New plan: Rather than succumb to the bitterness of being misunderstood -- and really, Wo yao yi wan ban mian. I want a bowl of noodles. Even with my lousy accent, this should be clear -- I concede that Chinese is the Uyghurs' second language and my, oh, fifth (with nothing between it and English). Instead, I now just point and feign confidence.
Slinking into the Uyghur restaurant behind my apartment, I peer at the white board by the cash register, pretend I'm reading it and point to whatever costs 10 yuan. The dish descriptions are written in Chinese characters and Uyghur script, so there's no hope of knowing what I'll get. Then I smile beguilingly and say xiexie (thank you) a lot.
Sometimes I'm very lucky! Last night, I actually did get a bowl of noodles with vegetables, and it was delicious. A few nights before, I got these opaque, flavorless Jell-o sticks in tomato sauce and a sheep kebab. The time before that, it was tofu in chili sauce with rice. Fun surprise!
I belive they may be on to me. I enter the restaurant and the waitresses smile sympathetically. By the time I've pointed and paid, there generally are a few cooks grinning from the kitchen. Behold the American dork come once again to play Dinner Roulette!
Dork I may be, but hungry I'm not.
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