San Francisco
November 2012
Walking around Chinatown is almost like walking around a place not part of the U.S. My husband and I began our married life in Yokohama, Japan, which, incidentally, has a Chinatown, too, and I felt as if I had imperceptibly stepped through a liminal port into a world far away from my own. And yet, it was so familiar. Though I do not read many kanji (the Japanese word for Chinese characters), they are a comfortable part of my consciousness.
The pouring rain that had put me off adventuring (see previous post) had decided, at last, to leave the area for a good stretch of time, and I thought I would make a run at the local scene before it decided to return. So I left the hotel, umbrella in tow, and struck out to find something unique, I hoped, for lunch. I’m not quite as adventurous as some of the famous foodies who run around the world looking to eat things unimaginable to vast majority of humanity save during a severe shortage of food, but I didn’t want to settle for anything I felt I had already eaten within recent memory either.
Deja vu. Fish mongers with their fresh catch (smelled fresh anyway), produce stalls with exotic fruits and vegetables, apothecaries, tea shops, and general dry goods, frequently punctuated by the sight of a purveyor of fine baubles aimed at wide-eyed tourists (who seemed to be conspicuously absent while we were there)—all seemed as normal as they had when we were living in Japan. Meanwhile, the occasional whiff of cigarette smoke teased my brain until I realized that the tobacco fumes were dancing with the aroma of patchouli and ginseng. It is said that the sense of smell is the most powerful at invoking memory. I believe it.
As in Japan, I noted a number of establishments that required either ascending or descending a flight of steps from street level. And, as in Japan, if I couldn’t tell what they were about, I instinctively avoided them. I’m not a glutton for trouble, after all, just mild adventure. And I was not in the mood for Dim Sum, which is meant to be a social experience as much as a menu offering. I wanted something warm, soothing, interesting, and vegetarian as my personal preference then dictated.
I must stop a moment here to discuss the word “synchronicity,” which, by general definition, is a particular moment that requires a person be available at just the right place, at just the right time, for just the right opportunity.
As synchronicity would have it, I had wandered into a small but busy street that appeared to be in the middle of Chinatown. I had nearly determined to go back to the first street I had entered to have lunch at a Thai restaurant (of all places), when a shop window caught my eye. There was a menu, and I could read it, and the dishes looked interesting. An attractive Chinese woman came through the door and invited me in to have lunch. Of course, I don’t mean she invited me to be her guest, but she pointed out to me that they were listed as one of the top ten places to eat in Chinatown. Interesting, as there was hardly anyone inside, but then, as I said, the tourists were all at home, having celebrated Thanksgiving and returned to work or school.
Why not? I had never had “Hong Kong Clay Pot” cooking, and I had been looking for something new, hadn’t I? Bingo. A vegetarian dish consisting of tofu, gluten “meat,” broccoli, and a few assorted veggies, simmering in what appeared to be a cross between a broth and a sauce, brown and bubbling in a clay pot (not unlike a deep fajita dish) when it arrived in front of me. Synchronicity. I am so easy to please sometimes.
I don’t recall doing much more in the afternoon that day. I imagine I window-shopped. I know I passed by schools, a hospital, parks, and professional offices, and I did purchase some fragrant jasmine tea from a sweet, shy gentleman who spoke little English. As far as I was concerned, the afternoon had been a success. I went back to the hotel in the later afternoon, because I could. I watched anything I wanted on television, because I could. I put my feet up and browsed the internet, because I could. I know it’s been said before, but it must be said again. Occasionally doing absolutely nothing is highly under-rated. Would that I could grab a bit of “do-nothing” time during the average week at home. Minus the guilt, that is.
Join me next time for Tea Time with Kenny…
No comments:
Post a Comment