Chinese Food
The young woman says something – “Choose,” or maybe “Shoes” – while pointing at the pictures, one by one.
“I… should choose some food?” I hedge. “For me? Or you? Or us?”
She waves at me. I give her another shruggy glance and begin to scrutinise the pictures.
I hate looking like an idiot, and I must be looking like one, for I recognise nearly none of what are displayed on the book. There is some kind of small, roundish bread, but it is halved and accompanied by chopped meat and vegetable soaked in a reddish sauce, and it is one of the most familiar things that I find here. I dare not contemplate what the bowls of worm-like or hair-like things might be made of, or what “tofu” might mean.
Well, but I will never know if I never try some, will I? Just… I need to find things that are seemingly safest to eat. Such as this marinated fish, or this glazed-and-stuffed fowl. I ought not to be worried, ought I? Mingling with the locals of a world is not new for me, after all. And I have been exploring for centuries.
Just… why am I so short? Even here?