As I walked south on Bowery, I was hit by a waft of savory goodness dense with toasted grains and umami. I was compelled to stop and follow my senses toward it. I found myself standing in front of a steamed rice roll stand and felt my stomach rumble.
The man behind the stall handled the delicate rice rolls with care, intently but swiftly rolling the thin batter so the ingredients wouldn’t fall out while simmering his homemade sauce on the flame. Broad in his slim frame, he must have been only two inches taller than me, but the way he commanded the tiny kitchen was further proof that I needed to try it.
“I’ll have an order of the special rolls please.”
The man gave a quick nod and yelled something in a different language behind him. I peered over his shoulder as I saw no one but him in the kitchen. Who was he talking to?
He must have seen my confused face and looked down beside him. I followed his gaze and noticed a small boy prepping ingredients for the rolls. The boy looked up at me as I smiled and waved, quickly diverting his gaze out of embarrassment. I chuckled.
“Is he your son?” I asked.
“Yes.” The man glanced over at the boy again, who was intensely focused on the task at hand.
“How old is he? He seems to know exactly how to do this!”
“He’s eight. He makes a lot of mistakes.”
I awkwardly chuckled, not sure how to respond to the statement. I was soon thereafter handed a hot plate of steamed rice rolls by the young boy. He cautiously handed me the paper plate and wooden chopsticks without making eye contact. His dark purple polo shirt was too long on his short and skinny stature. His oversized apron engulfed him completely.
The smell consumed me. The soft chewy texture of the roll was exactly what my soul needed. It felt like a home I had never lived in. A home nonetheless. The thick and chewy surface lightly bathed in the salty, spicy, and sweet soy and siracha sauce combination was the perfect play on texture and balance. I let the rolls embrace me.
People seemed to continuously come and go down the street; my dimly sunlight corner table was perfect for people watching as they went about their way. I watched the man yell at the boy for not clearing my table. The boy continued to look down in shame as the man sternly spoke in his native tongue, sharp words that sliced through the air without having to be loud. The young boy came to take my empty plate and chopsticks with his head still down, dragging his feet.
“Thank you for the meal. It was really good. You’re a great chef!” I smiled, trying to cheer him up.
“I’m not a chef.” He whispered. Those were the first words I had heard him say.
“A chef is someone who makes yummy food, and you did just that. So you’re a chef, and I’d say you’re a great one.”
“My dad did most of it.”
“Yeah, but I saw you help out a lot. Do you like cooking?”
He took a quick look behind his shoulder. His dad was too busy serving other customers to notice our conversation.
“Yeah,” He shrugged.
As I struggled to keep the conversation going, the man sternly pushed the boy towards the cart, speaking in another language, clearly not happy. The boy hurried away with his head hung low.
“I’m sorry, I was asking him questions. He is a really sweet boy.” I apologized.
“Sweet will not get him anywhere in life.” The man turned to observe his son disdainfully. “He needs structure and discipline. That’s why I make him work the shop with me.”
I looked down with a level of discomfort that was not unfamiliar. Culturally, I’ve seen and experienced this in different ways and forms. I ached for the boy, obedient and diligent. I felt for the father, concerned and rigid. Both only wanting for each other, but their wants fundamentally different. The rift grows steeper with time.
“What do you want for him in life?” I asked.
“Success.” He replied almost immediately.
“What does that mean to you?”
“It means he understands the meaning of time.”
The answer caught me off guard. It was so far from what I expected him to say that I had to pause and reflect.
“I know you’re busy, thank you for talking with me and for the delicious food,” I responded.
The man gave a swift nod and went back to tending the shop. I watched him fall back into the order of things; how easily everything seemed for him. I must have imagined the millisecond of a moment when the father sheepishly glanced at his son as he simmered the sauce with a steady gaze. It must have been a hallucination, the way I thought he reconsidered everything for the briefest moment, overcome with doubt and washed over with raw love.
Time. I continued my stroll down the crowded streets of Chinatown. What is the meaning of time? Time is everything, and it’s nothing. Time is singlehandedly the most powerful construct in the world. But it’s just that - a construct. If you understand the meaning of time, you understand everything. You understand how to prioritize tasks, how to respect others, how to heal, how to create, how to lose.
That is quite the standard to hold an 8-year-old. To instill the discipline and willpower needed to wield the master key to life as we know it, and to believe that it can be done.
I laid in bed that night ruminating on the interaction. The more I realized the weight of this man’s definition of success, the more I knew I needed to talk to him again. I didn’t even know what to ask or what to say, I just needed to understand.
The next day I found myself back at the steamed rice roll stand. The familiar smells and scenery seemed emphasized today as if the looming presence of unlocking the meaning of life made everything more.
“Oh, you’re back. Same order?” The man asked. The boy peered from behind the counter, recognizing me as well.
“Yes, please.”
I ate the steamed rice slowly, hoping that the more time I took, the better chance that the right words would come to me. Time proved me wrong. The plate was soon empty as the boy came to clear my setting.
“The food was yummy per usual, thank you! Good to see you again.” I exclaimed at the boy.
He gave me a soft smile, but not for long. He hurried back to the counter to prep for the next customer.
The man was taking multiple orders and seemed busy. I resolved to never know the secret of the universe and gathered my things to leave when I felt a soft tap on my back. I turned around to notice the boy, nervously looking behind him.
“Hey! Everything ok?” I asked.
“What did you say to my dad yesterday?” He asked quietly.
“Oh,” I paused in confusion. “I told him you’re a sweet boy.”
He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “Did I say something wrong?” I asked, concerned about what the father might have said about the interaction.
The boy shook his head no. “He said I can go home yesterday right after you left. I don’t know why.”
I exhaled in sharp pain. I imagined this young boy working hard for hours in a day, never taking a day off. Wanting to emulate the image of his father doing the same – his strong and dedicated presence while serving sustenance to those in the community who trust in them to do so. Being told to go home felt like a slap in the face. A sign of failure and defeat, that you make things worse here. You’d be better off anywhere else doing anything else other than what you do with all your days and hours. You are not enough.
“Maybe he was finished for the day and wanted you to get some rest!” I offered encouragingly.
The boy looked at me a moment longer before swiftly nodding and returning to the cart. His father acknowledged his return with a brief nod before glancing at me.
I waved my hand in departure and the man bowed before returning to his customers. The boy was too busy to acknowledge anything.
I walked home, leaving the stream and aroma behind me. I tried to imagine myself as the boy walking home yesterday in utter confusion. It was probably the first time he experienced daylight on his walk home. The colors of the setting sun casting a rosy glow over the buildings and the streets.
I wondered if maybe the father had thought about the weight of his words, about the meaning of time. What if our conversation reset something in him, deciding on a whim that his son should have the evening off. To experience his time differently, in a different light, in a different way. Maybe the father wanted for his son the perspective on time that he never had, just for an evening.
In front of me walked two men, one greying and one in his mid 30s. I wondered if this was a man and his father. I wondered if they ever thought about success and time. Or perhaps they were just walking in this moment, success and time a different concept for another day. Right now, understanding that the present is the only moment that we have now and will never get back.
Maybe I didn’t need to understand the secret to success the father seemed to know. Maybe what is right in this moment is the only understanding of time we need. Maybe we’re all just figuring it out, and that’s ok. Only time will tell.