Tag Archives: Lunchtime

Fish in a Can

I met my childhood best friend in the gymnasium during lunch, just after our second grade began.

During lunch, the gymnasium doubled as the lunchroom, filled with rows of collapsible picnic tables rolled in from the school storage shed, the basketball nets above folded up so as not to provide the children with yet another unwanted distraction.

I remember. No one would sit with me because of my “Chinese lunches.” According to the other children, the food my mom packed for me (leftovers from dinner and the now fashionable, but back then the as-yet-reviled bánh mì sandwiches purchased from the local Vietnamese market) – that food was so smelly and gross and simply unfit for human consumption. So go ahead and let the “Chinese” girl eat it. This went on for quite some time; longer than it should and much, much longer than seemed possible.

Then one day someone did sit next to me. A redheaded girl whose preoccupied mom began packing her sardines for lunch. I remember the heft of the can, the way the girl plunked it down at the table. No one would sit with her either, at least, not after she opened up that can of fish. She was more confused than sad about this, but then maybe her confusion just masked her sadness as it did for me.

It took a while, but we got to talking, then comparing lunches. It was a sobering exercise. Because, whatever else I had (old rice, soggy noodles, weird veggies with marinated eggs), she had fish heads. Whatever else she was, I was still the Asian girl in a mostly white school.

We were a match.

I never shared my lunch, and the girl, my eventual friend, never asked. She never ate her sardines, though she eagerly opened them every day, right after plunking that heavy tin on the table.

We smashed up the fish with her fingers, rendering them into a viscous fish-paste that fascinated (so much destruction in that particular transformation). We took the heads and spines from the sardines and threw them at boys, then girls, then whoever. We were seldom caught (not many snitches in that lunchroom and who wouldn’t appreciate some distraction?).  I was always a little proud we started with the boys, targeting them not out of malice but out of a vague sense of obligation. Anyway, it was something my friend and I never questioned.

Her mother remained preoccupied, packing her can after can of tomato-submerged fish, thinking they made a good lunch. This went on for years.

***

Bánh mì is now fashionable, so much so that non-native speakers gladly twist up their tongues trying (and failing, failing, failing) for an “authentic” pronunciation of the word, the dish. What they settle for (“Bah, bah”, “me-me-me,”) is, fortunately, often more amusing than anything else. More amusing, possibly, that it should be.

Sardines, however, remain what they are.

Still just fish in a can.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Filed under Childhood, Food, Friendship, Race, Relationships, School, THE PAST

The Sandwich

 
He didn’t so much eat the sandwich as fall into it. An architectural wonder of a sandwich it was, layers of meat and cheese and those expensive sprouts you get at the Whole Foods stacked primly yet precariously one after the other, like magic, like wonderful, luscious stratigraphy.

The sandwich was a sensation.

Held together by great dollops of fancy mustard and glistering with just a hint of artisan olive oil, the kind that comes from an island, somewhere far away.

As he bit down his face slowly vanished, embedding itself in sandwich almost to the bridge of his nose, and with laboured chewing and a mighty exhalation he resurfaced again, like an orca cresting the waves against a magnificent sunrise, the light of the midday sun hitting his face just so.

Our eyes locked.

“Oh!” he said, and I marvelled at his audacity.

Don’t say anything. Don’t you dare ruin this.

“Is that all you’re having?” he said, indicating my own pathetic lunch (nothing at all compared to his), sandwich juices running down the sides of his mouth.

He dabbed at them with the palm of his hand.

He took another bite before I could say anything, his face disappearing again into the sandwich, two great slabs of ham dangling from between thick slices of bread, mercifully blocking my view once more.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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