Two things happened this week to remind me of the time I was held hostage in a non-Chinese store in Chinatown. One, I'm nearing the end of our home renovations and I've managed to narrow down the list to six things left to do. I'm far enough away from the eye of the storm to safely look back and reminisce about all of the home décor my husband and I had to shop for.
And two, my friend Jen in LA posted a picture of two lamps that look like life-size cougars leaping to an attack. The lamps were in a store and my first thought was that Jen was in town, and maybe I could run over to Chinatown and pay her ransom. And then we could go drink.
Because I'm pretty sure our non-Chinese stores here in San Francisco's Chinatown have life-size leaping cougar lamps. And if they don't, they could hook you up. Most likely from the same supplier that brings you gold filigree and clear plastic beaded candelabras the size of an air conditioning unit, and the $12,000 urn with scenes from King Louis XIV's coronation.
Our one and only experience with these shops was about six months after we had moved into our house and we were in the market for a huge mirror. The mirror, if big enough, was going to solve a number of problems in the dining room. We had this mirror measured and designed in our heads, but had no idea if there even was such a thing.
That's when we stumbled upon the non-Chinese stores in Chinatown.
There are at least three of them and they are all owned by the same group of brothers or cousins or hometown classmates from a Middle Eastern country. Where the Chinese shopkeepers work hard to bring their kinfolk to the United States to help them sell waving cats that are flying off the shelves, the Middle Easterners are bringing over their relatives to figure out what to do with floor after floor of kitschy, tchotshke crapola, which is gathering dust.
My husband and I were walking by one afternoon, glanced in and saw the largest mirror on earth. Everything in these stores is huge. I'm guessing shoplifting is not a problem, unless you have a forklift and a suitable diversion.
Our earliest mistake was to speak to the salesman when he asked us if we needed help. In retrospect, we should have faked deafness or an obscure foreign language and just pointed frantically to the giant mirror. We asked about the mirror and he said, "Oh yes! That's a beautiful mirror. Four ninety five. You can have it for four ninety five."
It was pretty big and we thought that sounded pretty good, so we said yes. Yes, we'd very much like to buy that giant mirror for four ninety five.
I don't know whether it's because they rarely find a buyer or whether they were out of register tape or what. But our offer to buy the mirror threw the whole store into a tizzy. Our salesman disappeared into a back room and we never saw him again. The other salesmen whispered to one another. We awkwardly stood there, trying not to browse or let our eyes rest on any of the other merchandise for too long, lest we burn a cornea.
After a few minutes, the salesman's uncle came over to us and said, "While you wait, would you like to see our other rooms?"
Not really, I thought, but I'm too polite to speak my mind in the presence of so many Virgin Marys and European kings.
The uncle crammed us into a tiny elevator and took us to the second floor, which was packed with more urns, religious statues, scary lamps, scrolly writing desks, and crushed velvet fainting couches. There were two more floors. It was getting awkward, mostly in the elevator, but also in the deathly silent upper floors. But mostly in the elevator. There didn't seem to be an opportunity to tell the uncle that we weren't interested in anything except that one mirror.
And then he took us into the rug room. There were several other uncle/cousins milling about. In the center of the room was a stack of room-sized Oriental rugs. The walls were lined with rolled up rugs. We all stood around the rug pile in a circle.
"You buy a rug," the elder statesman of the group said to me. I looked over at my husband for help - he's usually the one who cuts to the chase - but he was texting. Mr. Hardass-with-Sears apparently becomes Puss in Boots in the non-Chinese stores in Chinatown.
"No, we're not going to buy a rug right now," I told the guy. "Maybe next year, when we're done with some of the other projects, like, buying a big mirror. Speaking of mirrors, where is that other guy?"
"He's checking on it," he said dismissively. "You're going to buy a rug. I'm not going to let you leave here without buying a rug."
You know how unaggressive I am when it comes to these things, but I did manage to say, "I'm pretty sure I'm going to leave here without buying a rug." It was scary, though, because I wasn't even sure what floor I was on. And I doubted whether I could make it through the maze of blinding gold leaf to find my way to the elevator. I was starting to wonder if I was going to leave the store in a rug.
What followed was a ceremonial unfolding of the rugs, which required two helper cousins on either side of the rug pile. The rugs were - not surprisingly - huge. I doubted any of them could have fit into any room in our house - but that didn't stop the rug don from giving me the hard sell.
Just to make conversation, I mentioned that a green one was pretty. "She likes the green one! Get the green! " main rug guy barked at the helpers. They started unrolling some of the rugs that were propped against the wall.
"OK, guys, really, I'm not buying a rug . . . Oh man." I was starting to want to go home to my bare floor house, really really bad. I looked over at my husband with an are you seeing this look, but he was Facebooking on his phone.
We were in there for a long time. A really long time. Until I had to put my foot down and say, "Where's my damn giant mirror?" One of the uncles, without even checking, said, "We can't sell you the mirror on the wall. We have to get one from our warehouse in LA." I knew without even asking that there was no mirror in LA and if there was, I wasn't going to get it for four ninety five.
"You guys suck," I didn't say to them as I silently got on the doll-sized elevator. How on earth did they get all this giant furniture up here? We walked out without saying anything. My husband mean-Tweeted some stuff about them, but I don't think they're much into social media.
I've passed by the store many times since then. The mirror is still in there. So is Mary and Marie Antoinette. And some poor sap up in the rug room, I'm sure.
