She was the store manager, so the first time he saw her she was wearing a name tag and looking very official. Her hair was short and curly and she had the biggest, prettiest, shyest eyes he’d ever seen. He never could resist a shy girl—all that caution and mystery.
He’d quoted Bob Marley and Robert Frost. He’d sung. Patricia never stood a chance against the force of his charm. His audition time came and went, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t get enough of those eyes that widened so dramatically at the slightest flirtation.
Still, a part of him had said to stay away. Some prescient part of him saw the two paths diverging in the yellow wood. Maybe if he’d chosen the other path, if he’d left the store instead of stayed, it would’ve made all the difference.
“KOREAN FOOD? BEST FOOD. Healthy. Good for you,” I say to Natasha, imitating my mom. It’s something she says every time we go out to dinner. Charlie always suggests we go to an American place, but Mom and Dad always take us to Korean, even though we eat Korean food at home every day. I don’t mind because it turns out I agree with my mom. Korean food? Best food.
Natasha and I don’t have much time left before her appointment, and I’m beginning to doubt that I can make her fall in love with me in the next couple of hours. But I can at least make her want to see me again tomorrow.
We walk into my favorite soon dubu joint to greetings of “Annyeonghaseyo” from the staff. I love this place, and their seafood stew is almost as good as my mom’s. It’s not fancy at all, just small wooden tables in the center surrounded by booths on the perimeter. It’s not crowded right now, so we manage to snag a booth.
Natasha asks me to order for her. “I’ll eat whatever you tell me to,” she says.
I ring the little bell attached to the table and a waitress appears almost instantly. I order two seafood soon dubu, kalbi, and pa jun.
“There’s a bell?” she asks after the waitress leaves.
“Awesome, right? We’re a practical people,” I say, only half kidding. “Takes all the mystery out of food service. When will my waiter appear? When will I get the check?”
“Do American restaurants know about this? Because we should tell them. Bells should be mandatory.”
I laugh and agree, but then she takes it back.
“No, I changed my mind. Can you imagine some jerk just leaning on the bell demanding ketchup?”
The panchan, complimentary side dishes, arrive almost immediately. A part of me braces to have to explain to her what she’s eating. Once, a friend of a friend made a What’s in this food? Is it dog? joke. I felt like shit but still I laughed. It’s one of those moments that makes me want that Do-Over Card.
Natasha, though, doesn’t ask any questions about the food.
The waitress comes over and hands us both chopsticks.
“Oh, can I have a fork, please?” Natasha asks.
The waitress gives her a disapproving look and turns to me. “Teach girlfriend how to use chopsticks,” she says, and walks away.
Natasha looks at me with wide eyes. “Does that mean she’s not going to bring me a fork?”
I laugh and shake my head. “What the hell?”
“I guess you should teach me how to use chopsticks,” she says.
“Don’t worry about her,” I say. “Some people aren’t happy until everything is done their way.”
She shrugs. “Every culture is like that. The Americans, the French, the Jamaicans, the Koreans. Everyone thinks their way is the best way.”
“Us Koreans might actually be right, though,” I say, grinning.
The waitress returns and places the soup and two uncooked eggs in front of us. She tosses paper-clad spoons into the center of the table.
“What’s this called?” Natasha asks, when the waitress is out of earshot.
“Soon dubu,” I say.
She watches me crack my egg into the soup and bury it under cubes of steaming tofu and shrimp and clams so it will cook. She does the same and doesn’t make a comment about whether it’s safe to eat.
“This is delicious,” she says, sipping a spoonful. She practically wiggles with pleasure.
“How come you call yourself Korean?” she asks after a few more sips. “Weren’t you born here?”
“Doesn’t matter. People always ask where I’m from. I used to say here, but then they ask where are you really from, and then I say Korea. Sometimes I say North Korea and that my parents and I escaped from a water dungeon filled with piranhas where Kim Jong-un was holding us prisoner.”
She doesn’t smile like I expect her to. She just asks me why I do that.
“Because it doesn’t matter what I say. People take one look at me and believe what they want.”
“That sucks,” she says, scooping up some kimchi and popping it into her mouth. I could watch her eat all day.
“I’m used to it. My parents think I’m not Korean enough. Everybody else thinks I’m not American enough.”
“That really sucks.” She moves on from the kimchi to bean sprouts. “I don’t think you should say you’re from Korea, though.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not true. You’re from here.”
I love how simple this is for her. I love that her solution to everything is to tell the truth. I struggle with my identity and she tells me just to say what’s true.
“It’s not up to you to help other people fit you into a box,” she says.