Steamed Bun

I walked past a Chinese steamed bun shop and I had to turn around and walk back past it again, and loiter for a few moments staring at the buns, and then go in. In the face of nostalgia, willpower crumbles like sandcastles at high tide.

I asked for a pork and cabbage bun. The Chinese girl behind the counter looked at me lardily, glasses slightly steamy, face more-than-slightly greasy. She took a moon-white bun from the steamed up glass cabinet in the window and, to my dismay, popped it in the microwave for 45 seconds. Of which I spent fifteen or so seconds surveying the cooler shelves stacked with tupperwares full of Chinese food, the bright, queasy contents pressed up against the clear plastic. The rest of the time I just shut my eyes and thought of the bamboo baskets in the Jinan market, full of fresh, steaming hot buns. I pictured biting through to the lava-hot centre, and my mouth being scalded by delicious, fragrant juices.

Then the microwave dinged. I paid and left, bun clutched in a white paper bag, steaming up at me temptingly. I waited until it was cool. No. I waited until I'd turned the corner. And I bit into it, and seared my tongue with that delicious nostalgia. I was back in the heat and the noise of the market, vendors calling their wares, neon lights lighting fried crabs and dumplings and grilled, skewered squid. And I scarfed it down and then the memory was gone.