Friday, January 21, 2005
AROMA
Lunch.
At the parked van where meals are sold. Tapa. Fried bangus. Porkchop. Laing. Sinigang. Pipino sandwiches pretending to be cheeseburgers. Double orders of rice the norm rather than the exception. That sort of van.
A lanky man goes up to the counter and picks Mechado in one of the small, tightly-knotted plastic bags.
And smells it.
He goes through five more bags, repeating the ritual. I suppose he actually was capable of smelling food through plastic, for he was able to select a particular bag.
When he leaves, I choose one of the Mechado bags that he hadn't picked up and held close to his nose.
At the parked van where meals are sold. Tapa. Fried bangus. Porkchop. Laing. Sinigang. Pipino sandwiches pretending to be cheeseburgers. Double orders of rice the norm rather than the exception. That sort of van.
A lanky man goes up to the counter and picks Mechado in one of the small, tightly-knotted plastic bags.
And smells it.
He goes through five more bags, repeating the ritual. I suppose he actually was capable of smelling food through plastic, for he was able to select a particular bag.
When he leaves, I choose one of the Mechado bags that he hadn't picked up and held close to his nose.
