WAI

It is logistically closer for me to get to Waikiki than to Kihei town which is only seven miles away. Flying takes only twenty five minutes! And besides, I don’t have to deal with beachgoer parking in Maui when Bus 20 from Honolulu airport takes me directly in the heart of Chinatown where I want to be, I pay $2.75 fare, and less than that is my carbon footprint. There’s only one reason “wai” I go, which will not be a surprise: Food. (Not a lot of food qualifying but for the one distinct cuisine I go after: Dim Sum.) For under a month and half I had gone three times taking a plane and forgoing my own home island and hopping to another cosmopolitan island called Oahu. I also go to the same restaurant ever since - and order the same food. Three’s a charm because there’s a bonus food treat this trip: the elusive doh wah, a Taiwanese specialty dessert. I had attempted my first time to the island to search it, only to prove vain. “I didn’t make it this morning,” said the market stall owner, “when the curd doesn’t look good in consistency, I won’t do it.” That was an impressive statement - it was like assuring the unreadiness of wine in barrels, or a cake which hasn’t set. The second time he was closed (probably for not the same reason; since he is the only game in town, I have to believe I was too late coming that morning and he was sold out. That’s usually the case for small batch cooking, which is what I like.) “What size?” the man wearing reading glasses asked. I happily answered: “Medium.” “Spoon?” “Yes, sir.” 

It is the last weekend before Christmas. When I return to my flat tonight, intentionally before leaving for Oahu I scrubbed kitchen the well, I know there won’t be food in the fridge, both compartment doors looking inside would be empty. I won’t be cooking anymore this year that’s coming to a close. In a couple of days I fly again, but this time my destination is more than six thousand miles away to New York City. It’s for reasons more than food I’m

going, although emotionally it is a subterfuge answer for “why.” Last Friday a coworker, knowing about my planned vacation,  had asked what the first thing I’d do when I get there. Ready answer: “To my favorite Ethiopian restaurant in Bushwick, Brooklyn.” And he laughed out loud knowing me too well always a hungry stomach (I would like to think, hungry soul). And what I didn’t tell him is deeply more interior. But that’s O.K.  I got a call from my hotel room in Waikiki this morning. It was the food truck owner I was applying to for a part-time cook job starting the New Year. He said he wanted to show me its kitchen, that it was all set, and he didn’t mind picking me up at the airport when I arrive and go straight to the truck (he is a good friend of my landlady, and through affinity there’s  a bridge there, and I was grateful for his deed). I live in Wailuku, Maui now, and nothing prevents me from reaching my next food adventure.