Ordering Chinese Take-Out

It is getting late in this 24/7 city, and I am writing. It is about 8:30. I cannot imagine cooking. My refrigerator, like a typical one in many single households in Manhattan, is nearly empty. I google “Chinese food,” then glance at the reviews on the Internet. Ordering out for Chinese food in this Upper West Side neighborhood -- which some reviewer described as the "Capital of Mediocre Chinese Food in the City"-- is a ritual. I suppose this moniker assumes that the best and most authentic Chinese food is found in the city's traditional Chinese district, Manhattan's Chinatown (with its active tourist industry and about 200 restaurants), and now also in places in the outer boroughs, like the new Flushing Chinatown in Queens -- a burgeoning enclave that rivals the original home of Chinese immigrants as a center for new Chinese-speaking arrivals, and even the new Flatbush Chinatown in Brooklyn.
But I suspect that professional West Siders are not in search of the "most authentic" of Chinese cuisine, are just used to ordering what they call "Chinese" because they are always on the go, and it's quick, convenient and inexpensive. It's not atypical here to see a delivery man, driving though the traffic on a bicycle, with a plastic bag of Chinese food balanced on each handlebar.
There are at least 35 restaurants listed in my search. Most on my list are familiar but there are a few new ones that pop up. I notice a new takeout place that has suddenly appeared just a few blocks away in this city where storefronts so quickly come and go. It promises good food, fast delivery, and low prices.
I give it a try. My delivery order is small: Won Ton soup and Moo Shu Chicken. I give the credit card number to a woman with broken English who politely and efficiently asks me twice to repeat it.
Amazingly, the order comes in a few minutes. To my surprise, a dignified Chinese man, perhaps in his late 40s, arrives, holding a bicycle helmet. His manner is formal, decorous, and deferential. Dressed in neatly pressed khakis and a short-sleeved shirt, he looks more like a teacher or office worker than a delivery boy. He does not rush. He walks quickly and efficiently down the hall and smiles as I wave at him and greet him at the door.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hello, Madame,” he says, politely. He bows, in the gracious and formal manner of the Chinese.
He hands me the order, and then bows again.
“Thank you,” I say, at a loss for words.
“Thank you,” he says, in broken English, repeating my words.
When I give him the tip, a look of perplexity crossing his face. He points to the credit card receipt and tries to hand the money back to me.
"For you," I say.
The deliveryman then carefully and discreetly folds the dollar bills I give him, without even looking at the amount. Before he leaves, he bows again.
Because of the language barrier, we manage to use only a few words in our interaction. But I am not sure that we need to say much more. It often seems to me that the most telling of communications are not necessarily verbal but are just as effectively made though a simple language of gesture and silence.
This astonishing exchange makes me feel like a most distinguished and valued custome,r rather than a somewhat lazy and tired and self-absorbed New Yorker who takes a delivery from a restuarant from just a few blocks away for granted. Certainly his unexpected courtesy is a welcome change from the brusque and impersonal and money-grubbing ways of the slouchy young delivery boys from the local deli who glare at me with entitlement if I do not hand over a sizable tip. This man is a pleasure to deal with, especially at the end of a day after I have endured the usual indignities one becomes accustomed to here, such as the pushy woman who stepped ahead of me at the drugstore queue and loudly commandeered the attention of the hapless clerk who was trying to wait on others, or the bus driver who shut his doors abruptly right before I and another passenger were able to board.
The quality of the food is great. It is pleasingly predictable, freshly prepared, abundant, non-greasy. A bargain in this expensive city. Certainly there is enough for two people or for another meal.
Why is this man doing this job? I begin to wonder. Is he perhaps taken advantage of by an unscrupulous restaurant owner, or, judging by his looks and obvious intelligence, might he perhaps even be the owner?
Suddenly I feel ashamed, wonder if I am behaving with a sense of undue entitlement to services such as his, much like an “Ugly American,” that is, a term often used to apply to Americans who exhibit arrogant and insensitive behavior toward natives when they travel abroad.
Judging from his English, I figure he must be a new arrival, most likely from mainland China, the world’s most populous nation, which of late in this ever-changing city -- where nothing is ever stagnant -- has been providing a steady flow of immigrants, many of them undocumented, eclipsing the number of the earlier more-established Chinese arrivals here, who hail from
Hong Kong. As a result, Mandarin is replacing Cantonese as the main language of the Chinese population in the City. According to Wickipedia, there are now 665,714 Chinese immigrants in New York City, the largest population in the United States, surpassing even that of San Francisco.
Most likely, this delivery man is simply taking whatever job he can get, in the manner of the new arrivals from China, who tend to find ready work in restaurants and laundries, providing a main source of inexpensive labor in the city, taking on those menial jobs that more established residents would not accept. And Manhattan, with its large number of single households, provides a ready market for services such as his.
"The whole labor issue makes me feel guilty," I notice someone has written online in one of the restaurant reviews, echoing my thoughts.
Nonetheless, I'm not sure he would agree. Obviusly in the tradition of American immigrants who hail from varied places, he must feel he is better off here, has more opportunity than in the land where he was before. And interestingly, since China commands the largest fleet of bicycles in the world, which are a mainstay for commuting there -- and even serve as a way for an enterprising native to get work by making deliveries by slipping in and out of the jammed traffic in the crowded cities, that same skill obviously gives him a foothold in the economy here. And he, like many others here, does not hesitate to apply it.
In this economically diverse city, the little job he has is one of many that has served as a stepping stone in this country, and he is happy to do it with courtesy, competence, and grace, in the process making a telling statement on the  nobility and dignity of work. Whatever job he does, he obviously demonstrates by his demeanor, is worth doing well. And unlike what I can say about the many places and people I come across who provide surly and indifferent service in this anonymous and often not-so-gracious city, I certainly would order from this restaurant again and would be most pleased to re-encounter this man, who is so culturally attuned to the niceties of a human exchange.
And indeed, the next time when I do so, on a rainy night when I get home at eight o'clock and am tired and hungry and call for take-out, he arrives, and hands me my order, and and we just look at each other in recognition and smile. I give him an extra three dollars and he keeps returning it, pointing to the total on the bill, I guess still not comprehending the American concept of a tip.
"No! No"! I insist, and as I hand him the money back this time, we both laugh.

Missed Connections

I dread taking the subway during the rush hour. It is one of the major indignities of New York City life.
Going down the steps signals a descent into some sort of dismal netherworld. It is dark, dirty, and depressing. I find myself on a waiting platform encrusted with blackened gum wads, and when I look downwards, over the precarious edge, I can see an occasional rat meandering amid the trash strewn on the rails. And then suddenly, in the dark distance, a light appears and quickly begins to loom and brighten up the dark tunnel, and an increasingly deafening din signals the approach of an oncoming train.
The train roars onto the platform, the doors open, and the passengers, already pressed against each other, crowd together even more tightly to make room for those entering. All are silent as the train rumbles on. They stare fixedly at the overhead ads, bury themselves in a book, or simply tune out with headphones or an iphone. The silence is often broken by an interjection of rage, indignity or even worse as bodies are crushed and feet are trampled on. As the train winds its way, riders hang on for sheer balance, standing or swinging over the more fortunate seated ones, and even toppling over them when the train lurches. As my stop nears, it’s time to begin to force my way through the crowd before the doors slam shut.
When I walk back up the steps into the daylight, I breathe a sigh of relief. In the summertime, particularly, when the concrete heats up, that ride becomes all that more unbearable.
New York is, in essence, the quintessential city of alienation, a city of strangers, always en route bypassing each other, in the process, never chancing to meet, and not to even mention, exchange such pleasantries that are a part of the routines of most other people’s lives. Subway riders are goal oriented; they just endure; they only want to get to where they're going, whether it be work, school, home, or whatever. In this bold and brash and indifferent city, where the pace is relentless, the rules of civility do not apply.
And yet, occasionally, a chance encounter will occur, and temporarily pierce through the city’s veil of anonymity.
As I got on the No. 6 train yesterday, I saw a relaxed elderly man with wispy, white hair and a kind face, who was studying his surroundings with curiosity. Obviously, he was not from here, lacking that jaded look New Yorkers all too often acquire after being subjected to the constant zip and zoom of the city. He observed me as I entered, nodded in greeting, and even proffered me his seat. I have long become unaccustomed to such a random gracious gesture, as I have all too often observed some loutish teen-ager not even offer a seat to a disabled elderly woman.
I smiled back. The man’s wrinkled face was animated as he engaged in spirited conversation with a slender blonde woman, who, judging simply from the look of joy and pride on his face, could only be his daughter. She was laughing, indulgent of her father’s whims. They looked at me with curiosity. Our eyes met. They included me in their conversation.
“My father is visiting from Russia,” the young woman volunteered.
“I have not seen her for seven years,” he exclaimed in his broken accent, his face beaming with pleasure.
They stood out from the impassive crowd.
“You daughter is lovely,” I said, acknowledging his fatherly pride. “The trains are not so clean here,” I offered by way of apology.
“Yes, the trains are cleaner in Moscow,” he commented matter of factly, but he did not seem to mind or even notice the indignities of the city subway system. He was simply content to be with his daughter.
“Where are you from?” he addressed me in polite conversation.
Oh, from here, I was going to casually comment. And yet, I felt a connection, a nostalgia from my childhood, or a yearning for a different way of life that I had long ago become accustomed to. A life more gracious, and more civil, a life that I realized with regret, I have been all too long been away from. Their manner, their warmth, their direct gaze, their free-flowing emotion began to resonate with me.
So I did not simply tell them I was born in Manhattan. “My parents were Ukrainian,” I volunteered. “My name is Olya,” I said, a name I knew they would recognize.
“Oh, yes, Olya,” said the man, exclaiming with familiarity over my very typical Russian name.
His daughter then told me her name, Svetlana, and we nodded in recognition. Another name that is also typically Slavic. Somehow we began to form a bond.
“My father’s name was Bohdan,” I said. “My mother’s name, Irina,” I added.
“Oh yes, then you must be Olya Bohdanivna,” the man said, referring to the Russian use of the patronymic, that is, the use of one’s father’s name as a surname, in the way that East Europeans often do when they address one another.
“Yes, I said, Olya Bohdanivna,” repeating after him a name that no one has called me in decades.
Suddenly these strangers whom I simply met on the subway became kindred spirits who knew my origins, addressing me in the familiar way of the language I had long ago grown up with and for a long time have not had the occasion to use.
“You must be my daughter’s age,” I said to Svetlana. It turns out she is two or three years older.
“What is your daughter’s name?” she asked.
“Natalia,” I said.
“Oh, of course, Natalia!” the father exclaimed.
“What does Natalia do?” His daughter asked.
“A ballet dancer, since she was seven,” I said.
“Yes, a ballet dancer,” she said, referring to that familiar tradition that hails from Eastern Europe.
“She is now married and has two children,” I volunteered.
“To an American?” they asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“So am I,” said Svetlana. She too is assimilated. Her children’s names are Jennifer and Ryan.
“My daughter’s children are Andryj and Alexei,” I said, that is, in translation, Andrew and Alexander.
“Yes, she kept those Slavic names,” She said. “How old are they?” she asked.
“One and four,” I told her.
“And yours,” I asked.
“Two and six.”
During the brief interlude between 86th Street and 59th, it seemed almost as if we were pursuing a leisurely conversation, as though we had met at an informal gathering, perhaps even a dinner party.
But suddenly I realized my stop was up and the subway doors were about to close.
“I have to go,” I exclaimed, making a mad dash for the door.
Svetlana made a quick last minute search for her business card, but to no avail. As I walked away, I hurriedly dug for mine that must have migrated somewhere to the bottom of my huge handbag-- the practical type that New York City women use to lug all their “stuff” for the day-- also to no avail. Her father looked on with worry and alarm realizing we will not exchange our contact numbers in time.
We couldn't. The subway is not exactly a place where one can linger. I just made it before the doors shut.
As I walked up the steps, into the real world of daylight, I was still amazed by my unexpected meeting, and by my so easily falling into step with a culture that I did not realize was so much a part of me.
Nonetheless, as a typical New Yorker, I rushed out and met my obligations. But, afterwards, at the end of the day's routine, I was not left with a feeling of accomplishment, but rather with a feeling of loss and yearning that I could not even begin to describe.
In this city of chance encounters, the rootedness that I briefly felt, as quickly as it began, was as quickly severed. Our subway meeting was fleeting, a lost opportunity that is perhaps too typical of a city where one may never come across the same people again. In a few moments, in just over the time span of a few subway stops, a connection had been made, only to be lost again. Perhaps that is the inevitable fate of living in a city where one’s next door neighbors move in and out so often that one can never keep up with them.
I am left thinking about my long-lost culture in this varied city of people of very different backgrounds, and again I feel alienated, a stranger. And I also think about my daughter in a city too far away, about Alexei and Andryj, and wonder what they are up to.