More than Okoy #AAPIHM2023 #AAPIHeritageMonth2023

More than Okoy

"Okoy. That sounds weird."

"It's not weird."

"It doesn't sound like something people eat."

"People eat it."

"It sounds like they shouldn't."

"D'you have anything else in that bag of yours, Mary Poppins?"

"Name-calling? Really, Mav? That's the last thing I expected from the soon-to-named valedictorian, debate team captain, basketball team varsity, and apparently, celebrity chef wannabe, Maverick Evangelista, over...over...what is this dish called again?"

"Since when did a reference to a movie character with a bottomless bag become name-calling? If anything, it's a compliment to how well you've optimized a medium-size tote bag. A credit to your organizational skills. I don't doubt that if anyone could've stuffed ingredients, or wait—an order slip—in their bag, it would be you. Did you secretly arrange for a cultural food dish to be delivered to school? And the dish is called okoy."

"Okoy. It still sounds weird."

"That's what you got out of all of that?"

I shrugged. It wasn't all I got out of that, but I didn't have the emotional capacity to deal with the fact that he complimented me. Was he returning the favor? Did hearing his accolades from me flatter him? Why would my opinion matter in the first place when we've never interacted outside of today?

"I didn't say that it doesn't sound weird. It's a weird sound for anyone who first learned the word, 'okay.' What I said was the food itself is not weird. I also asked if you had anything else to bring to the table. Literally speaking, of course."

Oh. Right. We're still talking about the Multicultural Food Fest, which I forgot to bring food to.

I sighed. "Unfortunately, no."

"So what do we do now?"

"Okoy it is. What is okoy again?" I smirked. At least, it was fun to tease him.

"It's a crispy deep-fried fritter made with various vegetables and shrimp. Shrimp is optional for those who have allergies. Would you like a sample from the first batch?"

"No, thank you."

"Suit yourself."

He arranged the cooking materials I'd questioned him about earlier. He had a portable gas stove, a pan, a spatula, a whisk, and a three-compartment bin that held julienned carrots, green onion sticks, and bean sprouts, over ice...

"I'm just wondering; do you moonlight as a food truck chef, or something?"

I shouldn't have asked. I should've kept wondering to myself, but my mouth was determined to keep the conversation between us open. It's like it got a mind of its own just for today.

"No, I don't."

"Do you want to?"

Must. Stop. Talking.

"Why, do you have connections in the food truck business, Miss Vanessa Harper?"

I pointed at the two large square plastic bins with measurements on the side. "It's all so...much. So extra. Like, isn't that what they use in restaurants?"

I guess we're committed to chatting today. With Maverick, of all people.

"Yes, I work part-time in a food court stall so I know what materials to get and where to get them. That's also how I know it isn't, as you say, 'extra.' You need prepped ingredients to make fresh food within a few minutes. Otherwise, the customer can up and leave, or stay but never return."