I had arrived as Mommy's husband was coming out of the restaurant, and immediately asked to help him haul in some food supplies for the night - which I more or less enjoy any time really. Anyway, there I was, still in my coat, not yet in my apron, hauling away.
The restaurant had the feeling of some washed out Wong Kar-wai film; a cool breeze coming in from outside, and lights so bright they seemed almost existential, either that or it was the antihistamines I had taken before work in hopes that I'd have to run to the back door to blow my nose as little as possible, leaving behind whatever wok I would have to man. Mommy wasn't in tonight, I never asked where she was - instead it was her husband, Number Five and I along with another cook and a new hire. The night moved well, it wasn't too busy at all, and my constant demands for hot water and honey were taken in stride (the waitresses like me is all I can say).
Later in the evening I was asked to pull noodles, which entailed just that: pulling a thick, almost rubber block of oily noodles apart and portioning them for future dishes. These kinds of noodles are readily available for sale in almost any Asian store. Usually labelled as "fun noodles," raw they have the consistency of the liqourice you buy and pull apart strand by strand; when doused in hot water they immediately go limp and fall apart if not handled with care, especially in a flaming wok. They are fun, as far as I'm concerned. I have usually joked about becoming a master noodle chef someday - traveling to the island of Okinawa and finding some Udon/Karate master to train me in the way of udon during the day and the way of the fist during the night. A man like that exists. It's true - I saw him on tv once. Anyway, while pulling noodles, a waitress came in from outside after having trouble operating the door to the cardboard bin. The city had replaced the old disposal units with new shiny ones recently, so I volunteered to go out with her again and figure it out. As soon as we stepped outside however, I became hesitant, because by the dumpsters I saw who I thought was a man I used to work for throwing out his trash. I was afraid. Or at least, more shy or ashamed at the fact that I now chose to work for another employer literally two doors down from him. Luckily for me however, it was his son; the son of a Serbian man I used to work for on the same strip. A Serbian man who catered to Italian food. And now I catered to Thai. Yeah, if anything, I felt ashamed. I couldn't help but remember a time leaving my relatives' restaurant for work and having them call out to me by the door, "If you ever want to cook Italian, let us know!"
As we approached the kid I explained to the waitress who he was and how I knew him. She laughed, asking how old I was, only because it seemed like I've worked everywhere in this city, and she's partly right. I laughed back explaining that I've been around for so long I'm practically a ghost.
So I said my hellos and the kid was happy to see me; I asked him about school, he said he was unsure, I cheered him up without saying, "you'll figure it out" (because that's the last thing a kid who wants direction needs). "Don't give up" is much more inspiring. So, after multiple bags of garbage, we parted ways - the waitress left a long time ago. It's been two years since I worked that job, and it seemed alot longer. It was a good job; not a clean, but a well lighted place. With lots of forced espresso. The kid certainly grew - and certainly I felt old. But hey homeys, sometimes life punks you that way.
So I got back to pulling noodles, and wanting liquorice. Then, out of nowhere, riding on the Wong Kar-wai wind came a funny, "youuu whooooo!" from my left. And there it was: a carrot, chiseled into the visage of what looked like a buck-toothed Japanese salary man, tie and all. It was Mommy's husband's doing. And after that, it was all laughter. I yelled out to anyone who had a camera phone to get a shot of this thing because it was good. A monument to carved vegetable art; unfortunately, no one seemed to respond, accept for one employee's,"yup, he's creative, alright." But I wouldn't let it go. I kept pushing (someone had better have taken a picture of that thing, or at least preserved it in vinegar).
I don't talk enough about Mommy's husband, who we all affectionately refer to as Uncle. Actually, Uncle, and then his name, like "Uncle Joe." But, his name's too Thai to pronounce, and most importantly, the integrity of my place of work and the people who work therein, to important to compromise. So for the sake of my stories, I'll leave at Uncle. Very Jackie Chan. Very, "Rumble in the Bronx."
According to the history, Uncle was a very prominent artist and professor back home in Thailand, some of his works being hung up in the restaurant, and personified in the form of random vegetables. I remember the first thing Uncle said to me: "I have Buddha, I have Buddha to protect me." A statement given in fellowship with Mommy's, "Uncle never cuts himself." To be honest, it was one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard. Whether true or not, the man's conviction was reason enough to be charmed by it. I can only hope that someday I muster up enough courage to ask Uncle to paint me a picture of the Buddha himself, and Mommy to take me to temple.
Uncle's full of stories too, from why a white man in Bangkok will always have to pay more, to why there's a hole in the bottom of his new shoe. He mimics sounds, he laughs when Mommy yells at him, and he even sings on occasion. And I'm sure that if the Buddha did any of those things, Uncle does them just as well. He certainly is a man of contentment and abundance, a reincarnation of the future Buddha himself. Sometimes I wonder if I even need a temple to go to with a workplace like that.
I hope someone took a picture of that carrot.
So, after a good night's work, and a place I was very glad to cook in, me, Uncle, Number Five, and the two other cooks did the obvious: cleaned up, and sat down to a bowl of Uncle's fried rice (which was almost as good as his congee). Now you know he approached that with reckless abandon.
(And dear reader, I brought some home for you♥)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment