Panel Recap丨Immigration, Colonialism, and Naming Behind Overseas Chinese Cuisine

Li: Got it. Let’s outline the timeline of overseas Chinese cuisine development. In your 2019 article, The Self-Identity of Overseas Chinese Cuisine, you divided the evolution into three distinct phases:

1. First Phase (Mid-16th Century to Pre-Opium War): This reflects the dietary habits of overseas Chinese, particularly in the regions surrounding the South China Sea.
2. Second Phase (Post-1842 Opium War to 1949): A period of transformation in overseas Chinese cuisine.
3. Third Phase (Post-20th Century to Present): A stage of self-identity building in overseas Chinese communities.

For the first phase, spanning from the mid-Ming Dynasty to the pre-Opium War period, one term often associated with this era is Nyonya Cuisine. You describe how Chinese migrants brought their sense of culinary superiority to the regions around the South China Sea, teaching local populations to cook Chinese food. Can you explain what Nyonya Cuisine is, its flavors, and its ingredients?

 

Cao: Nyonya Cuisine. The phases I outlined aren’t strictly chronological; I prefer to categorize them by their intended audience. The first phase, pre-Opium War, is characterized by dishes “made for Chinese people to eat.”

During this time, Chinese migrants—typically merchants or envoys—held high social status. They weren’t laborers, so they didn’t cook for others but instead had food prepared for them. This reflected a master-servant dynamic: “I’ll teach you how to cook Chinese food because I want to eat Chinese food.”

At this stage, Chinese cuisine was shaped by the Chinese Empire’s inherent colonial tendencies. For instance, figures like Liang Qichao wrote about the colonial ambitions of the Chinese Empire in works like The Chronicles of Chinese Colonization. As a northern empire, China had a natural colonial inclination, akin to other temperate-zone empires. Early Chinese migrants utilized local ingredients like pepper and cardamom, adapting them into Chinese culinary traditions, but the dishes were still meant for Chinese consumption.

After the Opium War, the dynamic shifted. The once-colonial Chinese found themselves in a subordinate position, transitioning from masters to servants. This marked the beginning of a period where Chinese cooks started making dishes “for foreigners to eat.”

Chinese laborers working overseas had to cater to foreign tastes to earn a living. Dishes like Li Hongzhang Chop Suey emerged during this time, tailored entirely to Western palates. The aesthetics and flavor profiles of Chinese cuisine were adjusted to appeal to Western tastes because they were the paying customers.

 

Li: And the third phase?

 

Cao: The third phase began after the 1960s and represents a new chapter: the “establishment of self-identity.”

Overseas Chinese communities began creating a distinct cultural identity for themselves. Previously, their identity was tied closely to China, but severed ties with the mainland from 1949 to 1978 forced them to adapt. They had limited or no contact with their ancestral lands, aside from some connections to Taiwan—which often felt disconnected since many overseas Chinese were from Guangdong or Fujian, not Taiwan.

This separation necessitated the creation of a new identity. For instance, in the U.S., American Chinese cuisine developed its own traditions, such as the fortune cookie, which is now a symbol of Chinese dining in America. Similarly, the takeout box with a pagoda printed on it has become a cultural icon.

When people criticize American Chinese food as “inauthentic,” its defenders respond, “This is authentic Chinese cuisine for us.” And they’re not wrong. Mainland Chinese cuisine has undergone its own revolutions and transformations, so no one has the authority to claim absolute authenticity.

 

Lin: So, the concept of “authenticity” is overly simplistic.

 

Li: It’s a false proposition.

 

Cao: Exactly. Living on this land doesn’t grant you absolute authority over what defines Chinese culture. The concept of “China” itself is constantly evolving.

Everyone, both overseas and in China, is reconstructing cultural traditions from the remnants of the past. Whether it’s rebuilding a pagoda from the rubble of the Porcelain Tower of Nanjing or creating fortune cookies, it’s all part of the same continuum of reimagining Chinese identity. There’s no absolute authenticity—just different interpretations of the same heritage.

 

The Transformation of Chinese Cuisine and the Evolution of Symbols

Li: When drafting the outline, I had a question about dishes like General Tso’s Chicken and Orange Chicken, which are quintessential examples of overseas Chinese cuisine. Their defining flavor element is sweetness—General Tso’s Chicken, for instance, is sweet and spicy. I’m curious, when did sweetness become an integral part of Chinese cuisine? I know sugar was introduced to China from India during the Tang Dynasty, when Chinese envoys brought back the technique for refining brown sugar. Later, by the Ming Dynasty, sugar production became more refined.

 

Cao: In the Ming Dynasty, Quanzhou’s refined sugar, known as “Quanzhou Sugar,” was particularly famous.

 

Li: Right, and sugar production techniques were developed early.

 

Cao: Ji Xianlin wrote extensively about this in his book on the history of sugar. He explains it in detail, especially the prominence of Quanzhou sugar during the Tang Dynasty. By the Song Dynasty, it had become an export commodity, even shipped back to India.

 

Li: It seems that the techniques for producing refined brown sugar and white sugar were highly advanced in Quanzhou. Indian producers even learned these methods. Could the combination of sweetness and spiciness have become popular overseas as a way to cater to locals who couldn’t handle overly spicy flavors?

 

Cao: That’s a possibility. It’s worth noting that spiciness itself wasn’t a prominent element in traditional Chinese cuisine. The widespread use of chili peppers is a post-1950s phenomenon. Before that, Chinese cuisine wasn’t particularly spicy. For instance, I once discussed this with Zhuang Zhuyi, who mentioned how old-school Sichuan dishes she tried in Taipei weren’t heavily spiced. Similarly, I’ve had traditional Sichuan dishes from my childhood that were more rich and flavorful rather than overtly spicy. Spiciness, as a dominant flavor, only became popular after the revolution. Before 1949, chili was rarely served at formal banquets—it was more of a personal seasoning. The combination of sweetness and spiciness was likely developed to align with Western expectations of “exotic” flavors, catering to their imagination of the East.

 

Li: That makes sense.

 

Cao: It’s all about catering to their expectations. By this time, Chinese chefs were no longer cooking for themselves or other Chinese people but rather for foreigners. They had to consider what their customers wanted, much like how writers consider their readers’ preferences.

 

Li: That logic fits with the second phase of overseas Chinese cuisine, where the food was adapted to suit local tastes.

 

Cao: Exactly. Chinese chefs had to constantly anticipate and adapt to the preferences of their audience.

 

Oversea Chinese Cuisine During the Chinese Exclusion Act 

Li: After 1868, during the following decade, there was a significant influx of people from Guangdong and Hong Kong to San Francisco, including gold miners and merchants. However, in the 1880s, the Chinese Exclusion Act was enacted, leading to widespread anti-Chinese sentiment. This sentiment was reflected in various forms of propaganda, such as claims about Chinese restaurants, then known as “Yellow Flag Restaurants,” because each would hang a yellow flag at its entrance, symbolizing some connection to Chinese identity.

 

Cao: Those flags were actually the Yellow Dragon Flags, the national flag of the Qing Dynasty.

 

Li: I heard that in China, it would have been impossible to use yellow or the Yellow Dragon emblem, but overseas, there weren’t such restrictions.

 

Cao: That’s not quite right. Hanging the national flag indicated that these establishments were under the protection of the Qing government. While the Qing Dynasty was often criticized for being weak, it wasn’t powerless to the extent that it couldn’t act. During the Rock Springs Massacre, for example, the U.S. was compelled to pay compensation, and Chinese diplomats negotiated the matter. The Qing government saw the protection of its overseas citizens as a significant responsibility.

 

Li: I’ve read that not all Chinese immigrants to San Francisco were laborers—some were self-funded migrants.

 

Cao: Most of them were laborers. The victims of the Rock Springs Massacre, for instance, were all laborers. This incident, a major conflict between China and the U.S., involved the targeted massacre of Chinese individuals, resulting in 10 or 30 deaths—I can’t recall the exact number. Nevertheless, it led to serious diplomatic negotiations demanding compensation, apologies, and a thorough investigation. The Qing government, particularly through its Zongli Yamen (Office for General Management), made significant efforts to protect its overseas citizens. This attitude differed greatly from the Indonesian anti-Chinese actions later in history.

 

Li: Speaking of anti-Chinese sentiment, there were rumors at the time claiming that Chinese restaurants used unusual ingredients, such as rats. Could this have influenced the adoption of more local ingredients?

 

Cao: Not really. Chinese restaurants had always relied on local ingredients because importing goods from China was too impractical. At the time, crossing the Pacific by ship took about three months. Only dried goods like dried lily buds or wood ear mushrooms could survive such a journey, but most meat and fresh produce had to be sourced locally.

 

A key feature of overseas Chinese cuisine before the 20th century was its reliance on local ingredients. Chinese immigrants adapted to whatever was available in local markets. Furthermore, Chinese laborers made substantial contributions to California’s agriculture, essentially laying the foundation for the state’s agricultural industry. I’m currently working on a book about the activities of Chinese immigrants in California after the Chinese Exclusion Act, including their roles in farming and running restaurants.

 

Li: I also read that Guangdong immigrants taught locals fishing techniques.

 

Cao: That’s correct. They also began oyster farming during this period. Essentially, Guangdong immigrants created a “Little Guangdong” or “New Cantongnia” in that region.

 

Li: Anti-Chinese sentiment also gave rise to certain stereotypes. For example, at the time, there was a notion that eating beef was a sign of masculine strength, whereas rice consumption, associated with Asians, was viewed as a symbol of labor and servitude. The term “worker ants” was used as a derogatory label for Chinese laborers.

 

Cao: That was indeed one of the narratives.

 

Li: What’s fascinating is that despite such stereotypes and anti-Chinese sentiment, Chinese restaurants actually proliferated during this period. Why is that?

 

Cao: Here’s why. Anti-Chinese sentiment was particularly strong in California, where the Chinese population was about 50,000 or 60,000 at the time. The hostility, however, was mostly confined to the Pacific Coast states, such as California, Oregon, and Washington. Inland states had little exposure to Chinese people and thus less prejudice.

 

As a result, many Chinese immigrants left California for the Midwest. In smaller towns with only one or two Chinese families, there wasn’t enough of a population to generate hostility. Locals were more curious than prejudiced.

 

For example, think about how people perceive Africans in Guangzhou today. Even if there are 80,000 Africans in Guangzhou, most Chinese people in inland areas have never encountered an African person. Instead of prejudice, they are more likely to express curiosity—wondering about their appearance or culture. This was similar to how Chinese immigrants were perceived in small American towns at the time.

 

Chinese restaurants multiplied because immigrants who couldn’t thrive in California moved to places like Nebraska, where they were often the only Chinese residents. They found opportunities to open restaurants, which piqued the curiosity of locals and attracted customers.

 

Li: So, Chinese restaurants and Chinatowns became sources of fascination.

 

Cao: Exactly. The dispersion of Chinese laborers after the Chinese Exclusion Act inadvertently spread Chinese cuisine across the U.S.

 

Li: Another perspective is that, despite the anti-Chinese sentiment, some white men in patriarchal societies looked down on cooking and laundry work. This disdain may have inadvertently encouraged the spread of Chinese restaurants.

 

Cao: That’s a good observation. The Chinese laundry business actually began in California. Early Chinese immigrants were mostly gold miners—men who didn’t know how to cook or wash clothes. Chinese immigrants stepped in to fill these needs, finding that running laundries or restaurants was often safer and more lucrative than gold mining.

 

Gold mining was dangerous, with Chinese laborers frequently attacked by white miners in remote areas. Urban areas offered better protection under the law, which is why Chinese immigrants increasingly moved to cities and took up safer trades like laundry and food service.

 

Li: This reminds me of movies like those by Spike Lee, where Asian-owned stores in urban neighborhoods are often targeted by gangs.

 

Cao: That’s an ongoing issue in Western societies, especially in the U.S., where incidents of looting and vandalism remain prevalent. Historically, similar challenges shaped the choices of Chinese immigrants, who adapted by focusing on safer, city-based industries.

 

Li: Moving beyond the Chinese Exclusion Act, in 1956, immigration laws were reformed, removing barriers for Chinese immigrants. This marked a turning point, with dishes like General Tso’s Chicken and Chop Suey emerging and gaining popularity. Speaking of General Tso’s Chicken, I recently watched a documentary called The Search for General Tso.

 

 

 

History Behind General Tso’s Chicken

 

Cao: Yes, the documentary The Search for General Tso was directed by Jennifer Lee.

 

Li: That’s right, it was her film. One particularly interesting part was when she interviewed Americans, asking them, “Who is General Tso?” Their responses were quite imaginative—some thought he was a Mongolian general clad in jade or golden armor, picturing him as a mythical military figure. It was fascinating to see these overlapping stereotypes: they didn’t know who General Tso was, nor did they know the history behind overseas Chinese cuisine, so they conjured up this fictionalized image of a general. I wonder if you, Teacher Cao, have a definitive answer about the history of General Tso’s Chicken? I read that it originated with Peng Chang-kuei.

 

Cao: Yes, Peng Chang-kuei. I also agree with Jennifer Lee’s research. She traced it back to Peng, and after he introduced the dish, it quickly spread to almost every Chinese restaurant in the United States.

 

Li: Peng was a personal chef for Chiang Kai-shek, and after retreating to Taiwan, a U.S. Navy officer visited Taiwan and was served an original creation by Peng.

 

Cao: It wasn’t an entirely original dish. It’s based on a traditional Chinese recipe called Orange Chicken.

 

Li: I see. The officer loved the dish, and when Peng later opened a restaurant in New York in the 1950s, General Tso’s Chicken became a staple there.

 

Cao: Exactly. Peng’s restaurant in Taiwan still serves the original version of the dish today.

 

Li: Speaking of adaptations, the earliest version of General Tso’s Chicken included chicken skin. Why was the skin removed in later versions?

 

Cao: The removal of chicken skin was primarily due to local sourcing in the U.S. Most chicken sold in the American market comes pre-processed and skinned. Chinese restaurants would simply use what was readily available rather than processing whole chickens themselves. Only high-end restaurants catering to a select clientele might prepare a whole chicken from scratch.

 

 

Critique of Authenticity 

        

Li: Here’s a more abstract question: when we talk about authenticity, it’s often debated in the context of dishes like General Tso’s Chicken. In the documentary, another Chinese chef, Chef Wang, claimed that he invented the dish.

 

Cao: I think debates over authenticity are meaningless. Discussions about what’s “authentic” or “original” don’t hold much value because everyone has their own perspective. In this postmodern era, trying to define authenticity from an elite perspective—like saying the version Peng served to the Seventh Fleet commander is the only authentic General Tso’s Chicken—comes off as elitist, don’t you think?

 

Li: I agree.

 

Cao: In this postmodern era, one of the key characteristics is decentralization. Defining authenticity is, in itself, an act of centralization, a way of imposing one narrative over all others.

 

Li: Authenticity becomes a form of cultural hegemony. If something isn’t deemed “authentic” within a dominant framework, it’s marginalized.

 

Cao: Exactly. As Gramsci said, “Authenticity is determined by the ruling class.” Why should the dish served to elites be considered authentic while the food enjoyed by ordinary people isn’t? If I like dipping dumplings in ketchup, who’s to say that isn’t authentic?

 

Li: I came across an interesting anecdote: Chef Wang later claimed to have modified General Tso’s Chicken by emphasizing sweetness and frying techniques, and he wanted to rename it “Zeng Guofan Chicken” after Zeng Guofan, who was General Tso’s mentor. However, during translation, a mix-up occurred. General Tso’s Chicken, known as General Tso’s Chicken, was confused with General Tsang’s Chicken due to unfamiliarity with the romanization system. The name reverted to General Tso’s Chicken, so his attempt to rebrand the dish failed.

 

Cao: Every Chinese restaurant in America has its own recipe for General Tso’s Chicken. Some add broccoli to the presentation; others drizzle honey on top. Each version is unique.

 

Li: I’ve seen recipes where they use honey too.

 

Cao: It’s all about catering to preferences—whatever works, they’ll do it.

 

Li: Similarly, Chop Suey is essentially a stir-fry of leftover meats and vegetables with some soy sauce. I’ve even read that in Jamaican restaurants, they serve their own version called “American Chop Suey,” which is entirely a localized American dish.

 

Cao: I remember once traveling to Sri Lanka, where an Indian chef served “Chinese food.” He made a version of Chop Suey and called it American cuisine. It was delicious.

 

Li: If it’s tasty, that’s all that matters.

 

Cao: Exactly. Whether you call it Chinese food, Sri Lankan food, or American food doesn’t matter—it’s just food.

 

Li: In the documentary, they mention that the dish isn’t really Chinese or Sri Lankan—it’s American.

 

Cao: Exactly. General Tso’s Chicken has fully evolved into an American dish. It’s rooted in America, tailored for American tastes, and widely accepted by Americans. It’s as authentically American as it gets.

 

The United States itself is a melting pot of cultures, where multicultural assimilation happens continuously. Chinese cuisine has become part of that process, and every Chinese descendant has the right to define Chinese culture. For instance, if I want to say dumplings dipped in ketchup represent Chinese culture, that’s my prerogative.

 

Li: That’s a bold stance.

 

Cao: As historian Yu Ying-shih famously said, “Wherever I am, there is China.” We need cultural confidence. We have the power to define Chinese culture in our own way.

 

 

Li: Earlier, we discussed dishes like General Tso’s Chicken. During this event, Haodong proposed a theme centered around naming, which I’d like to explore further with you, Teacher Cao. I understand naming in the context of how we translate traditional Chinese dish names into English. This is not just a linguistic process but also a form of rebranding or reinterpretation. I came across some resources outlining methods for translating Chinese dish names into English menus. There are generally two approaches: the descriptive translation method, which combines transliteration, explanation, and literal translation, and the artistic translation method, which blends transliteration, explanation, and imagery. General Tso’s Chicken is an example of the latter—a very Americanized translation. After all, “General” isn’t a direct equivalent to Zuo Zongtang’s title.

 

Cao: It’s interesting because Chinese cuisine rarely names dishes after people. For example, take “Li Hongzhang Chop Suey.” To a Chinese person, this name might sound like an insult to Li Hongzhang, as if you’re calling him a “chop suey” or a mess. Naming dishes after individuals isn’t a traditional Chinese practice.

Li: So, dishes are typically named after places?

 

Cao: Exactly. In Chinese culinary tradition, dishes are more often named after locations, like “Zigong Cold Rabbit” or “Guangdong Cheung Fun” (rice noodle rolls). These place-based names carry meaning for Chinese speakers. When you mention Zigong, for example, it evokes an association with salty and spicy Yanbang cuisine. However, these place names often mean nothing to native English speakers; they’re just unfamiliar syllables.

 

To make these names relatable, they are often reimagined with human associations. For instance, in General Tso’s Chicken, the emphasis is on the word “General.” For English speakers, the term immediately conjures up a mental image of strength or grandeur, perhaps of a robust Mongolian general on horseback defeating armies. This is purely imaginative, as the historical Zuo Zongtang bore no such resemblance.

 

Li: The hardest names to translate are those steeped in metaphor or imagery, such as Buddha Jumps Over the Wall or Ants Climbing a Tree. These names carry layers of meaning that don’t easily cross cultural boundaries. Western cuisine, on the other hand, seems relatively rational in its naming conventions.

 

Cao: That’s not always true. Take Beef Wellington, for example. It’s named after a person. Then there’s Napoleon Cake or Caesar Salad—also named after historical figures. Western culture has a long tradition of naming dishes after people. Eggs Benedict is another example.

 

In the case of Napoleon Cake, it wasn’t originally named after Napoleon Bonaparte but after Naples. Its original French name was Mille-feuille de Naples (Naples puff pastry). Somewhere along the line, a transcription error during translation rendered it as “Napoleon,” and the name stuck in places like the U.S. and Canada.

 

Similarly, Beef Wellington originates from a French dish called puff pastry beef. When British cooks adopted it, they renamed it after the Duke of Wellington, who famously defeated Napoleon—turning it into a patriotic dish.

 

Names like Buddha Jumps Over the Wall also require cultural context. Simply transplanting such names into another language often fails to convey their original significance.

 

Li: I’ve noticed that overseas Chinese menus often feature “Kung Pao Chicken” (a direct phonetic transliteration of Gongbao), but not Yuxiang (Fish Fragrant). Instead, Yuxiang dishes are usually translated as “Garlic-like” or “Fish Flavor.” This surprises me because both are well-known dishes in China.

 

Cao: In Americanized Chinese cuisine, you’ll also see names like “Egg Foo Young,” which is another transliteration. Cultural adaptation means that sometimes it’s better not to overthink translation. The dish’s name and its significance will naturally evolve through the interactions between chefs and diners.

 

Personally, I think phonetic transliteration is a great starting point. For instance, I believe dumplings should simply be written as Jiaozi, not “Dumpling.” The word “dumpling” in Western cultures refers to something entirely different, like Italian dumplings stuffed with cheese. Using the native Chinese term demonstrates cultural confidence.

 

Li: I’ve seen “Dragon” used interchangeably with Long (the Chinese word for dragon).

 

Cao: That’s a good example. Directly using Chinese phonetics is often the best approach. Other examples in American culture include Bok Choy (白菜) and Wok (锅), which have been integrated as-is into the English lexicon. These terms became familiar through gradual cultural integration. Similarly, the Japanese don’t translate Ramen as “noodles”; they simply call it Ramen. Their Gyoza (dumplings) is another example of retaining the original name.

 

Li: Names like Dan Dan Noodles have also been transliterated directly, but they seem to carry a sense of being a hybrid between Chinese and Japanese cuisine.

 

Cao: Yes, and Japan is a particularly interesting case in the study of overseas Chinese cuisine. While Americanized Chinese food tends to be a blend of cultural integration, European Chinese cuisine often reflects an attempt to assimilate but faces resistance from the dominant local culture.

 

In Japan, Chinese cuisine has been fully localized. Dishes like dumplings, Tianjin rice, and Mapo tofu have become distinctly Japanese interpretations. They’ve not just been assimilated but completely fused into Japanese culinary tradition.

 

Meanwhile, in Southeast Asia, the situation is entirely different. I’d classify overseas Chinese cuisine into four patterns: assimilation, marginalization, integration, and fusion. Japan’s approach is fascinating for its creativity—for example, they’ve added strawberries to Mapo tofu, which is bold and inventive. Even the creation of Utsunomiya Gyoza reflects the unique cultural adaptation of Chinese dishes in Japan.

 

For example, some dishes in Japanese Chinese restaurants deviate from traditional Chinese cooking. Take kung pao shrimp made with ketchup or shrimp in mayonnaise (エビマヨ), which includes mustard and egg yolk. From a purist perspective, these wouldn’t qualify as Chinese dishes. Yet, in today’s context, they are considered Chinese cuisine because they’re served in Chinese restaurants abroad.

 

So, if you were tasked with explaining to aliens—who know nothing about human civilization—what makes a dish “Chinese,” how would you deconstruct and define it?

 

Cao: Someone has already attempted to address this question—Kwang-chih Chang. He was an archaeologist who specialized in food culture and wrote extensively about it. In his works, he identified five characteristics of Chinese food culture.

 

First, Chinese food culture is not a specific entity but a collection of concepts. For example, Japanese food culture is centered around rice, which holds a sacred, symbolic significance in Japan. A Japanese-American anthropologist, Emiko Ohnuki-Tierney, wrote Rice as Self, which explores this deep connection.

 

But China is different. Half of the population eats rice, while the other half consumes wheat. Chinese food culture is a symbolic system rather than a singular element.

 

One defining feature is the combination of local agricultural produce—plants and animals grown or raised in China. This defines the foundation of Chinese cuisine. Another key aspect is the principle of balancing “rice and dishes” (or staple and accompaniment). Even in overseas Chinese restaurants, you’ll find this principle reflected, distinguishing it from Western dining norms.

 

Chinese food culture also encompasses a belief system about food’s impact on the body. Ideas like “hot,” “cold,” and “balanced” foods, as well as how they affect health, are uniquely Chinese.

 

Additionally, there is the ritualistic and symbolic significance of food, such as in idiomatic expressions like “seizing the cauldron” (representing power) or dietary rules that reflect respect and hierarchy.

 

According to Kwang-chih Chang, Chinese food culture is a collection of symbols, not a singular, tangible entity. It is an abstract system that cannot be destroyed because it’s not a specific object but a constellation of meanings.

 

Audience 5: Your explanation answers my question—thank you.

 

Cao: I’m glad it helped. When you’re stuck, refer to Chang’s writings—they provide a solid foundation.