There are eight Chinese markets per block and they are all crammed
with shoppers. Duck eggs, black eel, peanut ice, bean buns. You
are surprised to see the shoppers pluck and purchase with such
rapidity, because really, you want to believe that these are museums
and not New May Wah superstores.

There are a dozen identical dim sum parlors all down the block. They
have pinkish corridors and cafeteria tables; arches of styrofoam
containers. All of the food is orb-shaped and 3 for $1.40. You zoom
toward the one with the shortest line, because you can't tell the
difference. "Two orders of har-gau," you say, and note with rue that
you have adopted a Chinese accent.

"Two ohda haw-gow," the woman repeats and hands you the carton.
You pay and go outside. There are six shrimp dumplings the size of
a baby's fist and the color of Brigitte Bardot's nipples. You eat
them one-by-one in the patented manner, vacuuming out the shrimp
and saving the gluten for a chaser. It gives you a case of bad
breath that lasts a few hours, but this is part of the bargain.



Index