A Story


It all started when we were going to one of my friend’s graduations. Though, maybe that’s a bit misleading; we didn’t go to the graduation, we went to the end of it, because my mom’s work servers’ air-con went wacky, and she had to stay an hour late and fix the things. You know how it is.

Anyway, we met my friend’s father, a family friend of ours. I always figured he and my dad were childhood friends, or something of the sort. After I got the car parked, he gestured to us and told us - in Chinese - “I’m going to go find Mo (my friend). Wait here!” So, we waited at the sidewalk, next to all the fathers and mothers, the sisters and the brothers, and the graduates in red and white - the colors of Bloomsburg High School. We waited awkwardly for twenty minutes; a graduation of a class of  99% white students is no place for a Chinese family. But, we waited anyway, as was our obligation.

Eventually, after the hat-throwing, Mo did finally make it out of the crowd. He was dressed in a red graduation gown. “Hey, Ed!” I stuck out my hand to shake, but he had nothing of that and went around my back with one hand. “How’s it going?”

“Pretty well, thanks. Congratulations!” I handed him the package and bag my mother had prepared for him, but he gave it to his father. He said, “I’ll be right back!” and left to find his classmates.

I stood around for another half hour while my parents, his parents and other Chinese well-wishers made small talk in Chinese. All the while, I did what adolescent boys are wont to do when left with no tasks; I looked at girls.

I could say I’m a hard guy to please. I could say that none of the girls caught my eye. But that’s not really true. I might have taken any of them if they were so bold as to walk up to me and just say “Hey.” I think this is secretly every guy’s dream; that they are good enough to simply approach in a crowd. But I know this is not really true, from my years of experience, and so, at every gathering, I wait for that girl, a girl, any girl, to just come up and say hi.

But it never happens.

Afterward, when Mo was done congratulating and hugging and taking pictures with all of his classmates, our families, along with another lonely Chinese professor came to congratulate Mo, all went to a Japanese restaurant called Arirang. Yeah, I know the place is called “Oliran” now, but Arirang was so much better. It has much more of a ring in its name, to me, at least. Arirang is a Japenese Hibachi restaurant, which is really a contradiction, as Japanese don’t do Hibachi, the Koreans do. Anyway, there were Chinese symbols on the shades in the window, and this put us at rest.

Arirang is the type of foreign restaurant which relies on American culture to thrive. They serve Japanese/Korean/Chinese cuisine, but that’s where the foreign-ness ends. The Hibachi chefs are really just there for show. Sure they know how to grill on the iron Hibachi stations, but really what makes them money is showing off and pleasing the crowd. They always start with a bout of flipping forks and knives around on the grill like a drum player twirling sticks. Then, they lather the grill with oil and set it on fire, putting fear into the more skittish of the crowd. Afterward, they start the cooking, but even this is a show. As they cook, they shout to random people, “Open up!” and flip a piece of zucchini or melon at a waiting mouth. They follow this up with a squirt, or sometimes a long stream, of sake (Japanese wine) all the while stirring their audience into a chant of “Go, go, go, go!”

By comparison, the food is merely an afterthought. It contains all the traditional staples of Asian food; a side of noodles or fried rice topped with meat or vegetables of your choice. It is extremely salty, and tastes of garlic and soy sauce. Not much else can be said for it. It is not for the food that people come to Arirang, but for the experience.

Interestingly, our Hibachi chef spoke Chinese. There is something to be said for a common native language; our table felt somehow warmer, more comfortable than other tables where the chefs were shouting, “COME ON BABY! OPEN YOUR MOUTH! I KNOW YOU CAN DO IT!” with strong eastern Asian accents. In contrast, while our table still had the food flinging and sake squirting, we were more laid back. The shift manager came to spoke to us, also in Chinese. He seemed a very lonely man. He came by twice, but he did not talk to any of the American customers, only to us. However, he was very kind and gentle, even going as far as bringing out a fried ice cream - a bit incongruous in the Asian-themed restaurant, but the thought was there - for Mo to congratulate him for graduating, on the house. After our chef left, we talked among ourselves about things of little consequence: my return to college to take summer classes, Mo’s visit to China beginning the next day, his parents moving back to China after their stay of two years for their son’s sake. It was all very relaxed, but it was a nice farewell. We passed away two hours like this.

Of course, I had to drive back because both my parents had two beers. On the way, my mother lost some of the calm and said, “Finally, finally they are going back. I can’t take all these obligations.”

“Surely you wouldn’t regret helping out a childhood friend of dad’s?” I asked curiously.

My mother snorted. “A childhood friend? Mo’s father is a man your father met on the plane to China.”

I blinked, suprised. I looked at my father, and he nodded in confirmation.

We rode in silence for the rest of the trip, and I reflected on the nature of friendship, and common language, and food flinging and sake squirting and all these things. After we were back home, I sat down and wrote this. Excuse me if it’s a little rough around the edges, it’s 11 PM and I’m a bit tired. Good night.