1974

by Karen Tei Yamashita

  “No.”

  “What you thinking about?”

  “Halo-halo.”

  “Figures.”

  “Halo-halo is like a performance. Like theater. Everything goes in stages with lots of color: red, green, orange, white, purple. Then texture: smooth, crunchy, slippery. Then character: sweet, sour, nutty, cold. You think: funny, romantic, nostalgic. When it’s over, you bite your frozen tongue. Draw blood. Tragic.”

  “Goddamn, Felix. Where we gonna get halo-halo on the 1-5?”

  I tap my head. “Only in your mind.”

  “Man, you drive me nuts.”

  “You know, I think Cesar’s right. If you gonna ask the whole world to quit grapes, you can go the whole way and eat nothing.”

  “Was that the point?”

  “Back in the sixties, guys like you starving to be too skinny for the draft. Then others eating, eating, to be too fat. Some guys guzzle one quart of soy sauce to get high blood pressure. Eating, not eating, you put your life on the line. That’s the recipe for revolution.”

  Macario lights up. “Maybe that’s what we’ll propose. Someone go on a hunger strike for the I-Hotel.” He’s nodding like it’s his idea. “You volunteering?”

  “No way!”

  Someone in the back wakes up. “Shit. Didn’t you say Cesar’s vegetarian? Easy for him to cut out one more food group.”

  “O.K., we start slowly. One food group at a time.”

  Now the argument starts.

  “This is when my cultural nationalism kicks in. Comes to food, I am Pilipino.”

  I’m staring out the Chevy surrounded by agribusiness on either side of the 1-5. Maybe it looks like desert and sage, but they own it. They just need some water.

  You think about it. Food is the basis for everything. Without food, it’s all over. Kaput. They don’t lie when they say you are what you eat. If you can’t get nothing to eat, you are nothing. Nothing. They also don’t lie when they say you eat to live. And you live to eat. What’s someone’s culture but the way he eats? Everybody living from meal to meal, even if it takes somebody three days to get to the next one. Call that the culture of poverty. Maybe you a nomad or you tied to the land. It’s how you get your food. It’s how you organize to get your food. Keep your food. Keep your food for yourself. Who grows it? Cultivates it? Sells it? Cooks it? Who gets fed and does not get fed? Who throws it away? Who eats the leftovers?

  What’s the story of the world? How come Magellan comes to bother folks like us in faraway islands? It’s to make their food taste better. Once you taste a secret, you go running after your tongue. It can’t be helped. Once you know this principle of the world, then everything becomes clear. You take Marx. You take Freud. You take Einstein. You take Suzuki. The politics of food. The sex of food. The relativity of food. The Zen of food.

  I tell these radical kids, eventually all the answers can be found in food. Are they listening? Follow the food, I say. You born in the city. You forget your connection to the earth. And I don’t mean just Watsonville or Delano. That’s what guys like me have, the knowledge. We never stop. Everywhere we go, we touch the food right at the source. We digging the earth, sowing the seed. We pulling the weeds. Then cutting cane or slicing pineapple. Shucking lettuce or cutting asparagus. Dirt under the nails, under the blisters, in the grooves of our hands. It never washes out.

  Then harvesting grapes. When grapes are ready, there’s nothing more beautiful and luxurious. I don’t say this like I’m the grower. I say this because who cannot appreciate the miracle of planted food comes back every year with your encouragement? These grapes are my grapes, my children. The small, sour, purple ones crushed for Gallo wine. Large, green, seedless Thompson for Dole fruit cocktail. The reds for Sun-Maid raisins. But that’s just the earth.

  What about the sea? Pulling in the live salmon. You see the great silver bodies kick out from the surf like wild mustang. We slit the soft bellies and pull out the eggs. Red orange, slimy grape clusters shudder in your hands. You holding salmon caviar in one hand and the caviar that makes the wine in the other. Holding it tender like babies because this stuff will travel to the man’s table. Who’s gonna put it there? I’m gonna put it there. Set the caviar on thin crackers with lime zest. Pour a chilled bottle of sparkling wine. Make him look gracious in a room full of beautiful women, tinkling glasses, fluttering candles, and chandeliers. I’m holding my hands out with the open palms of sea and land caviar. Holding them out like offering. Then take it away. Close the fists and squeeze. Squeeze hard.

  3: Pig Roast

  One day Macario comes by my room. He’s holding a small cardboard box. He says, “Look what I found back of the closet in Joe’s office.”

  I scrutinize the label on the box. “Crematorium,” I make out. Then “Pio Rosete.”

  Macario pulls open the cover. Inside, there’s a plastic sack of gray ashes.

  “It’s Pio,” I say. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Maybe nobody claimed him. No next of kin.”

  “How long it’s been since the fire?”

  “A while.”

  I scratch my head. “That’s what the guys say.”

  “What?”

  “Pio’s ghost coming around bothering them. Sometimes he’s got his banjo. Other times, maybe you playing rummy, and you lose your card. You find it somewhere else you never expect.”

  “Guys are cheating.”

  “That’s what they’re saying. Pio was a good cheater.”

  “You believe it?”

  “If you get him on your side, maybe you could win.”

  Macario chuckles, but then he looks at the box and gets serious again. “So now what?”

  “Maybe he knows who set the fire. We never think to ask him.”

  “Look,” Macario says. “You figure this out. You knew him.” He hands me the box and walks away.

  I put Pio down in the chair and sit in my room. Now I get these ashes for a roommate. “Pio,” I say. “You remember that song? How does it go?” I hum a few verses. Pretty soon I remember the whole song and sing everything. I think, did he get burned up with his banjo? Probably. Nothing left of his old room. I think, that’s Pio all right. How else could I remember the whole song?

  Over time we get a committee going to figure out something for Pio. Put his spirit to rest once and forever. Also we gonna honor the other guys who died: Salermo and Knauff. We do a thing on March 16, anniversary of the fire. Everybody agrees. Too late for a funeral. Who’s gonna mourn? We got our own troubles. There’s gotta be food and music. Somebody says lechon baboy. Gotta be authentic pig roast over coals. I say, “What the heck you talking? We gonna burn the I-Hotel down this time for good.”

  Alfred suggests, “How about doing it Hawaii style, in the pit? That way there’s no open fire.”

  “In the imu?” I say.

  “Watchu call it?”

  “Imu. Pit. Same thing. Before you bury the pig, you gotta burn wood and rocks for maybe four to five hours.”

  “Felix, you don’t worry about the logistics. You the cook. You just tell us what to do. We do it.”

  Bunch of guys sign up for the food committee. Other bunch for the music. What can I say? It’s a democracy.

  But then someone says, “You want my humble opinion, Pinoy pig better than Hawaii pig.”

  I smack the side of my head because I know what’s coming.

  Someone else has to say, “Humble opinion? What’s a humble opinion?”

  “Lechon baboy got that crispy skin.”

  “You don’t know what you talking. Kalua pig comes out so tender melts in your mouth. And the flavor.” He smacks his lips.

  “Think about it. You turning that baby on the bamboo pole, take turns for how many hours? Take it easy. Drink beer. Gets to be that deep red color. You get the reward: the crispy skin.”

  “Skin? What about the rest of the pork? Wrap it up in banana leaves and slow cook. O.K., you work to dig the pit, heat the rocks, bury it good. But after t
hat, you go play, afternoon surfing, forget about it. Come back, you got yourself one luau.”

  “Yeah, you do that. You try surf in the fucking freezing bay.”

  Now we got an argument. Everybody on the food committee taking sides. They split down the middle. I throw my hands up. Revolution, O.K., but what cook believes in democracy?

  Macario asks, “What’s the matter? How about Pio’s celebration?”

  We go down back of the hotel—basement used to be a diner joint in the old days. Got the old counter and the six original stools, stove, fridge, everything. I clean it up and every now and then cook up a storm. Macario takes a stool, and I get a pot of rice going. Anyway, rice is basic. Then open up one of those square cans of Spam. Cut it up. Then green onions. Chop that up. Fry up the Spam with the onions. Meanwhile, open a can of chili beans. Could be turkey or beef. Could be Stagg. Heat up the chili.

  “What’re you making?”

  “Hiro’s dish.”

  “Oh no. Not that.”

  “Why not? I tell you this is the most original stinky thing you gonna eat. Beats anything Pinoy.”

  By now he knows this might be the only thing can cheer me up. “That bad, huh?”

  “Maybe we go back to the first idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We do a funeral.”

  I prep the last ingredient: natto. Stinky, brown, snotty, fermented beans. Macario says smells like concentrated dirty socks. I tell him Hiro should know. Japanese invented this. Who’da thought? Same ones invented Zen. Whip the natto up with soy sauce and mustard. Crack in one raw egg. Whip it up some more. Touch of cayenne. Macario closes his eyes. I got to smile. I feel better already. I get the bowls ready. Pile up the rice, the chili, the fried Spam, the natto. Sprinkle more chopped scallions on top for garnish. For Macario, minus the natto.

  Now we hunker down. Eat first. Think later.

  Macario says, “I thought the guys decided.”

  “What they gonna decide? Pit or spit?”

  “I know how you feel. I got the same problems.”

  “What’s that?”

  “CPA. ACC.”

  Now I got to laugh. You hang out across the street from the hotel, you can see the dynamics clear as day. Picture this: middle door is the International Hotel entrance. Got the original square pillars and the old buttresses. These days painted nice. Door to the left is the Chinese Progressive Association. Door to the right is the Asian Community Center. O.K., depending on your point of view. You coming out the hotel entrance, door to the left is ACC, and door to the right is CPA. Both of them trying like crazy to be on the left. What’s the difference? Same difference. Some days maybe they got the same program. Showing the same goddamn Chinese movie. East is Red. You get confused. Go down one side. Go down the other. Same long-haired kids. Same posters of Mao. Same PRC flags. Through the looking glass.

  I look around. “Which side we on now?” I ask.

  “ACC,” Macario answers.

  “Are they pit or spit?”

  “Shit.”

  “You know, before we got the three-year lease, didn’t have this kind of problem.”

  “Everyone was too busy working on the hotel.”

  “I think I’m missing the noise. Pounding, sawing, scraping, sanding, screwing-screwing, banging-banging-banging.” I get excited. “Heh heh!”

  Macario shakes his head. “Dirty old man.”

  “Even missing the smell. Ammonia and fresh paint. Insecticide and rat poison.”

  “That’s a lie. You hated the smell.”

  “O.K.” I gesture with my chopsticks. “I’m lying.”

  Macario is watching the sticky brown spiderweb grab the Spam and chili in my bowl. I slurp it up. The web sticks to my lips.

  I say, “Saving the building is not the same thing as saving the hotel. Maybe anyone can save the building. Harder to save the hotel.”

  “O.K.,” he agrees.

  “That’s why”—I got to stop to wipe my mouth—“the guys got to argue pit or spit. Same arguments everywhere. No matter what, we got a three-year lease, time to take care of ghosts and shit like that. Maybe we succeed, but no matter what, three years is”—I kiss the air—“poof.”

  Macario sighs. He doesn’t know. He’s too young. Three years is still a big percentage of his life. “So,” he asks, “pit or spit?”

  I slap the table. “We gonna do both. Two pigs. Same size. Same weight. Two roasts. We get a panel of impartial judges. Maybe blindfold them. But you got to do it from live pig to roast pig. May the best pig win.”

  I’m already cleaning up. Wiping down the counter.

  “Felix.” Macario hands me his empty bowl. “Did you just decide this now?”

  “Hiro’s dish. It works every time.”

  “What about my problem?”

  “Sorry. You got to find your own dish.”

  Macario’s waiting in front on Kearny with the Chevy. Another pickup behind him, and Alfred’s driving that one. Butcher’s crew, about half dozen guys piling in. Alfred’s got two double-size Samoans in the truck. They’re so big, he’s driving squeezed outside the window even. Pretending to drive with one arm over the top of the wheel.

  I look in the truck. “Cozy, eh.”

  Everybody looks at me and smiles. All they can do to turn their heads, but Alfred says, “O.K.” He’s always enthusiastic. “Where’re we going?”

  “You don’t know?” I ask.

  “Hey,” he says, “lucky we got the truck.”

  Macario comes over. Consults with Alfred. “Claudio says he knows. Some place in Salinas.”

  “I’m following you, man.”

  As usual, I sit shotgun with Macario. He’s looking at a paper bag with something in it on my lap. “What’s that?”

  “Pio.”

  “We’re not leaving him out there, are we?”

  “What? Pio’s party right here in San Francisco. He’s just going for the ride.”

  “Choose the pigs?”

  “You never know.”

  “Right.”

  So we driving with the butcher’s crew and Pio south to Salinas. Macario looks back in his rearview mirror and says, “What about the Samoans?”

  “Alfred’s buddies. He says they got the knowledge.”

  “What do you figure? Truck cabin must be holding seven hundred pounds.”

  The guys are looking back at the truck. “And that’s not including Alfred.”

  “Don’t go too fast. Truck has to brake, it’s going to flip over us.”

  “That’s why we got to get those pigs. For counterweight.”

  In Salinas, locate the Hamilton Farm. Family operation. Everybody gets out to negotiate. Hamilton says, “I’m not in the pig business.”

  “What about those pigs over there?”

  “What about them?”

  “Look like pigs.”

  “They’re not pigs. Boars. Wild boars. Goddamn animals come down and tear up my crops. I shot the mother, then found this litter. Thought I’d raise them for meat.”

  “O.K., that’s the kind we want.”

  Butcher’s crew flanked by the Samoans all nod, then confer. “Too small. Even if we take all seven, can only feed seven.”

  Macario looks on. “They’re not that small.”

  “Come back in a couple months,” says Hamilton.

  “How big was the mother?”

  “Big. Hundred fifty pounds. Got her butchered into hams.”

  “That’s it.”

  “We get big daddy.”

  “You want to hunt them out, be my guest. Goddamn infestation.” Hamilton points. “Follow their trails into those hills over there. Plenty out there, if you can catch them.”

  Macario looks at me. “Hunt?” He addresses the butcher’s crew. Tattered bunch of old Chinese and Filipino guys got their knives in the back of the car. Sharp and ready to go. They standing there puffed up with their arms crossed over their chests.

  “We came here to get pig. W
e get pig.”

  “Save the fifty bucks. Get free ones in the wild.”

  “Maybe we need some preparation. When’s the last time you hunt?”

  The Samoans put in. “Don’t worry. We gonna take care of business.”

  “That’s right. We take care of business.”

  One of the old guys, Lee, says, “My cousin lives in downtown Salinas, old Chinatown. We get some lunch and get ready.”

  “Got to hunt around sundown. That’s when the pigs come out.”

  Macario asks, “How long is this going to take?”

  “Depends.”

  “Don’t worry.” The Samoans slap Macario on the back and hug Alfred. “We gonna take care of business.”

  “Right. Whatchu worry? We not born yesterday.”

  “Hunting is an old habit.”

  “You gonna see the real stuff.”

  Everyone is getting excited.

  It’s taking three days. Daytime, guys cutting bamboo and making long spears. Digging holes and making traps. Making maps and telling stories. The one that got away. How many get away? Sleeping late, eating at Lee’s, drinking beers.

  During the day, I say to Macario, “I take you on a tour of Salinas. I used to live here, cooked in that big house on the corner.”

  “That one?”

  “Yeah, you know John Steinbeck?”

  “Grapes of Wrath?”

  “Yeah, that’s his old house.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “John likes my tarts. I know he comes down to the kitchen at night. Steals the tarts. Strawberry tarts. Boysenberry. Rhubarb. One night I catch him, so I make a pot of coffee, and we get to talking. Some time I tell you about it.”

  We stand on the corner. House needs some painting. Garden’s a mess. I shake my head. “Used to be beautiful. Wonder who owns it now? Nobody remembers.”

  “Rich growers in Salinas must hate Steinbeck.”

  “Those days, who knows he was gonna write? Who’s side he’s on? Just a kid like you. Going to Stanford sometimes.”

  “Felix, how old were you?”

  “Oh, about the same as John. I was going to Berkeley, but I had to quit.”

  “Felix, you never told me that.”

  “You didn’t know I was a fountain-pen boy?”