I notice at least three strangers per block staring intently at my face, then down to my penny-loafer clad feet, searching their memory banks for my family name, "Who is she? I`m sure I know her father or uncle." To them, I politely nod and smile, bringing about a great deal of embarassment to once innocently inquiring faces.
I scowl at the leung jai who give me the "once over," let out a wolf whistle or whisper a hoarse, "Wei, siu jeh ah ..." Ah. What do they hope to accomplish anyway?
I turn on Mott Street and stop at Wing Wong. Of course, as always, there are two long lines - one for the roast ducks and tripe hanging in the window, and one for the restaurant. I am seated quickly at a community table with an old Chinese couple and an interracial family. After ordering my crullers and congee with minced meats, I am left with nothing to do but observe my tablemates.
The old Chinese couple communicate with each other through an intricate system of slurping and chewing, ocassionally picking select items from their own plate and depositing them on the other`s. I smile wistfully and wonder if I`ll ever have a partner with whom to share my food one day.
I turn my attention to the interracial family. Very husky, Irish-looking husband , waif-like Chinese wife and a small light-featured, demanding little boy who`s coated with grains of sticky rice grains. Mother tries to clean off her little angel and attempts yet again to persuade the child to direct more of the meal into his mouth. Every few minutes, Mother dips her chopsticks into the bowl of Chinese broccoli fishing out a healthy stalk and deposits it onto Father`s plate. Father rewards her with a grateful smile, a light peck on the cheek, or a murmured "I love you, honey." His plate has the plumpest meats and vegetables I`ve ever seen - all drenched in soy sauce as well - while Mother`s is nothing but rice, meager pickings of duck neck, wilted vegetables and burnt ends of roast pork. She chews methodically, seemingly without enthusiasm for what must be the lousiest morsels of food.
Both the old Chinese couple and the interracial family leave the restaurant shortly after the arrival of my own lunch, leaving me to wonder which set-up I would prefer for my future. Do I choose for myself a relatively silent partner with whom to share traditions and customs of our ancestors? Or do I instead go with a partner who might not necessarily share my understanding of my heritage in exchange for the American ideals of romance?
I laugh at myself: these are two such extreme examples ... why bother myself with such inane wonderings? I think between chomps and finally come to the realization. I throw my head back and laugh out loud, nearly upsetting a nearby waiter carrying a pagoda of stacked bowls.
I remember that I am, after all, an American woman. I am in love with the notion of romance, and have been endowed with the stubbornness and audacity to fight for my own eats.
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