Page 55 of Broken Pieces
“This way, next time you come to New York, you can order from your favorite spot,” she says excitedly as she keeps organizing the takeout containers.
Only if you come with me too.
The comment is at the tip of my tongue. Because I hope that next time she’s here too. She makes everything more fun; better; vivid with color.
We start with her favorite type of dumplings: steamed. Then, we start doing mix and match, so I can explore my horizons, she claims. And we quickly find out that I’m more of a pork kind of guy, not so much chicken or shrimp.
“This one tastes so gingery.” She makes ablechface as she takes a napkin and spits it out.
“I like it. I think I like ginger.” I shrug, savoring the sharp, citrusy taste.
“Don’t get me wrong. I like ginger. I just don’t want it to be the center of attention. Ginger is more like a palette cleanser, like when you eat sushi. You know?”
I nod in understanding. “Alright, What do you rate it?”
She taps her cheek twice with her index finger, pondering. “A three, just because I appreciate how fresh it tastes, so I gotta at least give them that. How ‘bout you?”
“A four.”
She rolls her eyes and groans, dropping her chopsticks on one of the open containers.
I furrow. “What?”
“This is the twelfth dumpling we’ve tried, and you keep giving them the same rating,” she replies with an exasperated breath.
“None of them have been impressive yet.”
“Are you kidding!?” she shrieks as she finds dumpling number six and grabs the paper bag and shoves it in front of my face. “You can’t tell me you didn’t like Mrs. Yeng’s pork dumplings!? They had so much soup and all the flavors just burst in your mouth.”
“Will it make you happy if I give Mrs. Yeng a higher rating?” I ask, holding back a laugh.
“It definitely wouldn’t hurt. I thought she deserved better.” She puffs, dropping the bag back where it belongs and crossing her arms. I almost believe she’s genuinely offended.
“I'll give it a six,then,” I relent.
She squints her eyes at me for a moment, before nodding firmly. “Okay, that’ll do for now.”
I can’t possibly eat anymore, but we started this game of rating every dumpling we try, and also, I like the idea of spending time with her, talking about every random thing as we stuff ourselves.
By the twelfth dumpling, she is ready to call it quits, but somehow, she pulls through.
She huffs. “I don’t think I can move. Matter of fact, I’ll just sleep right here.” We’re both sitting on the floor, our heads resting on the couch as we both look up, trying to get over the food coma.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into eating twenty dumplings.” I laugh, struggling to breathe with how stuffed I am.
She hits me on the arm playfully. “You repeated some of them! You ate like thirty.”
“Well, some of them were very good.”
She sits up excitedly. “Ah ha! So you accept that not all of them were the same rating.”
I let out a sigh. “I guess not.”
“And? Go ahead, say it.”
I roll my eyes and confess, “Mrs. Yeng’s was definitely a ten.”
She gets up and starts doing a triumph dance that looks both hilarious and terrifying. “I knew it! Man, you make things so complicated,” she says, sittingback down.
