.
... ..That
was when she broke my concentration. She leaned in and pulled a thirty
dollar jar of gochujang off the shelf and continued walking. There are
two unusual things about this. First, she wasn’t Korean. Gochujang
is a savory and pungent vegetable sauce that has been fermented for over
a year, despised by most of the world for its vinegary flavor and rotting
fish scent, and completely indispensable in Korean cooking and Korean
life. The second thing is that she was my age. It might even be argued
that she was attractive. My interest was piqued. Then I glanced at her
shopping basket, and I was in love. Indonesian horseradish, bean curd,
fermented date juice, I’d tried every one of them, and I’d never
seen another person willing to do the same. She paused, examining a can
of poached tomatoes.
... “I would recommend against those.”
... She looked up, blank faced, thick black
glasses strait out of the 50’s, pony tale bobbing.
... “Why?”
... “Well, they expired in nineteen
eighty-three.”
... She checked the label and let out a snort
of amusement. “Thanks.”
... I won’t ever forget that thanks.
Her eyebrows shot up and she pulled a thin lipped smile, then a small
nod as she wheeled about to continue with her shopping. I let out a long
sigh. Thus ended my attempt at human contact, with a girl no less. The
failure to sustain a conversation with her drove me to dejected recklessness,
so I decided to take a risk on the fish paste and made my way to the front
counter, manned, as usual, by Anil, a thirty-seven year old Tibetan guy
who, I knew, was most of the way through his doctorate in industrial engineering.
After six months of nocturnal browsing Anil and I had formed a certain
level of mutual respect, perhaps because he knew what it was like to be
up all night. Or maybe it was because I never asked if he was from India.
... “Ooh, are you sure you want to try
this one, Timothy? It’s over three months past expiration!”
... Anil speaks pretty good English, the
barest hint of an Asian twang that, don’t tell him I said this, really
just sounds Indian to me.
... “I’m pretty sure it’s
fine.”
... I pulled out my money to pay him the
twelve dollars and eight cents owed when the front door burst open, bell
tinkling violently. Everyone in the store looked up. Me, Anil, the girl,
the two old Russian babushkas, all of us, in unison, stared at two balaclava-
wearing figures holding guns.
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