>which oyster sauce

“Oyster Sauce – BIG C, Bangkok,” by Ik T (Flickr)

 

————————————————–> premium sightline <—————————————

——> need a “cleaner” looking label <———————————————————————

———————————————-> store-brand only <———————————————

 

I used to be embarrassed by the faded and slightly sticky blue linoleum.

By that accidental smell made by the neighboring bottles of spices and sauces
that shouldn’t be combined.
By the overly general name: ASIA MART.
They’re more welcoming now.

“An-nyeong-ha-se-yo!”
I wave at the Korean woman at the counter and smile too widely.
My jaws hurt, but I’m happy.
I pick up a brown shopping basket by the door.

She lights up at the sound of the greeting
and smiles encouragingly. She knows I’m not Korean.
I’m thankful for her acknowledgement of
my enthusiastic attempt to speak the few words I know.

Her pink apron brings back memories.
A pink cartoon bear alarm clock.
The women cutting dough for kal-guksu.
Bringing a box of chocolates for Grace on Mother’s Day.

Grace was the first to welcome me to the neighborhood.
I visited the bakery a few times a week after work.
I was obsessed with the cinnamon egg toasts.

Probably shouldn’t have been eating them.
But a sugar reward and warm eyes are what you desperately crave
after an entire day of looking at screens and blank faces.

The first time I went into the bakery, no one was around.
Hot dog bun. Cinnamon egg toast. Sweet potato sesame cake. And croissant.
I had put in six twelve hour days building the new data pipeline
that Wilson wanted delivered in two weeks.
I needed all four.

At the counter, there was a bell.
I always felt there was something demeaning about service bells.
I opted for a loud hello and a wait.

“Hello? An-nyeong-ha-se-yo?”
I heard some rustling then the footsteps of a small woman.
“Ah. Sorry. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Take your time.” I waved and smiled.
She rushed to the register.
Her light orange apron with red trim had
“Grace” embroidered in the upper right corner.

She looked at my haul on the counter
and began bagging each item.
“Five-fifty.”
I gave her six.

She opened the register.
I pulled out another single.
She gave me five dimes.

I clustered the coins in the center of the single in my hand.
I looked left and right for a tip jar
and found a small woven basket with a handwritten “Tips” sign.
I placed the bill and dimes in the middle of the nest.

“Thank you, Grace.”
I bowed, and she bowed.
I walked towards the door.

“Wait…” she said with a smile.
She picked up a small bag of rainbow sprinkle cookies
on the counter and walked towards me. “End of day.”

“No, no. Really?”
She shook her head. She firmly placed the cookies
into my hands and held them.
I bowed and smiled.

“Thank you so much. Gam-sa-ham-ni-da.”

I looked at my reflection in the front window.
My awkward slouching and messy long hair. My tired face.
Her elegant posture and silver-gray updo.

I walked out of the bakery and had the impulse to turn around before I got in the car.
She was sweeping the floor with a powder blue broom and dustpan.
I got into the car and waved at her before I shifted into reverse.

I miss that neighborhood.
It’s been almost three years since I moved away.
Four since bà ngoại passed away, and I couldn’t stay in her house.
Grace still sends me Christmas cards.

I send her one back and another for Easter too.
And Mother’s Day and Valentine’s Day and Thanksgiving texts.
She always sends back text message greetings with her avatar.

Does she feel weird about still getting messages from some girl who used to visit her bakery?

I’m walking up and down the aisles of the small grocery store.
A fluorescent bar above flickers slowly.
I squat and look for oyster sauce. Always on the lowest shelf.

The usual panda brand is missing.
But, there’s one with pictures of oysters collaged across the label with Thai text in red.
I rotate it and find the small rectangular price sticker. $5.99

The only alternative in the regular supermarket flashes in front of my eyes.
A price plaque on the shelf. A smaller bottle.
Flat logo design in red, gold, and white. OYSTER SAUCE

I take the Thai bottle and put it in my basket.
I step back and look for soy sauce.
I crane my neck and stretch to the top shelf.

I run my fingers across the labels.
These really should be at eye level.
Aren’t they more popular than tsuyu or red curry paste?

I don’t mind the odd prioritization though.
I know major food conglomerates aren’t paying
for premium shelf locations at the ASIA MART.

Oh, the soy sauce bottles are too tall for any of the lower shelves.
I carefully pluck a premium gold one from the top.
And then a soup base one.
And place them gently in the brown shopping basket.

I proceed to the noodles.
Two bundles of large hủ tiếu for chow fun.
Two packages of wide wonton noodles.
Five packages of naengmyeon.
One massive package of soba.
I check the expiration dates.

12/2025. 2/2026. 9/2025. 6/2025. Plenty of time.
It’s ingrained in me to check them here.
Bà ngoại always asked for the expiration date on the dried black fungus package
before I put them in the shopping cart at the big Asian market chain out west.
They were important in her chả giò.
Caught only one or two ones all those years.

I only once found a slightly expired package of wonton noodles here.
But, I figured they weren’t a very popular item
for this tiny, mostly Korean, market in the South.
I bought them and made mì khô that night. All was well.

Usually don’t check expiration dates at the supermarket.
I’m sure I’ve eaten as many expired things from there over the years.
I should stop being concerned about it here.
Really only matters for milk, meat, and eggs, right?

Now spices. A one pound bag of gochugaru. Curry powder.
Then sesame oil. Crab brand fish sauce.
And a tall slender bottle of Maesil-cheong.
Young napa kimchi.

I lean the full shopping basket
against my right calf
and wobble to the counter.

“All set?”
I smile and nod, and she begins to ring up each item.
It’s a multi-ethnic haul for a dual (maybe triple?)-ethnic person in America.
Is she confused by all of the different cultures on the counter?

She smiles as she punches the prices into the register.
“Did you find everything you needed?”
She understands. We’re about the same age.
“Yes, very much! Gam-sa-ham-ni-da!”

“Do you live nearby?”
“Not too far. I take the bus here.”
“Ah. Let me wrap the glass for you.”

The paper rustles as she embalms
the fish sauce and maesil-cheong in newsprint.
I place them side by side in the bag.
I see them side by side on a shelf at home.

I reach forward, but the bottles move away.
I look down, and there’s still linoleum, but it’s white.
And completely spotless.
Lemon cleanser is in the air.

I look around for the woman in the pink apron.
I see a single bed and a chrome frame.
A bedside table. A set of dresser drawers.
A dining table for one.
A desk and a laptop.

The doorbell rings.
“Provisions!”
I open the door, and no one is there.

There’s a box on the ground.
I open it and see what’s inside.
7 – Breakfast bar I.
7 – Lunch bar IV.
7 – Dinner bar X.

At one point, each of the Roman numerals represented a type of cuisine.
But, someone said that different cuisines provide different levels of nutrition.
So each number now represents different ingredient combinations
that achieve equal and optimum nutrition.

Everything tastes the same and costs the same.
Despite the different ingredients.
I guess it’s more egalitarian?

Morning time.
Are things better now? I don’t really know.
I never have to leave this room.
I honestly don’t even know if I can anymore.

Don’t really remember how all of the change happened.
How one day I could go to the ASIA MART.
How in another it was completely gone.

All traces of it wiped away as society moved on.

And as it did, the days bled into each other
as we became creatures of the single place.

I still need to make Grace’s card.
Easter is coming soon?
She sends digital ones these days.
I always get excited when I see her name in my inbox.
I think she’s in her eighties now?
I hope she’s doing okay.

I never got to know the woman at the ASIA MART.
I wish I had at least known her name.
I should have introduced myself.

So many Asian restaurant and store owners
never shared their names
unless I shared mine first.
Are they embarrassed of their work?

They shouldn’t be. More honest than what I do.
Maybe they think I was too western
but I just want them to know
that they help me back to a fundamental place.

But things are better, right?
I’m told all of the time.
Where is she though?
I should have at least shaken her hand.

I never really thought about how much I enjoyed the feeling
of another person’s hand in mine.
The rigidity of fingers.
Smoothness of palms.
Skin dry and powdery with flakes
or moist and sticky from sweat.

I prayed last night for reflections of light in eyes.
Creases around the edges.
Lines to the sides of lips.
How long has it been since I’ve seen one directly in front of me?

I miss the chew of noodles.
The salt and sweet of oyster sauce.
The pungent cabbage fermentation.

How can I know that things are better?
I’ll live much longer.
Grace will live much longer.
The woman in the pink apron will live much longer.
But is that true?

Tomorrow
and tomorrow’s tomorrow
and tomorrow’s tomorrow’s tomorrow
will happen. And not much will change.

What will I need to build tomorrow?
Pipeline B could use refactoring.
But, I’m sure Logan will push for a faster delivery on F.

Why always the rush? None of these physically exist.
They move bits and bytes. More and more.
But, they run the world. That’s important.
I don’t really have anything else to do outside of all of this anyway.

I reach around my shoulders to pull back my hair.
And find only short bristles on my head.

I lay on the linoleum floor on my stomach.
I roll my face back and forth
and listen to the cartilage of my nose snap.

I bite my lower lip.
Iron and lemon smells everywhere.

I can get used to all of this. I’ve been used to all of this.
I never used to spend a lot of time thinking about the past.
My mind wanders a little more now
but I don’t have many places where it pauses and grazes.

Bà ngoại. Grace. ASIA MART.
Hours in a car. Hours in a bus.
Some nice meals out and others made at home.

Now & future. Fairer & simpler. I don’t know if it’s all better.
And I really don’t know how I could find out.

My chin is wet, and my saliva is foul.
It’s here. I’m too tired. What should I do?

I think tomorrow will be better maybe.


Originally trained as a cognitive scientist, Lily Fierro spends her days finding meaning in data and her nights writing. She is interested in the tensions between individual perception and memory with external realities in our science and technology driven era. Her writing has appeared in LUMINA and INK 19, and her research has been published in journals and conference proceedings related to artificial intelligence, biocomputing, and computational cognitive science.

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