Behind the Façade: Dining and Discrimination in the Old Days

 

 

 

Allow me to indulge in a little rambling from my twilight years. It was some forty years ago, on an otherwise ordinary day at school, when I was abruptly asked, “Anna, why did you go upstairs?”

 

It was in late 1980’s, and at the time, my family had been relocated to London due to my father’s job, and I was attending an international school. The weekend prior, we had ventured to London’s Chinatown for a much-anticipated dinner. The memory still lingers—savouring stir-fried greens, steaming noodle soups, fried rice, and tapioca in coconut milk. Bliss.

 

On the way to the restaurant, I’d run into a classmate and their friends quite by chance. Later, I learned that they had trailed us, curious about where Japanese families dined. Apparently, the sight of us entering a Chinese restaurant had intrigued them enough to follow us inside.

 

The restaurant, like many in those days, operated on a system of subtle (or not so subtle) racial distinctions. White diners were guided to the spacious, window-lit tables on the ground floor, while Asian patrons were swiftly dispatched upstairs, to a cramped, windowless compartment. “Upstairs!” barked the staff, as though directing stray sheep. And so, we obediently climbed the narrow, steep staircase, dining in a space that felt less like a restaurant and more like a utility closet.

 

Unbeknownst to us, my classmate and their friends had been seated downstairs. Seeing my family being ushered upstairs, they later asked, “What’s so special about upstairs?” I explained, with a sardonic laugh, that it wasn’t about luxury—it was about optics. Diners who appeared to be local, white Brits were seated downstairs, giving passers-by the impression that the restaurant was bustling with a loyal clientele. Asians like us? Out of sight, out of mind.

 

“It’s practically apartheid,” I remarked, to which they retorted, “Why on earth would you go along with that?”

 

The answer was depressingly simple. Back then, in the 1980s, most Asian restaurants wouldn’t accept Japanese customers. Many of the wartime generation were still alive, and for some, seeing former enemies in their restaurants was simply intolerable. I recall one painful episode when we were politely but firmly turned away after being overheard speaking Japanese. The manager, deeply apologetic, explained that our presence might upset other patrons. We left, humiliated.

 

So, when we found a restaurant—however discriminatory—that would serve us, we clung to it like a lifeline. Among the Japanese community in London, there was a well-worn system of information exchange: which Chinese restaurants would grudgingly take us in? Over time, it boiled down to two reliable establishments.

 

Discrimination wasn’t limited to Chinese eateries, mind you. Italian trattorias, French bistros, and even local British restaurants had their own unspoken hierarchies. More often than not, we were ushered to the dingiest corner, typically near the kitchen, safely hidden from view. It wasn’t until you walked into a place and were treated like any other guest that you realised how rare such moments were. Those places quickly became favourites.

 

Even acquaintances married to locals faced challenges. I heard stories of restaurant reservations being mysteriously “lost” the moment a Japanese guest turned up. Some couples were outright refused entry. The discomfort was pervasive, an undercurrent of suspicion that tainted even the simplest outing.

 

Fast forward to today, and what a change! Reading blogs by current Japanese expatriates in London fills me with joy. Chinatown now boasts menus in Japanese, staff who speak the language, and a warm welcome for Japanese patrons. No more furtive glances, no more climbing upstairs to disappear into the shadows.

 

The food, I hear, is as delectable as ever. London’s Chinatown remains a culinary treasure trove, and the thought of dining there without a care in the world fills me with delight. The power of good food to bring people together and dissolve barriers cannot be overstated.

 

One day, perhaps, I’ll return. Before I shuffle off this mortal coil, I’d like nothing more than to wander those bustling streets, indulge in a feast of my beloved Chinese cuisine, and revel in the newfound openness that makes it all the sweeter.