the locals and the tourists. Back in the day when Hawaiians were still the majority and whites the exception, hapa was most commonly used in the phrase hapa haole or half white. As more Asians have immigrated to the U.S. and become a part of American culture (especially in California where the largest population of Asian Americans resides), hapa has come to mean someone who is part Asian, part white, or more broadly, anyone of mixed heritage.

Since moving to the East Coast, though, I find I use the word less. People’s eyes tend to glaze over and a silent question mark looms, floating menacingly above their heads. Hapa? What does that mean? Though the word hasn’t reached critical mass in the American lexicon yet, there are still plenty of us out there. After all, mixed kids are the face of the future. *wink*

I recently saw Kip Fulbeck, who is one of the most vocal hapas in the public sphere, speak about his photography at the Museum of Chinese in America (MOCA). In 2001 Kip started The Hapa Project. He traveled across the country taking photographs of  more than 1200 volunteer subjects who self-identified as hapa, which, for the sake of the project, was defined as mixed ethnic heritage with partial roots in Asian or Pacific Islander ancestry. The end result was a book of stark portraits juxtaposed by each subject’s answer to the question, “What are you?”

I keep my copy of the book facing outward on my bookshelf and everyone that visits is inevitably drawn to it. Flipping through the pages you get a real sense of the vast diversity of the human species; no one person is the same, no one hapa looks alike. In some small way, this book helps me to tell people who I am.

At the end of the event Kip stressed that his definition of hapa only holds true for himself. Ultimately, it’s up to the individual to frame the conversation–to label or not label. Some days I’m Asian, some days I’m Caucasian, but most days I’m just Katie, and that’s fine by me.

photo by Guney Cuceloglu

On an ordinary weekday night I woke up at 2 am with a start and sat bolt upright in the midnight haze. The word “haze” doesn’t do justice to the sooty particles hanging in the air, the thick scent of smoke permeating the apartment. My roommate and I flung open our doors at the same moment as if we had telepathically sounded the alarm: “Do you smell smoke?”

We pulled on sweatshirts and slippers and dutifully woke up our buddhist neighbor. Did she smell the smoke? She politely dismissed our concerns while blinking sleepily in the hallway’s harsh florescent light. We hesitated over what to do next, but by then it was too late to turn back; there was no way we were going back to the haze to sleep without an “all clear” signal. The Grand Street fire only a year and a half before had taught us that lesson.

If there’s something strange

in your neighborhood,

who you gonna call?

The Chinatown Dragon Fighters, of course. We walked down the block and around the corner with a sense of mission to the Engine 9, Ladder 6 fire station and rang the doorbell. Hardly a second later a groggy fireman appeared at the door. Our story tumbled out in spurts–smoke, tenement building, Eldridge Street, fire!

My roomie and I had thought we could simply ask a fireman, singular, to check out our building. Nope. The Dragon Fighters go big or go home. *Alarm Bells Here* Firemen came running down the stairs in droves, pulling on hard hats and black flame-resistant trousers over their boxers and pjs. Four fire trucks rolled out of the station, sirens blaring, lights ablaze, filling up our short little block to capacity. A ladder from one of the trucks scaled up to the roof while several firemen ran into the building. We waited on the sidewalk, shivering in the late autumn chill. A skeptical fireman hung back by us. He shook his head and said with a surly drawl: “It’s food. You can smell it.” The neighbors stood watching from their balconies. The jury was still out.

After several minutes of anxious waiting, one of the more sanguine firemen came over to us to report the cause of all that smoke: a gambler [my word choice] on the second floor had tried to fry fish while plastered and ended up burning the hell out of it. “The man said he had been cooking, but I could tell he had been, you know… [drinking motion]. His breath stunk,” the fireman chuckled.

And just like that the Dragon Fighters packed up their gear and rolled their trucks back into the station. The night closed back in on Eldridge Street. The rats and the teenage dorks playing World of Warcraft in the 24-hour 网吧 were the only signs of life left. A hush fell over Chinatown.

Gambling Rings: 3, Foreign Devils: 0.

***

I went to work the next morning with sleep in my eyes but managed to shuffle through the day. By the time I got home that evening I was feeling a bit weary. I waited for the elevator in our foyer with the broken wall light. Stepping into the elevator I noticed a white crepe flower, its wire stem wrapped around the emergency “pull stop” button. I smiled to myself. A peace offering?

Living in Chinatown I have always had a love/hate relationship with the place. It’s dirty and crowded and stinks like fish guts. The gamblers who frequent our building look at me with surprise as if to say, “What is that white girl doing here?”

And yet, where else can I feel completely at home, like I blend in and belong with the throngs of black-haired heads? Where else can I make friends with the black buddhist monk who lives in the temple next door? Where else do I get to start the day by walking through a park where Chinese aunties practice dance aerobics and senior citizens move serenely through their tai chi regimen? Where else can I pick up a pork burger and bubble tea on my way home?

Only in Chinatown, where I fall asleep to the sound of mahjong tiles pitter-pattering like rain.

Chinatown never lets me forget who I am or where I came from. I love it all the more because, like all places we call home, I know that one day I will have to leave it behind. What happens in Chinatown, stays in Chinatown. And when you leave, you walk away only with what you can carry.

Part 1 | Part 2  | Part 3

Produce deals in Chinatown are the best to be had in all of New York City. On any day of the week, thrifty shoppers and cooks in search of the freshest ingredients can head down to Forsyth Street and find a wealth of fruits and veggies. From afar, this makeshift farmer’s market looks like a caravan of nondescript moving trucks, but once you get close, a long line of sidewalk stalls comes into view. Simply follow the vibrant hues of tomatoes and turnips, eggplants and snap peas, ginger root and winter melon that wind down the side of the Manhattan Bridge.

Sweet Deals:

• Two pineapples for $1
• A box of mangoes for $6
• Two pounds of spring onions for $1.75
• Seven lemons for $2
• Three pounds of bok choy for $1
• Four pounds of yams for $1
• Sixteen persimmons for $5

But how do these vendors stay in business with prices so low? The answer is volume. As a community, Chinatown consumes a sizable amount of fresh produce per capita each day. It’s part of the traditional Chinese lifestyle to head over to the market in the morning and buy ingredients for that night’s home-cooked meal. You often see people on the D train or walking through the neighborhood with several red plastic bags hanging from their wrists heavy with food. One thing to beware of, though, is that many vendors sell fruits and vegetables that are meant to be consumed within 1-2 days, so don’t let them sit in your kitchen for too long. For more about the lively produce business in Chinatown, checkout Lisa Chow’s report on WYNC.

Filed under: 照片, Food, Shopping ]]> http://fivespicealley.com/2011/07/29/ginger-root-winter-melon/feed/ 1 Katie IMG_3080 produce stalls line the Manhattan Bridge pineapple lemons et al greens winter melon fruit as far as the eye can see mangoes bok choy baby http://fivespicealley.com/2011/07/23/the-green-tea-party-goes-to-town-hall/ http://fivespicealley.com/2011/07/23/the-green-tea-party-goes-to-town-hall/#comments Sat, 23 Jul 2011 16:07:15 +0000 Katie http://fivespicealley.wordpress.com/?p=1067 ]]> SCENE

(Gray folding chairs have been arranged in a clumsy circle. Despite the chairs, the room is nearly empty. The white walls lie vacant except for one or two small framed photographs; in each picture a group of men looking festive in matching jackets are gathered together in several rows, a banner strewn across the bottom row that reads: Foochow Village Association No. 5. The hardwood floor has no finish and has been scuffed and scratched beyond recognition, even though the apartment is less than a year old. A group of Chinese men and women enter the room, followed by two young American girls in their twenties. The meeting, conducted almost entirely in Chinese, begins.)

MR. DENG

Hello everyone. Thank you for coming to the board meeting. We have several issues to discuss. Do you want to start?

(He motions to the young women sitting in the corner. Mr. Deng is dressed in a cheap pinstripe suit, probably made by a local knockoff tailor. A loose gold chain dangles around his wrist. He is the manager of a restaurant down on East Broadway.)

SHIRLEY

Yeah, basically we’re tired of strange people coming in and out of the building. They buzz our apartment at all hours. They leave trash in the hallway and smoke and spit in the elevator. It’s disgusting.

NEIGHBOR

I still find people smoking in there even though we have a sign in the elevator that says “No Smoking, No Spitting.” We should make the sign even bigger so that no one can miss it.

SHIRLEY

And the elevator always stinks. The old man you hired to do maintenance cleans it with a ragged mop and a bucket of dirty water.

(Mr. Deng stares back at the tenants, blinking dumbly in the silence. A short, stocky Chinese man with a $6 buzz cut and a black turtleneck stands by the window observing this piece of theatre. His face reads: smug amusement.)

MAN

Fine. We will ask tenants to have their guests take the stairs instead of the elevator if it bothers you that much.

(The other young woman scoots to the edge of her chair, eager to counter this pronouncement. She is not a native Mandarin speaker. Her words, fueled by exasperation, come tumbling out in disjointed spurts.)

KATIE

But, but…those people should not come here to begin with. They come to our building but they do not live here. They play mahjong, then they argue. Everyday I have to go to work and I need to sleep early. I don’t care if they play mahjong and gamble, but they need to close by 11 pm.

(Two lookie-loos, neither of whom live in the building or were invited to the board meeting, stand near the doorway, their faces painted with a kind of deranged glee. They hang on every word, every incensed complaint.)

LOOKIE-LOO 1

Look, the foreigner can speak Chinese!

LOOKIE-LOO 2

Hahaha!

APARTMENT OWNER

We are not operating gambling rings. Chinese people just like to get together and play games. This is just a case of someone having a few friends over for some fun, for a party.

KATIE

Every night? They have a party every night until 3 am?

MAN

How do you know they are up until 3 am every night?

KATIE

How do I know? (She is flabbergasted at this ridiculous insinuation.) I live here. Of course I know. I hear them every night!

MAN

If you don’t like them, why don’t you ask them to leave?

KATIE

If they moved out, I would be very happy. But it doesn’t work that way. How can I ask them to leave if they own the apartment?

(The man shrugs as if he was just trying to be helpful.)

SHIRLEY

Who did you say you were again? Which apartment are you here to represent?

MAN

Apartment 3B.

(3B is one of the gambling rings in question.)

SHIRLEY

Huh. So you should know exactly what we’re talking about.

(The lookie-loos gape at the scene as the two girls exchange words in English and then get up to leave. The second girl can no longer stand their unabashed gawking and makes one last parting remark.)

KATIE

What are you two looking at?

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Years ago, when I lived in Shanghai for a summer, my family came to visit me. On one humid morning we wandered through Fuxing Park in the French concession (a park that was originally built for foreigners and banned Chinese locals from entering). Despite the heat, the park was brimming with life. Elderly Chinese stood on plots between bushes and shrubs practicing tai chi, bird enthusiasts swung teak cages back and forth with colorful birds perched inside, couples waltzed and ball room danced to music pumping from a small boom box, and a group of patriotic men sang impassioned renditions of old Communist tunes, their fists raised. My family and I took in the scene with a sense of awe. It was just a bunch of old people hanging out in the park, but to us it became one of those moments that travelers sometimes have–a memory in the making–that sticks with you forever and becomes indicative of a time and place.

One of the things that makes New York’s Chinatown distinct is that many of the routines from daily life in China have been carried over and preserved thousands of miles away from the mainland. A month or so ago I found myself around the corner from Columbus Park and decided to take a quick stroll. The park was filled to capacity with elderly Chinese men and women enjoying the fresh air and some good company on a Sunday afternoon in the park. People were huddled around tables playing cards or Chinese checkers. Two motley crews of musicians–a squeaky saxophone, a rusty clarinet, several erhu players and a singer or two–clustered on benches near the entrance. Each group played songs from traditional Chinese operas, competing for a share of the park’s onlookers. The old feeling returned: a kind of wonder at having discovered something quite remarkable hidden within the everyday.

***

I complain a lot about living in Chinatown–the sidewalks are littered with wrappers and dog poop, the gamblers who come in and out of our building are rude, and the only time of year the neighborhood doesn’t reek to high heaven is in the dead of winter. Chinatown, as one of my friends has said only half-jokingly, is an Asian ghetto; a place Wendy Lee describes in her novel, Happy Family, as an “entirely different country, neither the China I knew nor the America I had envisioned.”

I complain because I can. But I also know that these things come with the territory. When you move to Chinatown you enter into an unspoken pact to put up with and tolerate things you would find unacceptable in any other neighborhood. In return you score an apartment with an awesome location, affordable rent, and a whole lot of culture. Plus, you can drink bubble tea and eat lamb burgers every night of the week if your heart so desires.

I complain about Chinatown to blow off steam. I forget, though, that my quibbling can easily be taken out of context. People might think I hate it here, or worse, that I’m racist (I have to remind people that, hey, I’m Chinese, too). The truth is, deep down inside I secretly love the place. Chinatown serves as a powerful reminder of where I have been and where I am headed. It brings my heritage and my personal experiences into sharp relief. I live every day playing the unassuming laowai–a stranger in a strange land–but in reality I am wise to all the trickster’s schemes. Chinatown, I’m on to you.

***

Two weekends ago the usual flurry of activity in Columbus Park was interrupted and brought to a violent halt. Responding to an anonymous 311 complaint, NYPD officers arrived at the park and accosted one of the usual opera bands there. They told the members that they could no longer use a microphone and that they didn’t have the necessary permit to perform in the park. An argument ensued and when one of the band organizers, Wu Yizuo, refused to comply, the tussle took a turn for the worse. A bystander caught the incident on her cell phone, but be forewarned, the video is graphic. In the end, several police officers pinned Wu to the ground, handcuffed him, and hauled him off to jail with a bleeding forehead.

Although some witnesses claim the video does not tell the whole story of what happened and significantly leaves out the actions that lead up to the arrest, that this incident occurred at all is undeniably upsetting. I should also note that local news sites have been the only outlets to cover the incident while the New York Times has remained silent. A community meeting with the 5th Precinct was scheduled for this week but has been cancelled without a reason given and no word of a rescheduled meeting.

Honestly, I’m baffled by the police department’s decision to act upon the noise complaint in the middle of a Sunday afternoon, on Mother’s Day no less. I can’t get the cops to do anything about the illegal gambling rings in my building, but apparently they have the time and energy to harass senior citizens and shut down their harmless weekend activities. To restrict the community from enjoying its few diversions and traditions is to strip Chinatown–one of New York’s most vibrant and culturally rich neighborhoods–of exactly what makes it unique.

***

This past weekend several friends and I ventured back over to Columbus Park. The park was a little quieter than usual, but I was glad to see that, for the most part, the community was out in full force. It was a perfect spring day. We made a few friends and joined in some joyful, if a bit awkward, dancing.

A neighborhood becomes more than just a place to hang your hat when individuals stop behaving like islands and, instead, as responsible members of a community. Part of belonging to a community is understanding that there are some things worth preserving above and beyond individual desires. I believe that Columbus Park is one of those things.

It began quietly. Our building is small with 10 units, two per floor spread across six floors total. Two men bought one of the third floor apartments. We know these partners only by sight: the younger of the two walks with a cane and has an ominous limp that hints at a violent past; the old man has a head full of gray-streaked waves (a perm, at his age?) and an ugly face, he’s usually smoking in the elevator in spite of the sign and likes to make a point of remembering which floor we live on.

Then a group venture bought up both units on the second floor under the auspices of a Fujianese Village Association. They claimed the space was to be a community center. They even applied for a special city permit. Legit, right?

You should know by now that nothing in Chinatown is ever legit.

***

During my senior year of college, I went to see a production of the famous Chinese playwright Stan Lai’s Secret Love in Peach Blossom Land. The play is actually two plays (within a play) that compete for rehearsal time on one stage due to a scheduling snafu. Secret Love is a tragic romance that follows two lovers in contemporary Taiwan who spend a lifetime apart, waiting with baited breath, while Peach Blossom Land is a rollicking farce set in a charmed land that claims no history or future, and where everyone and everything live together in harmony.

On the surface, these two story lines appear to have nothing in common except for the stage they must share. The two casts attempt to sabotage each other by moving props, rudely critiquing performances, and arguing about who needs the rehearsal space more. All to no avail.

But the play, as the title implies, is really about what happens when two disparate worlds collide. A lack of empathy, discord, and petty squabbling. Then something strange happens. The actors begin to finish each other’s lines. The themes merge. And everyone is left to contemplate “the burdens of memory, history, longing and love–and the power of theater itself.” Perhaps they have more in common than meets the eye.

***

If you’re not familiar with the game of mahjong, it’s often described as the Chinese equivalent of Gin Rummy only with tiles instead of cards. The game is so old it’s pre-cards. It requires four players and the first player to collect a set of 14 matched tiles wins–Mahjong!

Having played mahjong a few times myself, I can attest to its addictive nature. Each round has one winner, and so the three losers, of course, always want to continue play as soon as possible since they are bolstered by the hope of winning future rounds. You can see how this could quickly spiral into a vicious cycle. Add wagers and money on the line to that mix, and you have a recipe for one of the most heated “card games” known to man.

Every night I hear the gamblers slamming their tiles down on the table. More than once I’ve heard a loser argue hopelessly with the proprietor, sounding as if on the verge of tears or an all out mental breakdown. It’s not pretty. Then there are the nights when I or my roommate or both of us go out on the balcony at 1 am and yell down to them to, “Shut the hell up or I’ll call the police!”

“OK, OK, OK!” They call back to us with the only English word they know besides “police,” as if they’re the unruly teenagers and we’re the nagging parents.

I’ve often laid in bed listening to their mangled Chinese dialect, internally steaming with anger, hatching schemes to make them suffer the consequences of their destructive and annoying vice. Water balloons? Rotten tomatoes? A flaming bag of shit left on their doorstep?

To be continued…

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

I have always been interested in the origins of words and the stories behind them, even though such stories are often farcical, if not totally absurd. In high school, my AP History teacher Dr. Onderdonk–a name that itself merits a linguistic examination–told our class the story of the Mexican-American War. American troops marched down into Mexico by way of Texas, singing a nettlesome little diddy that went something like, “Green grows the grass…” Not only did the Mexicans know full well that the Americans were coming, but they also couldn’t stand the racket they made. And in that moment, the word gringo was born.

Whether you believe the story or not, it illustrates the fluid and ever-expanding nature of languages. The strength of the English language, in my mind, is its ability to borrow and ultimately coopt words and phrases from foreign tongues. (And thank god for Shakespeare, who single-handedly coined more than 1,700 words.)

Thug, for example, comes from the Indian word Thuggee, meaning a gang of murderers and thieves. Typhoon from the Chinese word 台风 (táifēng). Zeitgeist from the German. Déjà vu from the French.

Long time no see, despite its unusual, pidgin-like construction, is a common expression in English. The translation from the Chinese is as literal as it gets: hǎo jiǔ means “a long time,” bú can be translated as “no,” and jiàn is “to see” or “to meet a person.”

No matter what language you speak, running into an old friend or a long lost love evokes something universal: that warm fuzzy feeling inside. It’s especially nice when Jay Chou sings it to you. As for me, I should really be saying: 好久没写 (long time no write!)

Share the “Chinese loan” words you’ve come across in the comments below.