Jessy Delfino's Blog

THE ASIANS DON'T EAT SCONES

I woke up early on Sunday morning to see the sun shining in my windows with a glow reminiscent of a microwave oven in full blast, roasting a chicken pot pie or some other such tasty frozen treat to radioactive perfection. The analogy immediately made me hungry, so I stretched my slim, perfect body complete with the accompanyment of odd vocal squeals and crawled out of bed in a gangly, cat-like fashion.

I just moved into a new apartment in Chinatown, and in the past three weeks I've lived here, I feel like I've been on vacation in a small asian nation. All the signs are written in Chinese, all the employees at all the stores are Chinese. All the people who drive the cars, all the people who live in the buildings, all the people who walk on the sidewalks, all the people's dogs - all Chinese. The menus at the restaurants resemble something from a reality TV show eating dare - Fish Eye soup, Slimy Pig Tongue and other delicious treats that could fill you up, make you vomit, or whatever you're into.

So, I knew it wasn't going to be an easy feat when my stomach whispered to my brain "Scone..."

I got on my shiny blue bike which wears a duct tape dressing to keep people from stealing it and rode around to all the stores in the neighborhood. There were dried fish stomachs, there were bottles of ginger and infinite boxes of teas and spices. There were Chinese people. But there were no scones.

"I'll try the bakery," I said. In the bakery, there were puffy breads full of pork and bean sauce. There were rice balls. There were cream rolls. There were Chinese people. But there were no scones.

"I'll try a JEWISH bakery," I said. At the Jewish bakery, a few blocks east of my actual neighborhood, there were rugalahs. There were bagels. There were cookies. There were Jewish people. But there were no god damn scones! "No scones," said the lady behind the counter, who I assumed must have been Jewish, but she looked mighty Puerto Rican to me. "We're not selling them during Passover. Try back in three weeks," she said. "But I want them now!" I yelled, throwing a temper tantrum. I jumped up and down, fists in balls at my sides. "Now! Now! Now!" I yelled. I pushed over a cart on wheels, loaded with trays of freshly baked jewish treats, sending kosher goodies sprawling everywhere. Two men playing cards looked up at me with blank expressions. A nice man with payos asked me to leave. I did as he said.

I eventually had to give up and go to the true outskirts of the neighborhood, almost to the ghetto, to the actual grocery store. At the grocery store, there were bottles of juice. There were loaves of bread. There were containers of cream cheese. There were tons of Mexicans. But there were no jesus fucking h christ scones. I began to cry.

I left the store and settled on bagels at a nice Jewish bakery around the corner. On the way back to my apartment, bagels in bag, I rode by a tiny hole with a sign that said "Baked Goods." I KNEW there would be scones in there. How could there not be? After I'd already bought bagels? There was no way in HELL that they wouldn't have scones. I parked my bike and walked inside. Two old men were eating soup. A Chinese man cooked grilled cheese sandwiches behind the counter. They had cheesecake. They had burgers. They had fish sandwiches. "Do you have any mother fucking scones?" I asked. "Ching chang chong," he said.

I went home and ate bagels.