July 17, 2009
After flapping in the wind and rain for a bit, we discovered a decrepit little shop selling an assortment of coffee beans. It even housed the Weasel variety, where the bean is passed out through the said animal’s intestinal tract which is supposed to mellow the flavour. There, was an American man in his sixties, his wife and baby, and two skinny cyclo drivers, who were all (except the baby) sipping cups of freshly brewed coffee. Naturally, Ellen could not resist so we gingerly plopped ourselves on a chair only to have the perplexed shopkeeper tell us that that was in fact the table, while motioning us to a stool so tiny it could only be accurately described as ‘kindergarten furniture’.
Having finished his coffee, the American paid (for Ellen’s coffee too; USD 5, was it that good, Ellie?) but as he and his entourage stood up to leave, the rain started to patter with such great intensity that all thoughts of departure were abandoned. All of a sudden, the queer assortment of humans perched on miniature furniture found themselves in the most awkward moment where silence seemed impolite and chatter, desperate and inadequate. Amidst the furtive eye-darting and toe-shuffling, what should fall through a hole in the ceiling but a brassier. Only the American man was amused (highly, I might add) and the rest of us looked nervously around for somewhere more innocuous to rest our gaze. But there it was, with a loud American guffaw, the magic had been cast and the awkward veil lifted. We then proceeded to discuss a strange variety of things, including the strange fact that many Vietnamese men in America run an offer manicure and pedicure services. The Vietnamese shopkeeper was horrified. “Unbelievable,” he said. His spanky English was due to his work at the embassy in Malaysia. Coffee beans are only the family business.
No comments:
Post a Comment