Ok-hee laughed.
This seemed like a good time to put a word in for Nash.
“Do you know my friend Pete Nash?” I asked. “He plays trumpet.”
She nodded. “We’re lab partners in science. He’s kind of quiet.”
“He just seems shy until you get to know him. Get him out of that academic dungeon and he really opens up. He’s a computer whiz and a great hockey player, too.”
“I didn’t know he played hockey.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a lot more to Nash than his freckles.”
Yongsu nudged me. “C’mon, let’s start Dragons Forever before dinner.”
Dragons Forever? That’s my all-time favorite Jackie Chan movie. “Let’s do it. What could be better than Jackie’s jump in the last fight scene?”
An hour later we gathered for dinner around a card table that Mrs. Han had covered with a crocheted tablecloth. I sat next to Yongsu, across from Ok-hee.
Mr. Han was the last to join us. He’d come home from work later than Mrs. Han. I noticed that nobody touched a thing, not even a water glass, until he was ready.
Before we started eating, Mr. Han turned to me. “Joseph, your mother tells us you need to learn about Korea. You ask us any questions you want.”
I nodded, but I felt insulted. Was this supposed to be dinner, or an educate-the-confused-Korean mission? No way would I act like that. Korean blood flowed through my veins just like theirs.
Mrs. Han walked from seat to seat, scooping mounds of sticky white rice into small bowls near our plates. Then she placed a large bowl next to the meat platter. It was full of vegetables covered in an orangey sauce, and it smelled like rotten fish.
Yongsu must have seen me staring. “That’s kimchi,” he explained.
“I know,” I said, but I didn’t really, although I’d read about Sohn Kee Chung’s family eating kimchi.
There were no knives or forks, but chopsticks lay next to each folded napkin. Mine were wooden. The Hans’ were silver.
Everyone dug in after Mrs. Han sat down, but I hesitated. Whenever I use chopsticks in a restaurant, the floor beneath my chair collects more food debris than the Meadowlands Arena after a rock concert.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Yongsu eat. He quickly picked bits of food off his plate with his chopsticks as if they were pinchers extending from his fingers. But my chopsticks had a mind of their own. The harder I squeezed, the wider they swung apart. Halfway to my mouth, most of the food fell. So I tried pushing them together and using them like a shovel, but you don’t shovel much rice with chopsticks.
Without a word Mrs. Han came over, took one of my chopsticks, placed it against the crook of my thumb, and wrapped my middle and ring fingers around it like it was a pen. Then she tucked the other between the tip of my thumb and my pointer finger.
“Hold the bottom one still,” she explained, pivoting the top one like a lever.
I pressed too hard and the bottom stick wobbled.
“Relax your hands,” she added, adjusting my grip.
I tried again with lame results. And again, only this time I speared a piece of bulgogi.
Mrs. Han readjusted my fingers. “No poking with chopsticks. You can do it, Joseph.”
Eyeing a big clump of rice in my bowl, I tried her technique, holding the bottom chopstick steady. This time the rice made it all the way to my mouth. I grinned, savoring the hard-earned taste.
“Thanks, the chopsticks are different at my house,” I said, just as—plop!—a piece of bulgogi slipped between my chopsticks and into my water glass.
Everyone laughed, even me. It was funny.
“Try some kimchi,” Mrs. Han said after I fished the meat out. I tasted a small piece. Kimchi sure was a spicy veggie with a lot of “character.” Dad always says that about hot foods.
“So your family’s Italian?” Ok-hee asked.
“Seriously Italian. We eat pasta three times a week and we all talk with our hands.” I took a big gulp of water. Sesame seeds were floating on top from the stray bulgogi.
“My best friend Lisa in Flushing is Italian. Her mom makes this delicious bean soup with tomatoes and macaroni,” Ok-hee said.
“Pasta fagioli. My mom has a hundred-year-old family recipe, only she loads it up with sausage. I call it fagioli carnivory. Mmm, makes my mouth water.”
“Ok-hee’s a vegetarian,” Yongsu whispered.
Mr. Han quickly turned the conversation to school. “So, Joseph, do you get good grades?” he asked, scooping more rice into his bowl.
“Straight As, most of the time.”
Ok-hee rolled her eyes. “School matters more than happiness to Korean parents,” she said.
“Working hard helps you find happiness,” Mr. Han quickly answered. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he spoke.