I go to lunch alone, thinking that I am a Strong and Independent woman. As I enter the Khmer cafe I am greeted by the sensuous dance of ginger and lemongrass and garlic. The staff snaps to attention, suddenly straight-backed and busy. I notice that all eyes are on me as I walk to a quiet, well-lit corner. A petite, uniformed waitress follows one half-step behind with a placid smile and a laminated twelve-page menu. A third of the dishes have halfhearted English descriptions, but most are accompanied by identical images of fried rice and fried noodles.
This menu is complicated and nearly unreadable, and I struggle to find any difference between "Khmer fried noodle with chicken" and "fried noodle with chicken Khmer". Diligently, I wade through the murky options reading page after page of soups and entrees. The entire time, my eager waitresses stands just beside my shoulder, watching, waiting. I feel rushed to decide quickly and place my order.
I point to an image of chicken and rice, and my waitress cheerfully scampers off.
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