I am a manager at Docks Oyster Bar on Third Avenue. We employ a sushi chef, Ming. Ming is a rockstar, he carves up sea critters draped in jeans and a bandana. He's also mysterious, and quietly kind. I find him vaguely attractive. That's why today for lunch I sat next to him at the bar, and tested his savvy.
Me: I'm crazy about pho.
Ming: You?
Ming needn't say much, but it was all in the expressions. I am non-Asian, and hence suspect. He sized up the sincerity of my claim, first skeptical. I waxed on about sriracha and thai basil, the delicate balance of onions and beef broth. I sang the virtues of a simple tai, or extravagant dac biet. I scoffed at the notion of ever paying more than $6.50 for a decent bowl. My authenticity was incontrovertible; his dark eyes lit up behind his usual hazy reserve. I had him impressed.
Ming: You must go to Flushing.
Flushing. Or Flushing-ish. Apparently there is a Chinatown in Queens, wherein lies the Promised Land. None of this Manhattan fool's Chinatown drivel, he promised. Tomorrow, he assured me, he will bring me the address, written in code on the back of a chameleon, to appear only when held in the fleshtone hands of a true Follower. I can practically taste the hoisin...
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