Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(53)

“With your mom,” I say, squinting.

The car looks like it once used to be some kind of military vehicle but has been painted sky blue with white clouds all over it. Brit’s mom-n-dad sit in the front, dressed in clothes that could easily be mistaken for safari gear.

“Hop in,” says Brit’s mom.

“Actually,” says Brit, “Frank and I were gonna—”

“This is what’s known as being spontaneous,” says Brit’s dad. “Also, we’re buying you two lunch to celebrate.”

“Can’t argue with free food,” I say.

We yank open the hatchlike door, and Brit shoves me in by my butt.



* * *



? ? ?

The spontaneous plan is to go to the Mocha-Dick at The Shops & Restaurants at Playa Embarcadero Beach Pier, but when we get there, the Mocha-Dick is no more.

“Mocha-Dick used to stand right here,” says Brit’s dad with wonder.

The Mocha-Dick, named after the article that inspired Melville’s seminal novel Moby-Dick, had long been an institution ever since Playa Embarcadero Beach Pier was erected. But its sign—crafted in the shape of a whale breaching high between two ocean swells—now bears the name YOUNG DONG SEAFOOD & KOREAN BBQ.

“I guess let’s go grab us some Young Dong,” says Brit’s mom without a hint of awareness of the breathtaking joke she has inadvertently just let fly. She even growls out the word grab and everything.

“Oh my god,” says Brit, unable to breathe.

“In through the nose, and shh, out through the mouth,” I say, and suddenly I wish Joy were here to see this magnificent sign. I snap a photo to send later.

Inside we’re greeted with a robust Eoseo osipsio, which means welcome but really loud. We score a killer table next to a floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking a dock laden with sunbathing seals, a harbor bristling with boats, and the open sea.

“How’s your dad?” says Brit’s mom.

“He’s busy working at The Store like always,” I say with a laugh. “I guess he’s recovering pretty well.”

“I find their work ethic tremendously honorable,” says Brit’s dad.

I can only shrug. Mom-n-Dad’s work ethic doesn’t feel all that special to me. That probably makes me a spoiled second-gen brat who doesn’t know how good he has it.

But isn’t that what Mom-n-Dad wanted?

“The weird thing,” I say to no one, “is he seems happier since being shot.”

Brit’s mom gives an eager nod. “I feel that makes a strange kind of sense. When your world gets shaken upside down, maybe you’re just grateful for what sticks. Your father’s trauma might be unexpectedly clarifying.”

I’m guessing Brit’s mom is a hobbyist psychologist—both Brit’s mom-n-dad are smart enough to be hobbyist anything—and I wish I could have her work on my dad in an interrogation room. Maybe Brit’s mom could solve the riddle of him.

Brit’s dad opens the menu, flips through it, puts it down. He turns to me. And here it comes: “Maybe it’d be easier if you just ordered for us, Frank?”

I smile, but inside I’m irked. Brit’s dad, despite his very Anglo last name of Means, would never be able to explain everything about, say, Irish cuisine. More importantly, he would never be expected to. Brit’s dad is only ever expected to be one thing, and that’s plain old generic American.

I’m not knocking Brit’s dad or anything. I’m just saying it must be nice.

Because I’m still expected to be the Korean expert, whether I know anything or not. In other words, I’m still expected to be Korean first, then plain old generic American second. That damn hyphen in Korean-American just won’t go away.

I can’t say any of this out loud, because I’m at lunch with Brit’s parents and I want to keep things nice and light. So:

Hi, I’m Frank, and I’ll be your Korean Food Tour Guide for the duration of today’s meal.

Our waiter brings us tiny glasses of not water, but cold barley tea.

Brit’s dad fishes out his reading glasses. “Now what’s this we’re drinking here?”

“Uh,” I begin. “It’s cold tea. It’s called, uh, boricha.”

“Boricha,” say Brit’s parents, impressed.

“Oh, this tea has a wonderful roasted body to it,” says Brit’s mom.

I hand the heavy menus to the waiter. “We’ll just get three kalbis, a mul naengmyeon for me, maybe one of those small squid pajuns to start.”

The waiter hollers out, “Kalbi segeh mul naengmyeon hana haemul pajun hana!”

“Yeh!” the kitchen crew hollers back.

The food comes at us with blinding speed. First, all the banchan: tiny dishes of spinach and roasted baby anchovies and potato salad and spiced jelly and so on.

“Oh my goodness,” says Brit’s mom. “You’re going to have to explain all of these, Frank. I’m afraid we’re a little bit—”

“We’re terribly white,” says Brit’s dad.

“Dad,” says Brit, in the same voice I use for Mom-n-Dad. In my mind I can hear her say: It’s European-American.

I vow to keep things nice and light.