in the first day of the lunar new year there were no fireworks and no dragon dances in the only chinese take out in my street.
ling, the reed thin order taker, was also not around. I never recalled her calling in sick ever.
in her place, a stocky, ill-humored woman took my order. she grunted when jokingly I asked her about the missing pyrotechnics in this important day.
despite her initial display of poor customer relations skills, I couldn't resist needling her where ling was.
in mandarin, she asked the other girl lolling by the steaming rice cooker. the other girl wearing a red apron with starchy stains told me ling got married two days ago.
"this year, bad luck," she volunteered, "for weddings." she looked earnest and sheepish at the same time.
"why?" I asked.
the girl, fumbling for words, shouted through the order window and into the kitchen.
the cook's voice came out screechy. "this year, no first day of spring. brides, widows soon."
"so this year is not a good year?" I asked the girl by the rice cooker again.
vehemently, she shook her head. "no, no, no. only weddings, bad luck. but food still good."
then the cantankerous substitute order taker interjected "we celebrate new year right." she pointed at the ajar swing door towards the buzzing kitchen.
from where I was, I could see the cook unhook from the pot rack overhead a shiny wok, freshly hammered and not yet tempered. when he slammed it against the burner, the blue gas flame made its bottom spark.