Soul Food

Serena has absolutely no idea where she is.

One minute she’s stepping off the steps of the South Boston train station, her canvas bag containing a few well-read novels over her shoulder and her rolled-up umbrella in hand. The next minute she’s being swept up in a larger-than-life crowd of people that was not a part of the regular bustle of travelers leaving the station like she had assumed. Now, she’s in the middle of a random street food market, lost and directionless.

Despite traveling into the city twice a week for the last several months to visit her ailing grandmother, the inner city of Boston is still very unfamiliar to her. A fact that becomes painfully obvious when she fails to make sense of any of the street names in an attempt to backtrack and relocate the train station. Which really shouldn’t be difficult, as the station is a huge curved brick building with a giant clock on top. Hard to miss. And yet, the building is nowhere in sight.

She can’t have strayed far from her normal route, but trying to find a keystone that she recognizes is difficult in the unexpected sea of people flowing around dozens of food stands. Stalls of all sizes and sturdiness are set up in the middle of the street serving long lines of people on either side, chefs and cooks shouting orders at each other over the loud crowds. Countless food trucks are packed together on the outer sides of the streets, parked so closely that no one person has a chance at sneaking past them, and their lines mingle with those of the stationary food stalls, creating the chaotic mess of a crowd she finds herself in.

Every kind of food imaginable is present and accounted for, from cannoli kings and lobster rolls to french pastries and crepes to curry dishes and gyros, and all the different mouth-watering smells have her feeling famished. It's the high noon hour, and she hasn’t eaten anything yet today apart from her morning coffee, which her stomach is reminding her technically isn’t food. Her eyes snag on a red and green Mexican taco truck right as her stomach lets out a loud grumble, and she has to forcibly remind herself that if she shows up at her grandmother’s place without an appetite she’s going to get smacked with a wooden spoon and subjected to an hour-long lecture. 

Alzheimer’s can’t slow that old woman down, and Serena knows how important cooking for visitors is to her grandmother. It helps keep her sharp in the mind, even though her body has grown too weak to physically do the cooking herself. That task is delegated to her live-in caretaker, a small Ukrainian woman who doesn’t mind being bossed around in the kitchen when it produces the good soul food her grandmother is known for. 

That’s mostly why Serena makes these half-day trips to visit her; it allows her grandmother to cook like she used to. Since the official diagnosis a few years ago, their small family has pulled back from visiting regularly, and as far as Serena can tell she’s the only one who’s made it a point to plan routine visits. The novels in her bag are a decent excuse, and she brings a new one with every visit to exchange for an older one, even though she’s aware they mostly go unread by her grandmother. It’s the thought that counts, anyway.

The unease of feeling like a fish out of water keeps her moving through the crowd, and she decides to just aimlessly follow the flow of people until hopefully she pops out the other end and can collect herself. The crowds move relatively quickly for the high number of people congregating, and it's not until she passes a live band playing that she acknowledges how dumb this plan is. 

She stops next to a Middle-Eastern food stand to take a breather, accidentally plowing over an older teenage boy darting the opposite way in between the stalls.

“Oh, excuse me - ” she starts, but he grumbles and moves away from her. 

Serena sighs and tosses her umbrella into her bag to fish out her phone. It was raining when she left for the train this morning, but with the sun out now there’s little need for it, and she’s irritated with having one more thing to carry. A few quick searches on her phone tell her the food market is here all weekend, and they have over a hundred different vendors with dozens of special events scheduled. The map shows her location isn’t that far off from where she needs to be, but the best way to get there is back the way she came, going against the flow of the crowd. 

Now fully annoyed - and if she’s honest, hangry with a headache - she puts her phone away just as the boarded-up side window of the stall she’s standing next to pops open, and she’s quite suddenly staring at a tall middle-aged woman with dark hair and a no-nonsense face. The woman stares back, one eyebrow raised and expectant look not budging. 

“Well?” the woman says in a thick accent that’s difficult to place, “What will you have?”

Serena blinks at her stupidly for a second before her mind catches up. “Oh, no, I’m not interested in ordering any food,” she blurts out, tacking on a half-hearted “sorry” to smooth out her bluntness. 

“Ma’am,” the woman starts, her exasperation apparent, “you are first in line. No one has been first in line all day. Food is fresh and hot. Won’t be for long." She gestures to the corner of the stand where a quick menu scribbled on black chalkboard stands with pricing, then to a group of people magically lining up directly behind Serena, a fact she had missed. “Order something or step aside.”

“Uhh,” Serena’s mind stalls, and in the face of indecision she defaults to giving in to peer pressure. Taking a glance at the menu, she orders the first thing she reads. “I’ll have a lamb gyro plate, please.” 

The woman hums in response and writes down the order on a slip of paper, and Serena cringes as she pays. She steps to the side of the window to make room for the person standing behind her, mentally kicking herself for spending money she didn’t mean to spend. Impulsive purchases have always made her uncomfortable. 

She doesn’t have to wait long at all for her food. A younger man pops up in the window from the back with her gyro plate and a drink after hardly a minute. The aluminum tin is almost too hot to carry in her hands, and she quickly wanders over to a tiny makeshift seating area of folding chairs and tables. The smell wafting up from her food is delectable, and with her mouth salivating and her stomach growling she slowly digs in, mindful of the steam so as not to burn her mouth. 

It's an amazing combination of flavors, the meat perfectly cooked and seasoned combined with freshly baked pita, warm veggies, and a savory sauce on top. She single-mindedly devours every bite, resigning to the fact that she won’t be eating her grandmother’s cooking. When she finishes, belly full and happy, she leans back and washes it down with the drink, a simple lemon infused water. For the first time since being swept up in the market, and since leaving her place this morning if she’s honest, she’s content and satisfied. 

The market continues buzzing around her, people hollering and laughing, children screaming and running around, but it's not as bothersome as before. Good soul food will do that, she realizes, and she slowly gets up to throw her trash out and clear her seating place for someone else. 

She meanders slowly back through the market the way she came, taking her time to navigate against the crowd without being in the way. It's relatively simple if she stays closer to the food trucks. She’s only bumped into a few times by someone more careless, but she now has more patience than ever and it rolls right off her. 

Reaching the presumed entrance of the street food market, she’s face to face with the self-proclaimed Cannolis Kings, and she watches two men dish out freshly made cannolis to a line of people with impressive speed. She makes her second impulsive purchase of the day, two warm cannolis for her grandmother.

It's not going to prevent the lecture that she knows is waiting for her. Turning up to someone’s house with a full stomach is a no-no in her grandmother’s book, especially when you know ahead of time food will be served upon your arrival. At the very least, it will help ease the fact that she is now well over an hour late. Cannolis are her grandmother’s favorite, and a lot can be forgiven with the right soul food.