Pioneer Girl by Bich Minh Nguyen Read Free Book Online

just as well.

THREE
    A merica is mostly made up of small towns, and no matter where you go, mountains or seaside or flatness, you will always find, just off an interstate or county road or tucked into a strip mall on a commercial pass, a worn-out-looking Chinese buffet. It might be called the Golden Panda or New China or New Golden Panda Buffet, or just plain Asia Buffet—Oriental Buffet if it’s a real backwoods area—the words spelled out in Kung Fu chop suey font or, depending on the economics of the neighborhood, utilitarian block lettering, sans serif. Some of the buildings will have a pagoda look to them, with faux-clay tiles and gold trim. Others will be more to the point: cement, windowless, cheap real estate. They will have rutted lots, signs that say
More Parking in Rear
. When you open the door an electronic two-tone bell will announce your arrival.
    Inside, the lighting will be dimmed, concealing the fine layers of grease that have settled into the surfaces, settling even now into your hair, your clothes, your skin. But don’t think about that. Look, instead, at all the Asian stuff! Dusty red lanterns; pictures of dragons and fishermen; paper place mats printed with the signs of the Chinese zodiac. Everywhere you look there will be plastic, vinyl, PVC: the plants in the corners, the seat of each chair, the amber-colored cups at the water dispenser, and, at the cash register, the little altruistic trays that tell you to go ahead, take a penny, leave a penny.
    But remember what it is you came for. The goal, the crux, the mother lode: gleaming rows of inset chafing dishes where steam rises to meet the plastic roofs known as sneeze guards. The setup will tell you about the restaurant’s ambitions. Are there two buffets, lined up like parallel stalwarts, dependable, traditional even, or do they form one line as in a middle school cafeteria? Are they perhaps angled, even perpendicular, in a nod to a newer, avant-garde style of enterprise? Are the buffets close to the kitchen, which is easier for the workers but more of a trek for some of the diners? Or do they take the center of the room, proud to claim the spotlight?
    You might agree that one of the best things about a buffet is no waiting. The plates and bowls are always ready and someone will always take away the dirty ones. As experienced diners know, time can work for you at the buffet. Play it right and the span between walking in the door to biting into an egg roll is no more than two minutes. But what is your methodology? Do you move from left to right, appetizers to dessert? Do you pace yourself, dish by dish, or do you crowd as much as you can into each helping? How do you gauge your hunger to your greed? How do you figure the difference between eating and consuming?
    You might choose to begin at the tureens of soup: wonton, hot and sour, yellow egg drop, thickened into goo. From there you might be distracted by mounds of fried rice, shining with oil (white rice available only upon request), sesame balls, and steamed buns—plenty of carbs for the rookies who fill up on them first. There will be piles of those cabbage-filled egg rolls, their skins turning obstinate under the heat lamps. The whole array of fried will be impressive: fried wonton strips, fried shrimp, fried chicken wings, fried crab puffs, fried dumplings, and the essential crab rangoon. All that happens even before the entrees: lo mein, spare ribs, Mongolian beef, sweet-and-sour pork, sweet-and-sour chicken, cashew chicken, almond chicken, sesame chicken, and, of course, the famous deep-fried nubs named after the mysterious General Tso. It’s all gloriously American, brought in by food distributors, defrosted, reheated, refried, doused with the sweet, sweet, viscous sauces that arrive in giant plastic jars or frozen blocks almost arbitrarily labeled
Kung Pao
,
Garlic
, and
Szechuan
.
    This is not to say that all buffets are alike. No, each has its own personality, its