Cutting Through

Her eyes are fixated on me, noting every nuance on my face, desperately seeking a smile or groan of contentment as I prepare to wade in. She busies herself by cleaning the counter, but with a hurried intensity, the fervent scrubbing of the work surface an ultimately futile telepathic jolt to get me to do something. I feign a sudden rush to be elsewhere and make for the exit. Winding my way through faded covers of Vietnamese vinyls and discounted household appliances, I am more confused by the establishment than before. And so it comes to be just myself and a banh mi on a Manhattan sidewalk, alone together at last. As I take my first bite, I am instantly grateful that the kindly assistant is not here to see my face, as I register the sudden rush of flavours and the gradual unfurling of textures that follow. The crisp baguette surrenders its soft inner core to a salty slice of pork, a deft brush of pate and full-bodied jalapenos. Then come the supporting acts that demand not to be side-lined: sharp slithers of carrot that pierce through, heady cilantro charging out in a final sweep across my tongue. It is a boggling work of measured precision, hidden under the air of a nonchalant, pile ‘em up approach. I sit and ponder, as the banh mi demands that you do, and become immediately regretful of leaving the shop and its woman behind the counter, thus depriving her of the praise that I am now eager to share. It strikes me, walking through that balmy air that hums with possibility, that this is what New York culture, or indeed culture as a whole, is all about: inviting others to step inside your world, however small a part of it, and seeing the response. Food, that universal language, is the perfect vehicle and receptacle of this. I make a detour from my route and peer through the steamed window. I offer a smile, but see that she is busy again, preparing food and offering up a way of life, silently and obediently celebrating her culture, and allowing others to do the same.