approached their table.
Walking fast, she stumbled to a halt, patted her hairdo, and beamed a partially toothless smile. She batted her sparse eyelashes and held her clasped hands beneath her chin. She pointed at Michael with starstruck awe and said, "You star in
Matrix
movie, eh?"
Lindsey stifled a laugh as she and Michael exchanged bemused glances. Gently, he replied, "Well, actually, no. I wasn't in that movie."
The woman was unswayed. "You can't fool me," she said. "Big secret, you probably on film location here, eh?" She winked at Michael as if she was keen to his little game. Looking him up and down, her gaze lingered from the top of his cowlick to the soles of his Stan Smiths. "Well, you look
velly nüce
." She smoldered, looking like a Chinese Broom Hilda.
She turned on her orthopedic heels and did her best rendition of skipping away. Before sitting down with her family and her beef bone, she turned and gave a final little wave.
Michael good-naturedly waved back. While absentmindedly rearranging the condiments on the table, he said, "It's been a while since we've had real Chinese food."
Lindsey nodded in agreement. Just last week, Michael's sister had visited and they took her to a yuppified Chinese restaurant. The menus were in English with nary a typo, and they ordered touristy stuff—innocuous-sounding dishes like Orange Chicken and Imperial Rice. They ate sweet and fried things with goopy sauces. But it wasn't really Chinese food to Lindsey, or by now, to Michael either.
When they first started going out, Lindsey had to get over her anxieties about eating Chinese food around a non-family member, but over their two years together, Michael had learned to eat some hardcore stuff.
At banquets with Lindsey's family, he got used to eating things like pork guts in brown sauce and salted bottomfeeder in red oil. Her grandparents would order dishes in Chinese and when Lindsey asked what was coming, Yeh Yeh would explain, "duck with medicinal insect in soup."
"third stomach of cow."
"pig's trotters with pineapple and fungus," or sometimes, "mother-and-child-meet," meaning pigeon with pigeon-egg sauce. Literal English translation didn't always sound very appetizing.
But Michael had eaten it all, bless him. Even dishes that Lindsey wouldn't touch, like the seaweed that looked like hair, red bean dessert soup, and tripe. Michael had drunk the wine steeped with mice (for flavor, silly) and gnawed on the gnarliest of preserved fruit
mui
.
Lindsey's relatives loved to watch Michael mow down all the Chinese delicacies. They listened with rapt attention when he described the pros and cons of baked
cha siu bows
versus steamed. He likened oxtail stew to Italian
osso buco
and compared Chinese beef tongue dishes to Mexican
lengua
. Lindsey would have loved Michael even if he was a fussy eater, but somehow their relationship was proof that the way to a man's heart was through sauteed cow stomach.
"Wow, that was fast," Lindsey said as their food arrived. She doused their potstickers with rice vinegar and chili paste, then stirred the
won ton mein
with
horn choi
, which was the house specialty.
Michael spooned some beef tendons and stewed turnips onto her plate, knowing it was her favorite. She responded by forking over some salt-baked tofu and a couple of pieces of almond-pressed duck.
While Michael ate with chopsticks, Lindsey used a fork because it was easier. They liked to take their time eating, but the food was so good they ended up stuffing themselves quickly. When they were done, they each washed down their meal with several cups of hot tea.
The waiter brought over orange slices and fortune cookies. As Michael paid the bill, he said, "Want to go for our walk?" She nodded, and they headed for the door.
There was about an hour of sun left before dusk, and they made their way toward Golden Gate Park. The windblown trees in the long, stretching shadows beckoned to them. Ducking below some overgrown foliage, they
Walking fast, she stumbled to a halt, patted her hairdo, and beamed a partially toothless smile. She batted her sparse eyelashes and held her clasped hands beneath her chin. She pointed at Michael with starstruck awe and said, "You star in
Matrix
movie, eh?"
Lindsey stifled a laugh as she and Michael exchanged bemused glances. Gently, he replied, "Well, actually, no. I wasn't in that movie."
The woman was unswayed. "You can't fool me," she said. "Big secret, you probably on film location here, eh?" She winked at Michael as if she was keen to his little game. Looking him up and down, her gaze lingered from the top of his cowlick to the soles of his Stan Smiths. "Well, you look
velly nüce
." She smoldered, looking like a Chinese Broom Hilda.
She turned on her orthopedic heels and did her best rendition of skipping away. Before sitting down with her family and her beef bone, she turned and gave a final little wave.
Michael good-naturedly waved back. While absentmindedly rearranging the condiments on the table, he said, "It's been a while since we've had real Chinese food."
Lindsey nodded in agreement. Just last week, Michael's sister had visited and they took her to a yuppified Chinese restaurant. The menus were in English with nary a typo, and they ordered touristy stuff—innocuous-sounding dishes like Orange Chicken and Imperial Rice. They ate sweet and fried things with goopy sauces. But it wasn't really Chinese food to Lindsey, or by now, to Michael either.
When they first started going out, Lindsey had to get over her anxieties about eating Chinese food around a non-family member, but over their two years together, Michael had learned to eat some hardcore stuff.
At banquets with Lindsey's family, he got used to eating things like pork guts in brown sauce and salted bottomfeeder in red oil. Her grandparents would order dishes in Chinese and when Lindsey asked what was coming, Yeh Yeh would explain, "duck with medicinal insect in soup."
"third stomach of cow."
"pig's trotters with pineapple and fungus," or sometimes, "mother-and-child-meet," meaning pigeon with pigeon-egg sauce. Literal English translation didn't always sound very appetizing.
But Michael had eaten it all, bless him. Even dishes that Lindsey wouldn't touch, like the seaweed that looked like hair, red bean dessert soup, and tripe. Michael had drunk the wine steeped with mice (for flavor, silly) and gnawed on the gnarliest of preserved fruit
mui
.
Lindsey's relatives loved to watch Michael mow down all the Chinese delicacies. They listened with rapt attention when he described the pros and cons of baked
cha siu bows
versus steamed. He likened oxtail stew to Italian
osso buco
and compared Chinese beef tongue dishes to Mexican
lengua
. Lindsey would have loved Michael even if he was a fussy eater, but somehow their relationship was proof that the way to a man's heart was through sauteed cow stomach.
"Wow, that was fast," Lindsey said as their food arrived. She doused their potstickers with rice vinegar and chili paste, then stirred the
won ton mein
with
horn choi
, which was the house specialty.
Michael spooned some beef tendons and stewed turnips onto her plate, knowing it was her favorite. She responded by forking over some salt-baked tofu and a couple of pieces of almond-pressed duck.
While Michael ate with chopsticks, Lindsey used a fork because it was easier. They liked to take their time eating, but the food was so good they ended up stuffing themselves quickly. When they were done, they each washed down their meal with several cups of hot tea.
The waiter brought over orange slices and fortune cookies. As Michael paid the bill, he said, "Want to go for our walk?" She nodded, and they headed for the door.
There was about an hour of sun left before dusk, and they made their way toward Golden Gate Park. The windblown trees in the long, stretching shadows beckoned to them. Ducking below some overgrown foliage, they
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