Narrative-See-Food In America

Strutting through the looming stone gate that acted as a portal into another world, I could hardly tell that I was still in America. Gold Chinese inscriptions glittered atop the gate, which was guarded by two pearly, white granite lions standing erect, flashing their menacing teeth. Taking a few steps through the gate, it felt as though I had walked into a wall, a wall of cigarette smoke, shouts of old men playing cards, and an array of sweet and savory smells wafting through the air. I walked beside my grandma, who kept pace with me and my mom even though she was more than four times my age, displaying the result of her ritual of walking in the morning every day. My mom sorted through her worn purse, searching for her phone. My mom’s outfit
He gracefully slid them onto the table. I immediately started shoveling food into my mouth. My method of see-food, eat-food was quite different than my mom’s method which consisted of meticulously picking through her order, determining if she could make it any better – 95% of the time the answer was yes. After what seemed like five seconds, my plate of food was seemingly empty. My mom glanced at my plate and pointed to a few grains of rice and a speck of pork left on my plate. I proceeded to pick up the plate and shovel the last remnants of the food into my mouth using my wooden chopsticks. I instinctively looked around, guilty of my bad manners, but it seemed that I was not the only one using “bad manners” as there were no Americans to scold my eating habits. Before we knew it, we were all slouching in our chairs, struggling to support the weight of our bloated stomachs. “Ughhh…” I groaned, feeling as though there was a water balloon slowly filling in my stomach. The waiter paced over to us, laughing at our bloated state before sliding the check onto the table.
“I’m gonna’ go to the bathroom real quick,” my mom moaned after sliding the cash into the bill as she hobbled to her