We thought it all started with the melamine milk scare in '08. Ahh, '08: the Olympics were upon us, foreigners were subject to random inspections in order to prove their visa legitimacy, and China's athletes were the best so you definitely could chuck out the rest. Glory days. Perhaps not if you were an infant. So when the beans... er, milk was was spilled, the world became acquainted with Chinese food safety regulations.
Those of us in this sometimes Twilight Zone alternate reality bubble we call Shanghai had enough suspicion to not look too entirely shocked by the revelation.
You see, this wasn't the start of a string of events, but more like just another of a long line of befores and afters. The life of Chinaland runs in a dual parallel – the one you see on the news and the other, more interesting one, that bubbles under the surface. Sometimes that hidden subterranean one pokes its head up and it's either beautiful or ugly, depending on the why, who, when and where of it all.
We kind of had our doubts that the regulations weren't as A for Awesome as they (now say that in a hushed tone as you sneak a look both left and right) would have liked us to believe. The fake eggs with no nutritional value kinda, sorta gave it away. Nice with a bit of fake bread and tea in the morning but that's besides the point.
A good number of us who might have frequented the odd Shanghainese bar have experienced the lax regulations through the consumption of fake alcohol. At one time or another our vodka or whiskey had more in common with lighter fluid than anything the labels suggested. A drink or two later and you feel like you've drained the contents of a bottle of turpentine and tomorrow's brunch is a no go.
Now you pretty much can't peruse a copy of that journalistic bible Shanghai Daily without coming across a new scandal involving someone substituting food with poison. I mean, it's an easy mistake to make, one I've often done myself. Every time I'm short on flour when making scones I tend to throw in a handful of fertiliser as a substitute.
One day tainted milk was all the rage and then the next it was replaced by diseased pig bacon; pork sold as beef after soaked in a detergent additive to alter its white colouring to something mooier; arsenic-laced soy sauce, of which I'm still unsure if it's gluten free or not; colouring added to old steam buns to make them look new, like a tired house with a fresh lick of paint I suppose; The classic glow in the dark pork – perfect for dining in the dark; and everyone's favourite, good old gutter oil (where substandard cooking oil illegally collected from gutters or sewerage drains is then sold to restaurants) which is probably not a lesson in recycling we all should emulate.
These all took their turns at becoming the new black of food scandal fashion.
Blame it on the rising cost of living and the need to cut corners in order to make money, perhaps even be a matter of survival for the perpetrator and the victim alike. It's no surprise then of the fondness of octagons here – as it's really just a square without corners.
But really, it all just reeks of supervillainy plotting at its finest. Tainting the city's food supply? Holy poisoned macaroni Batman.
Don't know about you but I suppose an alarm bell should have rang somewhere when a guy named Doctor Evil was brought on board at the Department of Quality Control. Sure, there might have been a bit of a cyanide issue at his last place of employment but his references were a-okay. And besides, he's a funny guy.
It's a filter down kind of deal where the ones who yet again pay the dearest price are the poorer members of society; the ones who have less to spend and less choice. The lives of the masses are still cheap here but that becomes a more difficult game to play as the mass become just that little bit more middle-class. However, now it's getting to the point that you feel no one is really safe – perhaps just different degrees of unsafe.
Now we pack our shopping in a trolley of paranoia as with any supplier potentially at fault, you're not really clear. Japanese or European typefaces on products might help. Might. The increasing concern of the ex-pat bubble world is to locate that holy grail of a safe food source. There are claims boasting of organic this and that, and in actuality nobody really knows. The bloke down the street thinks he knows someone who knows, but he's lying. Truth be told, if there's a buck to be made even formaldehyde would be considered organic here.
My meagre intake of street food has become meagre-er, as well as my local shopping experience. Although I still might pop in for the odd intense stare from a pyjama-clad shopper as I can't deny myself all of life's little pleasures. Of course by buying more expensive products I might just be paying more for the privilege of eating death food. Well, we are all equal after all under our big red flag but I'm lucky enough to have a choice and shop online.
It's become a bit of a challenge: you know, of the 'what doesn't kill me makes me stronger, or glow in the dark' variety. Or perhaps more like a game of pork roulette – where I must see if I can select the non-cancerous porky part when faced with the choices at the supermarket. Yeah, the type of local market where you can poke and prod the piggy pieces, pick it up and while waving it around, discuss its overall potential with the butcher. Oh, and all while cradling a smouldering cigarette in the corner of your mouth.
This would seem rather unappetising but unfortunately, when stacked against some of the other alternatives this might be a tastier option.
