. . .

Japanese sushi stand

It was a cart. Selling sushi. In the mall. Peter stared at it.

It stood there, innocently. Like it wasn't out of place in the stiflingly preppie atmosphere. Just a little cart. It had wheels. Inside, it had fish, and a small Japanese man, who stood smiling benignly at the small lunch crowd. No one else even seemed to blink an eye at the incongruity of it. It hadn't been there the day before, that Peter was certain of. It hadn't even been there that morning. Peter worked at the Games Gallery on the other end, by Sears, but the busses let him out over on the wrong corner, and he had to walk through the entirety of the mall to get to the right area. This was new.

Peter approached, cautiously. The little Japanese man smiled at him. The little Japanese man wore a nametag saying "My Name Is Maurice". Peter smiled warily back at Maurice, and ordered an order of amaebi. It was good. It came with the fried heads, though Peter wasn't certain where Maurice had taken them from. It cost $2.65.

The next morning, the space was empty again. The next lunchtime break, though, the space was occupied once more. This time, it was a cart selling Spanish food. Spanish, not Mexican, and they had no burritoes, and this time it came with a smiling Spanish gentleman. "My Name Is Eddie". The paella was delicious. It cost $3.15 as part of a luncheon deal, with drink. Peter liked Diet Coke.

The day after that, it was Ethiopian, with a smiling gentleman of a nationality which Peter assumed was likewise Ethiopian, whose nametag Peter didn't see, but which was probably something like Xavier, or possibly Charles. The day after that, French. Smiling Frenchman. Lucas. $3.95 for the pate de fois gras lunch basket, which came with a glass of Chateu Latour '78, which made Peter feel pleasantly tipsy on his way back to work.

The day after that was Peter's day off. He spent it hanging around with his friends, and idly, in his spare moments, trying to guess what it was today. New Zealand? Austria? Perhaps Russia?

It faded into the background, for a while. He'd always go there for lunch, hand the smiling man behind the counter his money, eat whatever delicacy appealed to him off the ever-changing menu, and head back, having only half an hour for his lunch break. It was strange, yes, but after living with strangeness for a little while, strangeness becomes normal.

One day, though, the cart wasn't there. A sign stood in its place. "Sorry about the inconvenience. Back soon. Under new management!" Well, that was the end of that. They'd been bought out by someone who was going to turn them into Pirate's Pizza Palace, or something of that kind. Pity. It was good while it lasted.

The next day was Peter's day off.

The day after that, Peter went by, for old time's sake. The crowd was particularly thick that day. Peter fought his way through.

The smiling alien behind the counter's name was Philip. And the roast T'kagh was delicious.

This might not be such a bad change after all.