Pineapple buns, however, are something she could afford. It’s only a dollar fifty for two.
We sit down at one of the few tables in the bakery, and I bite into my bun and savor the crunchy, sweet topping. I loved these things when I was a child, and it tastes just as good as I remember.
“You know when I learned that pineapple buns don’t contain pineapple?” she says. “Just last year.”
“Really? They don’t taste like pineapple at all.” The topping just looks like pineapple, hence the name.
“But I figured therehadto be pineapple. I thought I could detect a hint of it.” She shakes her head. “My mind was blown when I discovered the truth. I felt misled.”
I laugh and take another bite. “When my mother’s parents came over from China, they opened a bakery on Elizabeth Street, and then when most of Chinatown was bulldozed—”
“Huh?”
“Chinatown used to be centered on Elizabeth Street, but when it was destroyed to make way for City Hall, some of the businesses moved west to Spadina.”
“I didn’t know that. I thought it was always on Spadina.”
I shake my head. “Later, my grandparents had a bakery on Spadina, but they sold it when I was young.” I have vague memories of going there as a child. Memories of my mother arguing with my grandmother in Toisanese because my grandmother had fed me too many barbecue pork buns, and I wasn’t going to be hungry for dinner. I smile.
Courtney starts licking the crumbs off her fingers. I stare at her mouth, pineapple bun forgotten, imagining her licking the crumbs offmyfingers instead, or better yet...
“Oh my God,” she says. “Julian Fong, you have a dreamy look on your face. What are you thinking about?”
Uh, sex?
But I don’t say that. I just take another bite of my pineapple bun.
And Courtney, goddammit, takes a photo of me while I’m shoving the bun into my mouth and trying to forget about the image of her licking things.
“Another picture for your scrapbook!” she says.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, we’re standing in a store that specializes in cacti and succulents. Courtney finds it fascinating, and I’m trying my best to see it through her eyes.
And failing.
“Isn’t it cool how these plants adapted to live in such harsh environments?” she says. I suppose this is the scientist in her. “You should get a cactus.”
“I do not need a cactus.”
“You don’t have a single plant in that ginormous penthouse of yours. You should have something to brighten it up.”
“A cactus is going to brighten it up?”
“You need a living thing in your sterile home, and a cactus is perfect because it doesn’t require much attention. Just very occasional watering. You can manage that much, can’t you?”
“I’ll tell my housekeeper to take care of it.”
She rolls her eyes before stepping away from me and walking around a table of cacti, presumably trying to decide which one would suit me the best.
“I always wanted a terrarium,” she says, “but I think we’ll just get you a single cactus.” She bursts into laughter as she picks up a pot with a cactus that’s about six inches tall.
“What’s so funny?”
“Doesn’t it make you think of...”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
