It started with a turkey sandwich. I’m not sure why it is
always the little things, the turkey sandwich and not the turkey dinner, the
pancake and not the cheesecake, lasagna and not pasta primavera, but it is
always the simple foods that trip me up.
I had a long day at work today, one of those day where you
shred 700 business cards, send out six versions of the same report because
everyone has one small edit to make, and frantically trying to remember how to
convert time zones so that you don’t turn in your homework late… again. I was
going to treat myself to some cartoon cat bread. Don’t laugh, that is the
actual name of an actual dessert served at our friendly Korean-owned
fake-French bakery that specializes in weird hotdog and cheese-based pastries.
Anyway, I was looking for the cat bread, when suddenly I
stopped. There, on a scrappy handwritten sign taped above a half-hearted
refrigerator section were the characters 火鸡三明治, and I immediately felt a surge of homesickness. There, hidden amongst the suspect tuna and
egg salad was an actual turkey sandwich, and I needed to have it.
For a little
context, turkey isn’t something Chinese people eat. Actually, I don’t think I’ve
even seen turkey available anywhere in Chengdu before. There is lots of pork
and chicken, some beef, heck even duck and yak are pretty common, but no
turkey. And to be honest, I didn’t really mind. Turkey isn’t one of those
things I commonly go out of my way for. Sure, I eat a couple of slices on
Thanksgiving, maybe buy a package of lunch meat every so often, but that’s
pretty much it. So, I was surprised when
I was suddenly seized by this absolute desire to eat this turkey sandwich that
had definitely been sitting there, soaking in its own juices for several hours.
In the bakery, I
picked up the little saran wrapped box. Thickly cut stale white bread, some sad
iceberg lettuce, slimy tomatoes, something green… possibly cucumbers, a white
substance I guess was either mayo or cheese, and then a few scraggly pieces of
turkey. It didn’t even look appetizing then and there, but I still needed to
have it.
I carried the box
to the register, sadly forked over twenty-two kuai (roughly $3, and about ten
kuai more than I would have paid for a good bowl of noodles), and ran back to
my apartment. I unwrapped the box, tried not to drip, whatever was dripping off
the sandwich onto my bed, and inhaled the entire thing.
It was terrible. I
mean, beyond forgiveness bad. I’m not sure how a single sandwich can
simultaneously be stale, dry, and soaking wet. I can’t tell you what it tasted
like, except that it was bad. I have no idea if that white substance was
supposed to be cheese or mayo, but it didn’t really taste like either. The
tomato immediately launched itself off of the bread and onto my pants, and
crumbs flew everywhere. It was gone in less than two minutes.
I don’t really know
why I keep doing this to myself. Last week it was pancakes so laughably bad
that I didn’t quite know what to do with them. The week before was some
terrible Chinese approximation of a burger and fries. Don’t even get me started
on Chinese ice cream…
I am perfectly
content to eat Chinese food most of the time. I struggle a bit with breakfast
here, but that’s because there isn’t a 油条place
within walking distance of my apartment. I can choose from over five different
hand-cut noodle places within a ten minute walking distance of the consulate. I
have a list of classic Sichuanese dishes that I can order pretty much anywhere.
And when that fails, point and pray usually works pretty well. The dumpling
lady who works in my building may not know me by name, but she definitely knows
my order.
So, why do I insist
on eating over-priced poorly cooked Western food? I know it will be bad, I can
see it coming from a mile away, and yet, sometimes I can’t stop myself. Again,
its never the giant feast that trips me up, always the humble snack. It’s the brownie
that reminds me of baking “from scratch” with my mother. It’s the salad that
reminds me of all the times my little sister ate an entire bag of Caesar salad.
It’s the cup of coffee that smells like home.
I never feel more homesick than
when I’m eating food that is just not quite the same as back home.
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