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September 16, 2015

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Home » Opinion » Chinese Views

Closure of a wonton shop over lack of license leaves bitter taste in public’s mouth

By Ni Tao | September 16, 2015, Wednesday | Print Edition

RESTAURANTS come and go. In a metropolis like Shanghai, it’s not hard to imagine dozens — if not hundreds — of restaurants opening up or shutting down each and every day.

But rarely does the fate of a single eatery cause such an uproar as did the recent closure of Menghuajie Wonton.

A small family business, the wonton shop was run from a cramped and dilapidated two-story house in a run-down area of Huangpu District. With only 24 square-meters of floor space, the house is shared by four people and has doubled as a restaurant for two decades.

Prior to its closure the eatery’s owners, three sisters, had wanted to renovate the house, which was poorly lit and had neither a toilet or a bath. Their dream came true when a local TV program specializing in revamping old homes accepted their plea for help. After the facelift, the house, with a completely refurbished modern look, stands out amid a neighborhood of ugly row houses.

Hordes of new customers flocked to the eatery, generating more income for the siblings. Yet better business turned out to be a curse in disguise.

Within days of reopening, the eatery received phone calls from local authorities demanding its closure, citing complaints from neighbors that a steady flow of noisy customers had become a source of annoyance.

Another key reason cited for the closure is that the shop had been operating without proper official paperwork from commercial and food safety watchdogs. Naturally, the owners cried foul, since over the past 20 years, these same watchdogs had turned a blind eye to their operation, while their neighbors, many of whom run unlicensed restaurants themselves, didn’t utter a word of protest.

So while the noise and crowds were ostensibly the cause of these complaints, jealousy was perhaps what actually motivated the neighbors to report the wonton shop. According to the siblings, many years ago they applied for a license, but officials rejected their request without specifying why. But since some of the nearby eateries don’t have a license themselves, the authorities’ decision to single out the wonton shop appears to be unfair selective enforcement.

The sisters could lodge complaints against their informants in reprisal, but such conduct in a close-knit community can quickly lead to ostracism.

Authorities will gain respect if they facilitate the wonton service and enable it to make up for proper official papers. According to reports, the sisters were laid off in the wave of closures which hit loss-making state-owned factories in the early 1990s. The wonton shop is now their primary source of income.

And throughout the two decades since its inception, no official action was ever taken against the eatery for food poisoning or poor hygiene. Otherwise, it would have been shuttered long ago.

Loss of local flavor

Despite growing popular concerns about food safety, many within the public have rallied behind the shop and its owners.

Many pitched ideas on how to sidestep official restrictions. Some suggested the sisters sell their dumplings uncooked or as takeaway so as to reduce disturbance to their neighbors.

Some may find it odd that the fate of a small, unlicensed restaurant should have provoked such an outpouring of sympathy. But for native Shanghainese, the reasons are straightforward.

What happened to the eatery is a reflection of urbanization’s encroachment on local culture, especially food culture.

In the eyes of modern urbanites who expect and demand rules and order, a lack of proper licensing and food safety credentials is grounds for being shut down. But Menghuajie Wonton has survived the changes of time and taste better than many trendy, high-end restaurants.

A bowl of wontons, cooked with firewood in the traditional manner — known in the local dialect as chaipan wontons — has as much appeal to the gastronomist as an exquisite meal served in a Michelin-rated restaurant.

As a repository of our collective memory, snacks such as fried sliced dough, deep-fried rice cakes and chaipan wontons can always inspire strong nostalgia for the food culture of old Shanghai. This explains why many feel strongly about the fate of an obscure eatery.

In light of the general public mood, as well as the plight of the eatery’s owners, I hope the authorities will show some mercy and help them obtain the paperwork necessary to survive.

Chinese Views


 

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