At 10:45 one Friday morning, just past egg-on-a-roll hour but before cheese-steak time, the scent was of soy sauce with undercurrents of vinegar. Inside, workers were stocking a steam table running the length of the room and crowned with turrets of plastic clamshells.
The vent’s emissions were confirmed: at $7.79/lb, glossy orbs of chicken studded with sesame seeds, slayed asparagus spears festooned with a stripe of chopped pickled peppers, squirming heaps of lo-mein.
Saran Wrap rolled back over each tray gave the impression that the food was napping under a sheer blanket.
The back wall of the deli offered a vista of soft drinks behind rubber flaps. The bathroom was the kind of place where you flush with your foot and open the door with a scrap of paper towel. Café Water received a C on its most recent inspection by the Department of Health. I noticed a clip-art sign posted to the steam table. It featured a yellow armless hand (a glove?) fondling two chicken drumsticks: PLEASE DO NOT SAMPLE FOOD.
A family of jet-lagged tourists slouched at a table
overlooking the Pine Street alley, nursing a bottle of strawberry Nesquik. A
few businessmen twiddled with their smartphones in front of the panini bar,
where stacks of wan sandwiches awaited pressing.
Outside, I made a pass by
the vent again. Fried chicken. It was approaching 11 a.m., when the early
lunchers would begin to trickle in. Moving away from the vent, I realized the
odor trailed me all the way across Water Street, where the waterfall beckoned.
The chlorinated smell—almost as astringent as pine—soon obliterated the greasy
musk. The splashing water tickled my toes.
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