Chopstick Profiled

Photo credit: Wikipedia

Tom and I confidently stride into the Malaysian joint on West 8th Street in the Village. We know it's good, because in there, we're a definite minority.

I pick up the menu and one of my fresh new chopsticks goes flying off the table. The waiter is attentive. He immediately swoops over with a new set.

We order a mango salad. We eat the mango salad with our chopsticks.

We order some dinner. The waiter bustles over with two forks. I look around. No one else in the entire place has been given a fork.

Tom and I evaluate the possibilities:

1. We were profiled, totally a priori. We look like people who can't work a chopstick.
2. I did, in fact, perpetrate a chopstick mishap when I knocked the one chopstick off the table. It was deduced therefore that we cannot be trusted.
3. When we ate the mango salad, our chopstick skills were observed and judged horrific. It would simply be too painful to let us continue.

Or maybe the waiter is a considerate guy and just wanted us to have a native utensil option.

Day 11