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China Star | Sep 05 2002

You will find the phone number on the menu, which is affixed with little black magnets to the refrigerator door. For some reason I’ve never bothered to memorize it. It has proved easier, each time, to walk the five paces from my desk to the refrigerator, temporarily memorize the number, then walk back to the desk and dial the number. Today, two days from the day I move, I find myself regretting this small repeated laziness. Had I the chance to start again, I would memorize the number on the first day and save myself the walk, performed two or so times a week for two years, to the refrigerator and back.

When you call the number, the China Star woman, whose name I still don’t know, will say, “China Star, can I help you?” only her accent will make the words impossible to decipher. Chhnahsta kunnaheyuh. This doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’ve dialed the right number. Chhnahsta kunnaheyuh means that you’ve dialed the right number. Wait for her to say it, then say, “I’d like to place an order to pick up. Broccoli and tofu. Small.”

Looking back, I realize that after the first few months I didn’t really need to say “small,” as by that point she had learned my voice and learned too that I never ordered anything but broccoli and tofu, small. Indeed, had I wanted, I probably could have left out the bit about wanting to place an order and instead have just said, “Broccoli and tofu, small,” or even, “Broccoli and tofu.”

Regrets.

Wait at least ten minutes before heading over. Fifteen is probably better. The point here is to avoid having to stand too long in that cramped little space (China Star is take-out only).

Or don’t wait. Spend the time working or doing the dishes or perhaps indulging in a fun, relaxing activity. However, if you decide to go online and watch fifteen-second porn clips with sound, be sure to turn down the volume on the computer, because Michelle’s room is right down the hall and I don’t think she wants to hear that stuff, in part because she’s queer and in part because she’s not one hundred percent queer, but mostly because it’s gross.

Personally I like to use the time to write.

Broccoli and tofu costs $2.75. I get it fried, as the steamed version has no flavor. If you decide to try it steamed, be prepared to pay an extra quarter. I haven’t a clue why the plainer, simpler version is more expensive; all I know is that this feels analogous to paying extra for an unlisted phone number.

Your order should be ready when you arrive. Sometimes, though, you will have to wait a few minutes while the China Star woman deals with other customers. A total of three times she’s forgotten to pass my order onto the cook. I’m proud to say that I’ve never shown any anger about this. The poor woman works seven days a week, twelve hours a day (thirteen on Friday and Saturday), and thus must be forgiven for the occasional oversight.

We’ve now arrived at the hard part, the part about the condiments and the fork. If you’re like me, you don’t use those condiments, nor would you dream of eating with a plastic fork when you own nice metal forks which can be washed and reused forever. The China Star woman includes a fork and a half dozen little condiment packages in every order. I don’t know how many orders she fills each day, but it must be in the high hundreds, if not the thousands. And each time the same motions: fork in, condiments in, close bag.

It took several months to stop her from giving me these things. Time and again I had to ask her to take back the fork and condiments, and each time she responded with a confused and weary look before opening the bag. I tried to be light about it, to make it into a kind of joke, a friendly jesting: “Ha, you didn’t remember this time.” Part of the problem was that she doesn’t understand the word condiments, so I had to be excruciatingly specific: “Please, no soy sauce or duck sauce or hot sauce or fork or anything.” I would accompany this with a frantic hand gesture. The turning point came when I hit on the phrase, “Just the food, please.” Somehow this clarified things for her, and I found it easy to say and remember. “Just the food, please.”

A new thought. You could mention me whenever you request no extras (she doesn’t understand the word extras either; I tried it), perhaps by saying something like, “Just the food, please—like that guy” (she doesn’t know my name). Here it would help if you only ordered broccoli and tofu, for that is how she must think of me, as the broccoli and tofu guy. The combination of the two things—the broccoli and tofu and the “just the food” request—would surely click in her head, and you’d be set.

Back at home, remove both containers from the bag and uncover the broccoli and tofu. Allow the dish to “breathe” (I really do think of it this way) at least five minutes. The longer you wait, the more the sauce congeals and (I swear this is true) sweetens. As with many of the best things in life, it is better if you make yourself wait. However, as with certain specific best things in life, you definitely want it to be hot.

Here my recommendation is akin to the classic instruction to “salt and pepper to taste,” which is to say that you must experiment and find what works for you. Alas, in this I can be of no assistance.