Introduction

This week I'm staying near San Francisco's Chinatown. I woke up with a craving for 叉燒包, so I headed to the closest Chinese bakery.

Translation

叉燒包 has pinyin chā shāo bāo. On menus, I often see it romanized “char siu bao.” However, most often I see it translated as “BBQ pork bun.”

I don't like the name “BBQ pork bun.” I like 叉燒, and I don't really like American barbeque. 叉燒 has a sweet flavor (from honey) and red color (red fermented bean curd, red food coloring) though, so for the benefit of people not familiar, e.g. non-Asian customers, “BBQ pork bun” provides an efficient approximation.

Language

I myself can't really claim language expertise. Growing up, I went to Chinese school on school-year Saturdays. Yet I can barely read or write, and my pronunciation embarrasses me.

At Chinese restaurants and bakeries, I often resort to ordering in Chin-glish, throwing in more proper pronunciation for Chinese terms. I somewhat justify the Chinese pronunciation helps the staff understand the order more quickly. Though I often feel like I'm showing off to myself, and to the other person, a sort of proof of inclusion.

I speculate the Chin-glish does afford me some benefit. A few weeks ago, I went to a Chinese restaurant with non-Chinese-speaking friends. To our pleasant surprise, I ordered in Chinese, and we got some free soup. Today at the bakery, I didn't have enough cash on-hand, and the kind baker took what cash I did have and told me to come again.

Conclusion

The 叉燒包 I grew up with had deep red meat, sweet and savory, wrapped in soft, fluffy bread, golden and brown. A red dot¹ adorned the top-center to distinguish the filling. The one I got today, steamed rather than baked, lacked the redness of memory, though I enjoyed it just the same.