I’m a regular here. The girou chao mian makes me happy this afternoon and I stroll out the restaurant like the dude I want to be. Chicken fried rice. That’s how I translated it for the laoban as he was making the dish. He wanted to know the English, my fiftieth time as a patron. Why now, I wondered.
I pay and sling my backpack over my shoulder so I can face the pavement and the chilly air with aplomb. He asks me, what about niu rou? Beef. Not cow? Nope. And zhu rou? Pork. Not pig? Nope. And yang rou? What the heck is yang rou? The laoban hesitates a second.
— Baaaa, he says.
— Ah, I say.
The stars align. What I want to explain—that we don’t have much lamb in the States, so I’m a little hazy on whether it’s mutton or simply lamb—makes use of nearly all the Chinese I know. I convey my thought. The laoban and his wife, now, are rapt. They ask a few more questions. I keep doing my impression of someone who knows Chinese. While I’m listening, I have this moment where I think how funny it is what we’re doing, this exchange of linguistic and cultural information that neither of us entirely get. How I come from Ohio and they are from Taipei. How, despite it all, I can actually sort of understand and they can actually sort of understand. I hope they don’t think I’m laughing at them. I’m just overcome by how good-natured and funny it all is!
(sunrise) Taiwan (sunset) 