Back then, I was drifting through Central America without internet or a phone. I’d been visiting countries like filling in blanks on a map, and finally washed up in San Salvador, the capital of El Salvador. The corruption and violence that Hollywood loves to dramatize never quite materialized in my field of vision. What I found instead was a city where comfortable lives unfolded at an unhurried pace.
Latin American food is passionate, delicious — no question. But after weeks of the same rhythms, my stomach had grown tired of the routine. I craved the smell of soy sauce caramelizing in a hot pan, the fragrance of sesame oil, the sharp bite of rice vinegar. It didn’t have to be Japanese — my palate was simply hungry for “Asian flavors.”
Central America has a significant Chinese diaspora, a legacy of the Panama Canal’s construction era when laborers migrated from China. San Salvador seemed to be the exception, though. I rarely spotted anyone of Asian descent on the streets. There were small Chinese takeout joints here and there, but nothing where you’d want to settle in and actually eat.
One morning, as I do in every city, I made my way to the central market — the best place to gauge a city’s food culture, price points, hygiene standards. At the fish stalls, I noticed a middle-aged man staring at me. East Asian features. Our eyes locked for a few seconds. He gave a slight nod, as if confirming something to himself, then bought a large whole fish and disappeared into the crowd.
That afternoon, wandering the side streets near my guesthouse, I spotted a sign hanging in an alley: “中華” (Chinese). So there was a Chinese restaurant here. How had I missed it? The place appeared to open only for dinner — the door was still locked. It looked like the kind of setup where they’d unfold tables in a courtyard. I thought I saw someone moving in the back, but I kept walking.
By evening, when hunger set in, that restaurant was all I could think about. My feet carried me there without conscious decision.
The space was large, with plenty of tables. But there wasn’t a single customer. I took a seat at a table in the center of the courtyard. A man in cook’s whites emerged from the back with a menu. It was the same person from the market that morning.
The menu was hand-written in faded Spanish — completely illegible to me. In English, I ordered “egg and lettuce fried rice” and “hot and sour soup.” He nodded lightly, then smiled and said, “Pescado.” Fish, in Spanish.
“No, gracias,” I said, shaking my head. Ignoring my protest, he repeated “pescado frito” and headed back to the kitchen. Apparently, I’d been voluntarily conscripted into ordering fish.
Fine, whatever. Before I could work up any real resistance, the fried rice and soup arrived, along with a whole red snapper, deep-fried deep-fried without breading or batter. I forgot to question the circumstances or the price — I just ate. The fish was impossibly fresh, delicious. Whether it was some special technique or just the cook’s skill, the seasoning was unmistakably high-quality “Asian food.”
When I’d finished — satisfied, almost stunned — the man emerged from the kitchen again. With no other customers to attend to, he seemed to want to talk. The problem was, we had no common language. My Mandarin pronunciation is terrible, and his Spanish, English, and Japanese (naturally) were all equally shaky.
He pulled a pen from his pocket and started writing on a paper napkin. Chinese characters.
“我係福建佬嚟㗎。以前喺香港、多倫多、紐約做過嘢,揸鑊鏟。之後就過嚟聖薩爾瓦多。呢檔係我個竇。你呢? 你係邊度人呀?” (I’m from Fujian. Used to work as a cook in Hong Kong, Toronto, New York. Then I came to San Salvador. This place is mine. What about you? Where are you from?)
I recognized the traditional characters as Cantonese and cobbled together a reply with my limited Chinese.
“先生、国際人! 我、由東京。食事、美味。魚、最高。多謝!” (Mister, you’re a citizen of the world! I’m from Tokyo. The meal was delicious. The fish was incredible. Thank you!)
Characters traveled back and forth across the napkin. A silent conversation had taken shape between us. Then he wrote one last line and laughed.
“一早喺街市見到你,我就知你今晚實會嚟呢度。咪特登買咗嗰條魚囉。” (When I saw you at the market this morning, I knew you’d come here tonight. So I bought that fish just for you.)
So that was it. Maybe it was more than just a cook’s intuition — something beyond that. Two East Asians, meeting by chance in a foreign land, passing invisible signals to each other across the distance.
When you’re traveling, there are moments when the superficial labels — nationality, language — suddenly feel thin, almost translucent. That night in San Salvador was exactly one of those moments.
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