She's my favorite produce lady. Maybe because she recognizes me, giving our exchange meaning. Her shop is a corrugated tin shed that sits across from the first of two 7/11's on Bu Xin Street.
Bags of tofu, requiring more than the standard adjectives of soft or firm to adequately describe them, rest in wooden boxes like coffins, awaiting the next hand. Huge stalks of green onions, measuring in length from my elbow to my fingertips, are piled high upon plywood tables, and across the dirt aisle blue plastic crates house a variety of greens that evade singular preference being collectively known as "suda" or greens.
Upon reaching the register, my hands are always full when I realize I've almost forgotten my last ingredient. I turn and look at her and in my broken Mandarin attempt an effort. But she already knows what I want; with a practiced look she grabs a handful of Coriander from the large, waist-high plastic bag and waits for my affirmation. "Dui, Dui", I say.
She tallies up the cost, and says her first words to me "Yi bai san shi quian", $130. As I dig through my change purse she throws a handful of small, red chillies into my bag.
I say "Bye-bye" with an accompanied head nod and walk back to my scooter contemplating food, the future, and my produce lady.
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i love produce people who become part of a routine. Tell her, that her American friend says hello.
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