The Bakery

It is a small square room with walls painted a fading red. The sweet smell of rising dough saturates the air. Behind curved shields of clear Plexiglas that border the room on three sides, yellow-lighted shelves delicately display rows upon rows of delectable pastries and freshly baked buns. It is late in the afternoon and business is slow, typical of the long, quiet hours preceding the evening rush.

A chipped, wooden counter occupies the space before the fourth wall. A rusty, black cash register sits atop it. Beside the register lies a table mat, depicting with intricate detail the twelve Chinese zodiacs. The characters for 'luck' and 'good health,' woven with golden thread into a red tapestry, hang above a doorway behind the counter. From this doorway drifts the pleasant aroma of baking bread, where a lone, old man - hair gray and shoulders stooped with age - tends to his many ovens.

The silver tinkling of wind chimes is heard as an office woman, just off from work and wearing a white shirt, black skirt, and tie, opens the door and steps in. Her polished heels are scuffed with the wet dust of the busy streets outside. She paces slowly to and fro across the dull, tile floor, admiring the baker's art. In one hand, she carries a smooth, metallic suitcase; with the other, she thoughtfully touches a finger to her lips.

Out on the street, a bus engine roars. Crowds of people can be seen going about their business through a large, rectangular window, smudged with the oily finger and forehead prints of sweaty children. One such child stops his mother in front of the window. "Ma ma," he pleads, pulling on her arm, "I want to go inside. I want to eat bo lo baau. Please, ma ma!" She resists at first, but after a second glance at the delicacies behind the glass, she concedes and they go in.

A dirt alleyway off to the side of the bakery leads to a hidden back road where, isolated from the noise and the danger of the city streets, little boys and girls gather to play. They chatter in a strange idiomatic blend of English and Chinese, sitting on large stones behind the crumbling edifice. The buildings that surround them, ancient testaments to an era long gone, form a kind of protective fissure. The moist tang of the morning's rainfall lingers in the air.

Some of the younger children have opened their own bakery, happily squealing as cold, gritty mud squelches between their palms; they pound it into shapes vaguely resembling circles. The older ones watch amused, peeling the shells off of ginkgo kernels. A wooden door opens behind them and the old baker appears, carrying a tray full of gai jai bang. He smiles a wide, toothless grin. They stand up and gather around, and he hands each of them a cookie along with a rusted copper coin. The cookies are warm and sticky, tasting faintly of chicken.

The baker takes the kernels and goes back inside. The evening rush is about to begin.