Good Friends, Food, and Conversation

A silver cloud escapes my lips as I turn and watch the girl behind the dingy glass doors. The exaggerated movements of her narrow lips. The wild abandonment of her gesturing hands. She is surrounded by an orchestra of indistinct chatter buzzing disjointed words and whispers.

“We eat anything with its back to the sky.” I jolt back to our place in line as Kiev’s voice and the unforgiving wind slaps my face. My stomach coils with his painfully descriptive account of how to prepare tarantula. His deft fingers dancing gracefully alongside his words. The trick, he claims, is to wrap the delicacy in banana leaves – after grilling it – and allow it to steam. He swears it is similar to filling a lobster claw with a spoonful of crunchy peanut butter.

I peer over to see Praveen’s entire body vibrating with laughter. His every pore bleeding amusement and playfulness, as he mocks the disgust conspicuously painted across Manoj’s face. Manoj stands paralyzed. Mouth open. Eyes brighter than his yellow shirt with swirls of black and gray lines morphing into a phoenix rising from the ashes.

Kathy takes his contortion as incentive to continue with the assault. She details the suction of live octopus down the esophagus as it fights ardently against the natures of gravity and death.

I challenge her culinary bravery with my own memories of Balut, an extra large egg with a noticeably darker tint of gray. Allowing fertilization cocoons the growing embryo within the yoke, and the lingering broth that is sipped through the shell makes for a moist and savory mouthful of duck.

“Katherine, your table is ready.” Shouts the hostess.

The smell alone is intoxicating. A sweet mixture of salt water, corn, spices, and dozens of anonymous bodies crammed around a piece of thick, white paper covering a lovingly worn wooden table. We march obediently to a corner booth. Muted pools of thick liquid form in my mouth as our waiter produces a pad to take our order.

Thank God, I sigh. I’m starving.