“She dresses up like that to go out for noodles?”
—an off-screen character in In the Mood for Love

As we passed all of the extravagant wallpaper designs, including an art deco print of cheetahs, a not so subtle homage to the dim sum lounge’s name, the host grandly gestured to the booth and chair-table hybrid. Before seating myself into the booth, I took off my thrifted lavender faux fur jacket to reveal a high-collared gold-sequined blouse. My yellow headband did not match. Both the host and the server lavished me with praise for my blouse. Rather than use you, the server said, “she looks good!” I, the subject turned object, politely thanked them. As I sat, a nearby table of two eyed me. One of the guests quickly turned their attention away from me and gave their companion a Look. They rolled their eyes before returning their attention to me, the only Asian diner.

Throughout the expensive meal, the two people kept staring over at our table. They stared as we ate our Sichuan cucumbers. They stared as I ate my mahjong tofu. They stared as I ate my mushroom and truffle dumplings.

They finally left once my partner’s fried rice came out.

I, in turn, looked at the other diners, curious to know if they’ve seen any of Wong Kar-wai’s films. Or if they saw beyond the color in In the Mood for Love.

Just two days earlier, I had released a podcast episode featuring
the poet Chen Chen. We landed on the topic of Wong Kar-wai films. 
Chen ruminated on the conventionally shallow tendency to merely look 
at the aesthetics of his films rather than on his sociopolitical storytelling. 
He cited Happy Together as one of the least discussed films in 
Wong’s body of work.

It’s true. People cite In the Mood for Love, Chungking Express,
and maybe Fallen Angels. They focus on cheongsams, beehives, 
staircases, and expired pineapples.

The word “mood” in In the Mood for Love must be confusing to many. 
The mood is one that is critically stoic, afraid of political change. 
This mood is cleverly obscured by the outfit wearers, who are the foils 
to the interior ruins. Only the clothes and hairstyles look impeccable. 

But perhaps the white proprietors of the restaurant clung onto the 
extreme decadence. Or perhaps they confused the downtrodden 
In the Mood for Love with the destructive spectacle that is 2046. 
Rarely is that companion film cited, if only for the android named 
Wang Jing-wen played by Faye Wong.

But people like to focus on romanticized nostalgia. They like to refer 
to the past. Not to the present future. Many are too afraid of a future
of radical possibilities. 

Only the food and wallpaper seemed somewhat influenced by the film. The assortment of paintings and photographs resembled Western art and people.

I tell my partner, if the owners wanted a literal homage to the food in In the Mood for Love, they would have either created a diner that sells steaks and potatoes. Maybe they’d have ketchup or a jar of spicy mustard. Not dim sum and fancy cocktails and champagne.

There’s a scene when Mrs. Chan tells Mr. Chow to order for her. She doesn’t know what his wife likes, she said. Later, he places some mustard on her plate when she’s eating her steak. Like it spicy? he asks.

They are playing the roles of their cheating spouses. This isn’t a film about romance. It’s a film about regret. The characters are doomed in their self-imposed nostalgia.

Or, I continue, the restaurant should only serve noodles.

Mrs. Chan goes out for noodles often.

I headed toward the restrooms. The proprietors appeared unable 
to make one cohesive decision on wallpaper choice. I counted at least 
three different styles. I eyed the vibrant botanical flowers 
on a black background, lost in admiration and critique. I nearly 
bumped into someone exiting from one of the four doors. 

They enthusiastically admired my blouse. Before I could say 
a thank you, they then rhetorically followed-up with “isn’t the food great?”

“Yes, great,” I echoed.

It was just okay. I’ve learned that people, particularly white people, 
dislike honesty from people like me.

I sipped my cup of jasmine tea. The host had pushed a tea cart to our table. She asked if we wanted to smell it. We declined the opportunity, confused by the question. We had already ordered.

My dumplings did not arrive by cart.

That night, the only kind of music that played was hip hop.

I thought I heard Onra’s music.

My partner listened, a difficult feat because the music and loud, drunk patrons overpowered each other.

It’s J Dilla, he corrected.

A decade before, he had given me copies of Onra’s Chinoiseries series. Onra was trying to reclaim a cultural heritage and did so through music. He had layered hip hop beats reminiscent of J Dilla with some old Asian records. Some were from Vietnamese music. Most were from Chinese performers.

If Onra wrote essays about cultural diaspora, I think they’d be well-received. More so than mine. Many readers love consuming these narratives that are built to insist on one’s alienation from a particular community. There’s a macro story of an imagined nostalgia and a yearning for desire, though apolitical. And there’s a micro story of a cultural object being objectified into a braided, convoluted thought experiment on films, music, and food. These are safe narratives, nearly universalized for appreciation. These narratives become instructional, a self-assurance that one can belong. The creators gather culture-specific artifacts to piece together a story of overcoming their own self-imposed unbelonging.

In my life and in my writing about my life, these artifacts are nearly banal things. Films, music, and food. I grew up with them. I appreciated them. I recognize some aspects of the stories or characters.

Others become consumed by them. They then are consumed as the legible other.

It’s a cruel creative cycle.

For Chen Chen, Happy Together is an underappreciated film. For me, it’s 
Ashes of Time, barely a footnote in Wong’s filmography. I think of it 
as the single film that has taught me how to write. Ashes of Time 
can only be appreciated and understood by those who know 
its genealogy and how popular Jin Yong’s martial arts stories 
are for many of us in Asia. 

I thought of Ashes of Time as I left the dim sum lounge. Leslie Cheung plays 
Ouyang Feng who may be the villain but who, like Mr. Chow and Mrs. Chan, 
is a victim of regret. At the end of the film, he narrates, 
“I do not care what others think about me. 
I just don’t want them to be happier than me.”

Everyone seemed so happy in the restaurant. Whiteness extracts and exploits 
for the consumption of more whiteness.

The diners were happy. I was not. 

Chen once gave me a postcard. Imprinted on it was a quote attributed to Natalie Diaz and Christian Campbell.

“Trust your anger. It is a demand for love.”

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Anna Nguyen had been a displaced PhD student for many years, in many different programs and departments at many different universities in many different countries. She decided to rewrite her dissertation in the form of creative non-fiction as an MFA student at Stonecoast at the University of Southern Maine, which blends her theoretical training in literary analysis, science and technology studies, and social theory to reflect on institutions, language, expertise, the role of citations, and food. She also hosts a podcast, Critical Literary Consumption, which features authors, poets, and scholars discussing their written work and their thoughts on reading and writing practices. Find her @anannadroid on Twitter and Instagram.