Geng Ping was having a Hollywood moment. Everyone in China, at least everyone she knew, had heard of "The Godfather," the classic Hollywood tale of the American dream gone sour. And now this daughter of a Beijing policeman was standing on a hill overlooking Francis Ford Coppola's Napa Valley home, sampling a bottle of Niebaum-Coppola wine that cost more than most Chinese earn in a day.
Of course, she didn't really like wine, but that's another story.
For an ambitious young chef from a working-class Beijing neighborhood, it was a food fantasy beyond her wildest dreams: a tour of famous Napa Valley wineries, lessons from some of America's finest chefs, dinners at bistros featured in Gourmet magazine and, now, her own brush with fame.
FOR THE RECORD
Los Angeles Times Thursday February 21, 2002 Home Edition Main News Part A Page 2 A2 Desk 1 inches; 29 words Type of Material: Correction
Cheesecake Factory location--The Cheesecake Factory restaurant chain is based in Calabasas. An article in the Feb. 17 Los Angeles Times Magazine gave the wrong location for its corporate headquarters.
For the Record
Los Angeles Times Sunday March 10, 2002 Home Edition Los Angeles Times Magazine Page 4 Times Magazine Desk 1 inches; 27 words Type of Material: Correction
The Cheesecake Factory restaurant chain is based in Calabasas. An article in the Feb. 17 issue, "Geng Ping's Excellent Adventure," gave the wrong location for the corporate headquarters.
Some might call it fate. Others would chalk it up to cosmic forces. But Geng had no patience for whys. In the here and now, two different forces were converging: the aspirations of American agricultural interests angling for a bigger share of the China market, and the best intentions of idealistic chefs eager to move an image of American cuisine beyond fast food. Like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole, this 28-year-old found herself on a culinary adventure that would alter her life--though not in the way her benefactors intended.
Geng Ping was born in 1973, at the tail end of communism's darkest years. by the time she was in elementary school, the Cultural Revolution was history and China's leaders were tentatively opening their doors to the once-taboo forces of capitalism. While the land of Mao suits and communes gave way to Gucci boutiques and McDonald's golden arches, Geng pursued the simple pleasures of childhood: playing with her elder sister in their West Beijing neighborhood, swimming at the local pool. She was 16 on June 4, 1989, when Tiananmen Square became a bloody battleground in the struggle between pro-democracy supporters and the government, an event that sent U.S.-China relations into the deep freeze. Asked about that time, Geng grows quiet, then politely asks to change the subject. At first glance, Geng and her friends don't appear that different from young people in Tokyo or New York. They watch Hollywood blockbusters on DVDs, hang out at neon-filled shopping malls and sip Starbucks coffee. But in some areas of life, particularly politics, the government still casts a forbidding shadow. The message is clear: Respect tradition and tread incautiously at your own risk.
Geng, for example, had discovered that her options as the second daughter of a working-class couple were limited. She loved Chinese classical literature and poetry and fantasized about becoming a teacher. But middle school graduation was followed by a fork in the path: She could either attend high school, which would allow her to go on to college if she passed the competitive exams, or vocational school. Her parents urged her to embrace the practical. Why not police work?
Leafing through a book of vocational programs, Geng came across culinary training for the hotel industry. The opportunity to work in a place populated with foreigners sounded intriguing, although kitchens made the slender young woman uneasy. ("Women cooks in China are usually fat," she observed.) She settled on a program that trains chefs for the "cold kitchen," where she could surround herself with fruits and vegetables.
After graduation, Geng, who goes by Cindy (she got the name from the movie "Cinderella"), landed jobs at several Beijing hotels and spent 10 months on a cruise ship in northern Europe. In 1997, she joined the Hong Kong-based Shangri-La chain, which was building a 562-room hotel in Dalian, a bustling Chinese port across the water from North Korea. There she coordinated the produce orders and oversaw the preparation of the hotel's salad buffet, fruit baskets and other cold foods. Competition was fierce for foreign business travelers and Japanese tour groups, making cost-cutting a top priority.
Dalian offered few diversions for a young single woman. Indeed, other staff grew tired of the remote location and returned to Beijing. But Geng persevered, becoming the highest-ranking woman in the kitchen. Her salary rose to 7,000 yuan ($846) a month, nearly 10 times the national average, and she was assigned a private room in the staff apartment building.
But the pressure and dawn-to-dusk workdays exacted a price, transforming her into a more solemn, quieter person. On her one day off, Geng had little energy to do anything but sleep or read. Or eat. Occasionally she and her friends would splurge on the only American food they knew: McDonald's, Kentucky Fried Chicken and Pizza Hut. At least she could savor the pleasures of junk food.
In the meantime, 5,700 miles and cultural light years away, a small group of American chefs were conspiring to transform China's image of American cuisine. For those swept up in their good intentions and noble ambitions, life would never be the same.
