My Korean Deli_ Risking It All for a Convenience Store - Ben Ryder Howe [54]
It takes a while, but eventually we pry it out of the frame, and a few minutes later Gab (after shouting at me, “What’s wrong with you?!” on her way in) coaxes her mother out of the bathroom. Shortly afterward, without talking to me, Kay goes home, along with Edward, Ling, Uncle Jinsuk and Gab, leaving me alone to work on the store with Dwayne, who goes home too after a while. Mission accomplished. The renovations will not be finished today. The store is a bloody mess, covered with debris, half-finished projects and a thick layer of sawdust. It looks like a bomb blew up inside it, which I suppose in a way one did. So much for family.
AS A RESULT of the fight you’d think I’d be chastened enough to avoid conflict for a little while—and I would, under any other circumstances. Unfortunately, it’s just too important to stick to the plan—my plan, that is, for turning the store into a gourmet market. Thus while Kay and I make up the next day (or, rather, I humbly beg her forgiveness, and to my surprise she mumbles something about being sorry too), the whole cycle of recrimination, mistrust and behind-the-back criticism starts again almost immediately. Kay sees me doing something she doesn’t like and says so to Gab; I see her doing something I don’t like and do the same; and Gab, after hearing from both of us, runs out to the street and screams at the sky, “Jesus Lord in heaven, what did I do to deserve this? I’ll do anything if you let me escape.” (That’s the thing about family business, though—there is no escape. You live with the people you work with, and after putting up with them at work all day, you get to come home and listen to them clip their toenails as they hog the television.)
To make matters worse, one morning the mail delivers a sleek, expensively produced catalog from a distributor specializing in gourmet and imported foods. At first I hide it from Gab, who would surely throw it in the recycling bin if she saw it. Then I consider burning it in the backyard, or at least blacking out the company’s telephone number, lest I act on some unfortunate impulse. (Remember, Gab just told me no more expensive, nonessential purchases.) But I can’t do any of these things. The spreads pictured in the catalog are too sumptuous, the pictures too beautiful. It’s like walking past a bakery with the smell of hot, crusty, freshly baked bread wafting out.
“Good afternoon, this is Steinway Gourmet Foods. May I help you?”
Now, let’s be clear: this really is not your usual brochure. It’s more like an art book, something you could leave on a coffee table. The products it offers—a cornucopia of international delicacies, the kind to be found in epicurean gift baskets and crowded window displays at specialty stores in the West Village—have been assembled into still lifes so mouthwatering you can practically taste them. The variety is astounding—who knew there were that many different kinds of balsamic vinegar? And so many delicious little mysteries—for instance, what does hempseed oil taste like? So much wholesome goodness and so little to feel guilty about; this is, after all, the good side of globalization, the flowering of world culture in all its myriad expressions.
Yet as I hold the phone to my ear I feel like I have no soul. The back of my neck is damp and my stomach is knotted.
“Yes,” I say, trying not to sound as sinister as I feel. “I’d like to make an order.”
“Splendid!” says the female operator in a cool Southeast Asian accent. “However, before we start, I must confirm that you are aware of our thousand-dollar minimum.”
A thousand? I had assumed that it was only around one hundred, as it is with most vendors.
“Yes, I