Another Reason Why It's a Good Idea to Learn How to Say "Coffee" in Cantonese

Sam asked me to accompany him to the biennial Golden Medallion Book Awards banquet. This will be fun, I thought, we get to dress up and parade in front of reporters and cameramen and shake hands with many important people. And who knows? Maybe Sam will win something and get up on stage to make an acceptance speech like those Oscar celebrities.

Of course I know that the entire ceremony will be conducted in Cantonese. Still, there will be food, and I do know how to smile and clap.

The banquet is in a ballroom at Regal Hotel. Everything looks--well--regal: golden chandeliers, golden seat covers, golden napkins. We sit down at an assigned table right under the air conditioning vent. Wrapping my silk scarf around my sleeveless dress, I do my best to keep warm, while the lady sitting next to me, an editor from Sam's publisher, tries to converse with Sam and me in a combination of Mandarin and English.

The proceedings begin around 7. And I soon find that the evening could be very long. There are seventeen award categories (not counting the life-time achievement and honorary awards). For every award category, a presenter goes up and makes a speech about why this category is important. Then a pre-recorded video presents the nominees in a deep, radio-worthy voice, before the presenter opens the envelope. As is expected, the award winner(s) gets to make an acceptance speech. After that, one of the judges from the panel also comes up and, in another speech, tells the audience why the winner deserves the award. So altogether, there are three speeches per category, and thus fifty-one speeches (again, not counting the life-time achievement and honorary awards). Some speeches are short and sweet, while others are true speeches that could be turned into a Sunday sermon for some churches. I suppose all of them could be very interesting and meaningful, if only I could understand Cantonese. Of the roughly three hundred persons in attendance, I am probably the only one who cannot speak Cantonese. Even the European guy sitting in the next table speaks fluent Cantonese, which really puts me to shame.

So the evening goes on while I shiver and huddle under the vent, waiting for the sustenance to be delivered to warm up my insides. Unfortunately, the entrees are slow in coming, and by the time everyone at the table gets served, they are already cold. After the entrees, the waiters methodically put up fancy cups and saucers in front of each of us--a promise of something warm and comforting. Never mind the dessert--I begin to wait with eagerness for the hot beverage as a castaway waits for the sight of passing ships (or more biblically, as the watchman waits for the dawn). All my hope hinges on the arrival of some coffee. I know it sounds pathetic, but it's what we are reduced to when our basic physical needs are less than satisfied.

Meanwhile, the speeches go on. Occasionally, I recognize one of the awardees, and I am genuinely glad for him. Sam's boss delivers a keynote speech about the ethics of reading, which Sam translates for me in bits and pieces. I wish I can understand all of it because it sounds really interesting and thought-provoking. For the most part, though, I am waiting through all the speeches for the Best Author category, missing out on all the jokes and staring into my empty teacup, which has been sitting idle for half an hour or longer. Where is the coffee? Why are the waiters standing in the back doing nothing? It finally dawns on me that because of the length of the evening's ceremony, the courses (including the coffee) are paced and spaced out at pre-planned intervals. The coffee will be served out on cue, when and only when a certain point in the ceremony is reached.

Finally, all the categories have been presented, and the Best Author Award is the only one left (I should say "Awards" because there are two separate categories: one for academic and one for non-academic). Our eyes are fixed on the screen as the radio voice booms out the nominees, Sam being the third one in a list of five. And the envelope is opened. Not being able to pick up the verbal cues, I rely fully on the visual and wait for the picture of the selected book to enlarge itself. And the book that gets enlarged is clearly not Sam's. I am disappointed.

Yet, Sam is walking up towards the stage, and people at our table are cheering. So he does win, and the visual is misleading. Confused but happy, I see him up on stage getting a photo taken with his boss, the award presenter. Then the speech.

Sam gives his acceptance speech

Have you ever had that suspicion that some trivial task that you can't do, like tying your shoelaces or riding a bike, is going to bite you someday at a critical moment of your life?

After Sam gives his short and sweet thanks to his publisher, editors, and others in Cantonese, he switches to English and begins to thank me. Just at that moment, a waiter, carrying a carafe, comes up behind me to mumble something in Cantonese. The long-awaited beverage delivery has come. I whisper "coffee" in English, but he does not understand. With three hundred pairs of eyes trained on me (yes, by now everyone is looking at me) and a news reporter with a huge camera aimed at me, and with buzzing excitement in my ears, I try to concentrate on what Sam is saying, while the distracting waiter, who has not shown up all night, is waiting for an answer. Coffee? Tea? Why is this woman ignoring me? He probably thinks. Finally, the lady next to me tells him to go away. And I catch the last half of a sentence before Sam steps off and everyone gives me a round of applause (which I don't remember).

So there it is, a wonderful moment marred by the fact that I can't say "coffee" in Cantonese. That's the irony in life. Still, the evening is not about me. I am very happy for Sam and all the awardees. They deserve to be recognized for their contributions.

After the ceremony we all take lots of pictures. The woman on the right, April, is a talented editor.

Later, the waiter does come back. However, the coffee is no longer hot. By then, I don't need it any more.