So when Martin calls and says he’s cooking and we need to hang out and visit, I’m all in.
Which means we’re squeaking through the aisles of the Asian Market on 15th and Broadmoor. Martin has developed a penchant for cooking all kinds of international foods which is an extension of his always-gotta-try-new-things mentality. I guess I’m the official guinea pig for his culinary experiments, which I’m beginning to appreciate.
Tonight is Thai night. Coconut curry soup. Sounds simple, but based on previous experience, fine cuisine awaits. We’re after two ingredients that are required and not available at a regular supermarket: fish sauce and Thai basil. I know this because I’m holding the scrap of paper Martin has scribbled on, a shopping list so we don’t forget the two ingredients we’ve come for. We’re making our way through the narrow aisles, laughing and joking, which just feels good since the last week has been so emotional.
“My mom loved this place,” Martin is reminiscing. We pass the frozen food section which contains many things that I don’t even recognize. I can’t tell if this display contains fish or root vegetables. “She loved how there are always surprises and something to learn from this store, like around every corner is some ingredient or spice or noodle that we must learn about and find a recipe for.”
I love to hear Martin talk fondly of his mom. The two of them are creative beings, always pressing the envelope on innovation and trying new things. I also love that their grand experiment of life leads them to the ingredients, not the finished product served to them by someone else. To me, this store with its over-packed, tiny aisles and strangely written labels is a bit overwhelming. “Let’s eat in her honor tonight,” I say.
“I think the Thai basil is in the back with the greens,” he says, rounding a corner.
There is a refrigerator case with all kinds of greens in various stages of wilt and I recognize the bok choy, and maybe the sweet potato leaves, but everything else is foreign to me and requires parsing the handwritten labels. I see napa cabbage, mustard greens, and many with Asian names my brain can’t hold on to. I mindlessly check the scrap of paper in my hand, the two ingredients written in Martin’s sloppy handwriting.
It strikes me as ironic that someone so precise about everything else, like making a shopping list for two items, has such a disregard for penmanship, or even staying within the lines.
“I don’t know how you function,” I say, showing him the marks on the paper, “I can barely read what you’ve written.”
He looks at me through the tops of his eye sockets and furrows his brow. “You can’t read that?”
“No,” I snort, “I mean, yes, but it’s such a mess.”
With only an eye-tilt, he looks at the writing and then back at me. “It’s readable. We need Thai basil.”
“Yeah. And fish sauce. I get it. It’s just messy.”
He looks away from the list and jabs a hand through the pile of basil, “Next time, you can write the list.”
“For two items? I think I can remember two items.” I stuff the tiny paper into my pocket.
His face twists up without turning my way, and he exhales.
He begins to meticulously dig through the bound stalks, looking for the perfect leaves while I head toward the assortment of eggs in the same open refrigerator case. There are tiny quail eggs in small cartons and loose, spotted duck eggs in foam displays.
“So something happened with my secret person,” I say, peering closely at the foreign print on the display case. He freezes mid-selection and turns to me, then looks beyond. I pick up a teeny carton of the tiny eggs, which keep my hands busy while I talk. “I was sent on an adventure and it was a bust.”
He looks at me, but doesn’t speak. His face is asking the questions that he’s not.
I pause for a minute, holding the quail egg carton in both hands. “It’s okay. I’m not upset about it,” I say. “I’m actually kind of glad.”
His face curls up in a funny way and he waves Thai basil at me when he speaks, “What do you mean?”
I put the tiny eggs back and grab a large, splotchy one that is sold individually. “You want to know something funny?” I spin the fragile egg in my hands, examining the dark spots.
“Yeah.”
“It was a jewelry store. Halloway’s on 3rd Street. You know, the one with the clock out front?”
He nods with a blink.
“Yeah, my secret person sent me to a jewelry store.” I grip the egg firmly in one hand. “And I went. That’s what is so strange to me. Or maybe it’s not strange to me anymore, I don’t know.”
“Wow, Liam,” Martin says, turning to grab a final sprig of basil and then stepping closer. “Jewelry store, huh. What do you think for?”
“I guess I’ll never know. There was nothing for me there. I was supposed to go pick up something, like a gift I guess. But when I arrived, there was nothing to pick up, no message for me.”
I set the splotchy egg back in its case and turn to Martin, who has this look like he has a million questions and can’t choose which one to start with.
“Can I ask you a question?” he says, leaning his backside against the fridge case.