Cultures Colide


One of my favorite restaurants is located just a few blocks from the road leading to my building. I forget its name, but I know that it roughly translate to 'piss off!' in English. As in, 'I'm eating, I'm hungry, piss off'. It has no door. An absent wall opens a tanned tiled floor and glossy wooden tables to the streets of Bangkok. The food is delicious, but nothing spectacular. The same dishes can be found at just about any other restaurant, as far as I can conclude. (Thais will tell you differently.) But I find myself inextricably addicted. A coworker had taken me there. I continued eating there because it felt comfortable. But I became inextricably addicted to 'Piss Off!'. The reason goes back to one night.
More...The atmosphere gently shook my hand, introduced itself, and cordially began to recant its subtle details. On the walls hung framed frozen gymnasts now waiting tables, helping the family. Calmly weaving underneath and between the tables, the restaurant cat kept street rats away. One night, we ate together. I ate stir-fried noodles with chicken and vegetables, and it ate a rat, freshly caught and softly bleeding. I found it soothing, considering the alternative. That night, though, a piece of green curried chicken concreted our friendship.

After finishing my meal, I ordered a Thai beer and sat back to enjoy some soccer. Liverpool played Edmonton. The ball passed back and forth. I began to think of where I was, and where I had been. I stood on my balcony in Oakland. I had a first kiss at the bottom of a staircase in Eugene. I said goodbye to so much. As I became the soccer ball, a slender man approached my table. His shirt read '1stTANbul' and his face read 'intrigued'. He carried something familiar. He sat it down in front of me without speaking a word.

It was a taco.

The crunchy corn tortilla, the spicy beef and cheddar cheese shreds, the orange grease gliding onto the plate, all of it, was familiar and longed for. For a second, I puzzled over my location as I looked at the man speechlessly.

"It is the first one. We make it for the restaurant's new menu. You try. Tell me if you like," said the slender, thin-haired man.

"Thank you so much." The taco had set my heart afire with nostalgia. The cheese and sinfully seasoned ground beef sang, reverberated and became an echo. How often does one eat a taco that will have a lifelong effect?

He came back to the table and I informed him that it tasted terrific, that I had been wanting one for the past couple of days. Thai food is fantastic, but so is variety. His grin touched the ceiling.

"Are you from Turkey," I asked while staring at his shirt.

"No, I am from Iran." Seriousness curtained his face, but his gaze never left mine. His abysmal eyes made me feel transparent, as if all my secrets were as available, as plated as that taco had been.

Without wavering, I asked him about the shirt. He had bought it while visiting Turkey three years ago. A few more pleasantries regarding my job, his education at the university, and our total time spent in Thailand later and he returned to his table. He poured himself some vodka.

My mirth could not be contained. As Liverpool moved across the field, the vodka chilled and the taco digested with the green curried chicken. In Thailand, I sat and counted the converging cultures that passed in one restaurant: an Iranian wearing a Turkish shirt gave a Mexican taco to an American watching English soccer and eating an Indian curry dish while sitting in a Thai restaurant, ending with both of us sharing a cheers with Russian vodka.

And so it was that eight different parts of the world met at one table, under one roof, between two strangers. Under such circumstances, anyone's curiosity would be addicted.