A woman wearing a Red Guard military uniform handed me a Diet Coke.
She wasn’t smiling or acting very pleasant at all. In fact, none of the staff wore the mask of feigned enthusiasm customarily demanded of servers in the restaurant business. I wondered if this was part of their “character” during service, or if they were instructed to be somber and brooding, the way most servers are instructed to be perky and upbeat. This is, after all, a communist-themed Chinese restaurant and from what I hear, communism in China isn’t exactly all that fun. That’s not to say that Private Party Restaurant is taking itself seriously. The walls are adorned with propaganda posters that, if observed closely, clearly indicate there is a sort of joke going on. Particularly, a 60s-era Uncle Sam pointing sternly in your direction, commanding you to, “Don’t look around. Just it’s you!”
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All photos by Meghan Koester.
Private Party Restaurant is located in the San Gabriel Valley, an area of Los Angeles well-known for its Asian communities and some of the most delicious and authentic Asian dining experiences the city has to offer. The communist-themed restaurant is one of the newer establishments that specializes in hot pot dining here.
Hot pots are a common style of eating in Northern China, and are reminiscent of communist ideology in its most simplistic form. Everyone shares. As I sat down, I was handed a sheet of paper with which I was to choose from what kind of broths, meat, seafood, and vegetables I wanted. This was my first time dining at a hot pot restaurant and it was painfully clear that I was the only one inside the establishment who was a total n00b. As I eyed the uniforms and the kitsch, marveling at the camp, the other diners simply ate their food while engaging in conversation with one another.
It felt rude of me to find all of this strange.
I decided on the tomato broth coupled with their spicy broth. When it came to the meat, I kept things simple with chicken thighs, but had I been more adventurous, I could have feasted on chicken heart, pork intestine, and beef tongue. What can I say? I’m a wimp. I also added fried tofu to my order, ramen noodles, and eggs, forgoing any vegetables because screw health.
While waiting for it all to arrive, I walked toward a table near the kitchen that held several different sauces and toppings that I could freely choose to bring back to my table. The variety included peanut sauce, garlic sauce, green onions, and more. A refrigerator in the back wall of the restaurant housed a variety of meat skewers that went for a dollar apiece. As I sat back down, the ingredients meant to cook inside my broth had arrived, but the broth itself had yet to make its appearance. This broth was being a real diva.
As I kept waiting, the presence of my servers was felt intensely. One man in his Red Guard Uniform stood in the center of the entire restaurant watching all of us, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. It felt very Big Brother, considering there were just as many servers as there were customers dining in the restaurant.
Finally, a large copper pot made its way to my table. Each side of where the broth floated in the pot looked like a miniature trough. The grill was turned on, and I waited for the broth to boil. Though I was growing impatient, I realized that delayed gratification does feel like an important aspect of modern communism. One side of the pot held what was clearly the tomato broth, while the other side held one completely covered in chilies. There was no doubt that this was the spicy broth.
Once the pot got hot enough, I dispersed my ingredients to both sides as evenly as I could and waited for them to cook. I scooped up as much as I could fit into the incredibly small bowl I was given to eat from. I devoured my bowl quickly, and went back to the trough to inhale more. I felt like a bonafide pig. Though this was unintentional, it ended up feeling like a smart move on my part. In that moment, I became a representation of the American political system: greedy, messy, and clueless.
As I got the hang of things, I felt a lot more at ease. The looming server-soldiers no longer bothered me. The posters were no longer a distraction. I enjoyed my meal. An unruly amount of snot dripped from my nose, a sign that the spicy broth was really goddamn spicy indeed.
I left the restaurant unsure what to make of its bold theme. The last thing one associates with communism in China is humor, but Private Party is a reminder that humor is an important aspect of healing, and much like food is to comfort. The two elements worked well together. Though I don’t see myself joining the real communist party of China anytime soon, Private Party Restaurant is a movement I can get behind.
