I have a secret, a dirty secret, something that’s caused a lot of heartache and pain over the years. It’s not my fault. I was born this way. You see, I have fat fingers. Fat fingers that . . . oh God, here comes the truth . . . cannot wield chopsticks.
I know, some people would prefer that I say “wide-fingered.” Don’t worry, I’m not trying to fat-shame my fingers. I’m just trying to be real about my limitations.
I can’t let people see me ask for a fork! What will they think?
When I was growing up in Southern California, it wasn’t an issue because our idea of cultured cuisine was Panda Express at the mall. But now, I live in Manhattan—a borough known for its citizens’ exceptional knowledge and use of chopsticks.
I’ll hear my Asiano-phile friends say, “Hey, Negin, wanna meet up for some dim sum?” or “Hey, Negin, wanna grab a quick bite of sushi?” They can all walk into sushi bars, beaming with confidence, and go, “Oh look, here are the chopsticks, let me rip them apart at the seam and rub them together!” —because, apparently, everybody knows you’re supposed to do that.
And there I am, nervously sipping my miso soup—the one dish you can eat without chopsticks. “I’m not very hungry tonight,” I say, watching with envy as one of my friends expertly employs chopsticks to retrieve a single grain of rice in mid-conversation. Without even looking down!
Now that the United States is increasingly more diverse, it’s not just a Manhattan problem anymore. I once walked into a Chinese restaurant in Charleston, West Virginia, and walked right out when I saw that everyone in there was using chopsticks.
I can’t let people see me ask for a fork! I’m a good liberal who wants to adapt myself to the rigors of international cuisine! What will people think? If she’s using a fork here, she could be patrolling our borders in her free time! She could be one of those people that hates vegans for no reason!
Of course, I have eaten solid Asian food before. I usually wait for a night when I know I’ll be by myself. I order Korean, close all the shutters, quietly take a knife and fork from the kitchen drawer, hide away in my bedroom, and sit there—eating my bibimbap in the cover of night with hegemonic Western utensils like some criminal.
Why is everyone (else) so excellent at using chopsticks, anyway? It doesn’t make sense! It’s not like we’re all from Queens with its umpteen nationalities! “This is ridiculous,” I often think. “There’s gotta be a way for my buxom extremities to figure this out.”
So, finally, I caved and bought a chopstick starter kit. Did you know they even had those? I did. You see, on the training chopsticks, the ends are connected so that the whole wooden contraption won’t fall apart when you try to pick up your eel roll. I practiced and I practiced, but every time I thought I was ready for the big leagues, well . . . let’s just say I dropped a lot of eel on the floor, and let’s just say that I observed a generous five-second rule because, let’s just say, that shit is expensive.
After much trial and even more error, I came to the begrudging conclusion that this had gone too far. I must simply accept that a person can have voted for Elizabeth Warren and ask for a fork.
The next time a friend invited me to a Japanese restaurant, I agreed to go—with a new plan of action. When the waiter came around to take my order, I steeled myself to say, “I’ll have the salmon rolls . . . and can I have a fork with that?” Yes, I had uttered the forbidden f-word out loud.
The entire restaurant stopped. Everyone looked at me as if I had said, “I’ll have the salmon rolls please, and can I have some anal warts with that,” or “By the way, Tucker Carlson sometimes makes sense.” That’s how bad the look of disgust was on their faces. Mothers covering kids’ eyes, boyfriends consoling their shaken lovers. I was a monster.
I didn’t wait to experience the fallout. I ran straight out of the restaurant. I ran and I ran and I ran until I made it to an Ethiopian restaurant. Where, guess what? My rotund mitts came in quite handy. Because here it’s acceptable to eat with our hands! So I’ve found my place. And the rest of you slender-fingered superiors, well, I hope you’re happy with how you’ve treated me.