My husband, the ex-army mess cookfrom Maine, doesn't fightthe neighborhood grub, doesn't expect muchin the way of good truck-stop coffee,small talk, or accurate translationsfrom the blunt-faced waitresses who hurrycustomers & order for them. As he cleanshis chopsticks with tea, the wayI showed him, Iron Goddess of Mercystripping their sticky shine, I musclehim to try the blackboard special—fish bladders bubblingin a clay pot—to break outof his sweet & sour rut. After all,our children will be half Chinese. He eyes scaly pike pluckedfrom the live tank, orders the #34,Happy Chicken—Mild. At the far end,the chow-splattered fat guy, whose facedecorates the greasy menu, chops slabsof roasted suckling & cleaves openthe pearled flesh of an octopus, tossing it,hot & bothered, to ooze its briny inkonto a bed of rice. It's a sinus-clearingclassic only we Cantonese can stomach,not honest like steak, served as bloodyas you like. The only thingsthe Chinese won't eat are rocks,my husband comments, pokingat his chicken cubes, crimson red& more sour than sweet.
ZYZZYVA.
© Priscilla Lee. All rights reserved.