Perfect 油条
"I'm sorry, you'll have to wait a minute," said the the Eastern-European owner of the crepe shop to me, quickly returning her attention to the man in front of her, a slick-haired Chinese man in his mid-30s, wearing an immaculate silk pinstripe suit.
She anxiously handed the man a crepe, delicately folded into a hat-like design on a plate. He took the plate over to a table, where two Asian teenagers in street clothes were waiting, set it down, and walked back to his previous position next to the counter.
The woman had begun making another crepe. She added to it what at first looked to be potato wedges, but on closer inspection proved to be slices of donut. There were green onions spread throughout the batter.
"Thank you for waiting," she called over to me. "I'll be right there. I promise."
She folded this crepe up like the last, after carefully transferring it onto a second plate, and she placed this, like the previous, into the man's outstretched hands.
"Very good," he said. "Often, we in the South of China eat these."
"I have never made a Chinese pancake before. I hope it is good enough."
"I will let you know."
The man took a seat with his young companions.
The woman walked over to me and smiled.
"I'd like a cup of coffee. Medium. With milk." I took the coffee to an empty table, sat down, opened a book, and began reading.
"How were they?" I heard the woman ask. I looked up.
"Good. Good," the man in the suit answered. He was already standing again, and the plates were empty. The two others were putting on their jackets and preparing to leave. "Perhaps next time when I come back, you will make them for me again. And next time, if I have time, I will give you . . . pointers."
"I look forward to it."
"As do I."
The man in the suit smiled, glanced at the other two, and began strutting toward the door, trailed by one of the teenagers on each side. None of them looked behind them as they marched out of the cafe and around the corner.
She anxiously handed the man a crepe, delicately folded into a hat-like design on a plate. He took the plate over to a table, where two Asian teenagers in street clothes were waiting, set it down, and walked back to his previous position next to the counter.
The woman had begun making another crepe. She added to it what at first looked to be potato wedges, but on closer inspection proved to be slices of donut. There were green onions spread throughout the batter.
"Thank you for waiting," she called over to me. "I'll be right there. I promise."
She folded this crepe up like the last, after carefully transferring it onto a second plate, and she placed this, like the previous, into the man's outstretched hands.
"Very good," he said. "Often, we in the South of China eat these."
"I have never made a Chinese pancake before. I hope it is good enough."
"I will let you know."
The man took a seat with his young companions.
The woman walked over to me and smiled.
"I'd like a cup of coffee. Medium. With milk." I took the coffee to an empty table, sat down, opened a book, and began reading.
"How were they?" I heard the woman ask. I looked up.
"Good. Good," the man in the suit answered. He was already standing again, and the plates were empty. The two others were putting on their jackets and preparing to leave. "Perhaps next time when I come back, you will make them for me again. And next time, if I have time, I will give you . . . pointers."
"I look forward to it."
"As do I."
The man in the suit smiled, glanced at the other two, and began strutting toward the door, trailed by one of the teenagers on each side. None of them looked behind them as they marched out of the cafe and around the corner.