“Whether it's food or women, the ones on front street are supermodels. Big hair, big tits, big trouble, but the one you come home to is probably something like cavatelli and red sauce. She's not screaming for attention because she knows she's good enough even if your dumb ass hasn't figured it out yet.”

“Xiang wei is the character a good dish has when it’s robust, flavorful, and balanced but still maintains a certain light quality. That flavor comes, lingers on your tongue, stays long enough to make you crave it, but just when you think you have it figured out, it’s gone. Timing is everything. Soup dumplings, sitcoms, one-night stands—good ones leave you wanting more.”

“Good food makes me want to hit a punching bag like, Dat's right motherfucker. You done did it there.”

“The easiest way for Americans to make sense of Chinese history is to compare everything to Jewish history. There's an analogue for everything. Torah: Analects. Curly sideburns: long ponytails. Mantou: bagels.”

“I think my mom is manic, but Chinese people don't believe in psychologists. We just drink more tea when things go bad. Sometimes I agree; I think we're all over diagnosed.”

“She said to me, over the phoneShe wanted to see other peopleI thought, Well then, look around. They're everywhereSaid that she was confused...I thought, Darling, join the club24 years old, Mid-life crisisNowadays hits you when you're youngI hung up, She called back, I hung up againThe process had already startedAt least it happened quickI swear, I died inside that nightMy friend, he calledI didn't mention a thingThe last thing he said was, Be soundSound...I contemplated an awful thing, I hate to admitI just thought those would be such appropriate last wordsBut I'm still hereAnd smallSo small.. How could this struggle seem so big?So big...While the palms in the breeze still blow greenAnd the waves in the sea still absolute blueBut the horrorEvery single thing I see is a reminder of herNever thought I'd curse the day I met herAnd since she's gone and wouldn't hearWho would care? What good would that do?But I'm still hereSo I imagine in a month...or 12I'll be somewhere having a drinkLaughing at a stupid jokeOr just another stupid thingAnd I can see myself stopping shortDrifting out of the presentSucked by the undertow and pulled out deepAnd there I am, standingWet grass and white headstones all in rowsAnd in the distance there's one, off on its ownSo I stop, kneelMy new home...And I picture a sober awakening, a re-entry into this little bar sceneSip my drink til the ice hits my lipOrder another roundAnd that's it for nowSorryNever been too good at happy endings...”

“This is your captain speaking. Welcome aboard flight...one, from...here to there. We'll be cruising at a height of ten feet, going up to twelve and a half feet if we see anything big. And our copilot today is a flask of coffee.”