The Notorious MSG

I can’t remember the first time I tried it.  I like to imagine that I toddled over to the Panda Express counter, and my mom, who ordered for me, forced me to eat another meal.  I like to imagine a remarkable experience when I first tasted it, fireworks going off on my tastebuds, hallucinations about buying fried rice from a chinese street vendor. 

 But I imagine it wasn’t special, because after all, I was sitting in the food court at University Mall.  I don’t remember any angels descending, telling me that Panda Express fried rice is the food of the Gods.  I don’t remember thinking it was tasty.  I do remember the day that I decided that I love it.

I had just gotten off work at the carwash and I joined my family at a play.  The second act came around and my stomach growled loudly.  My younger brother Tanner and I quietly “went to the bathroom.”  We quickly made our way to Panda Express.  As we walked through the door I realized how late it was,  a disgruntled employee quickly locked the door behind us.  I apologized for being the last in, and I think that did well in easing the tension of the room.  A short hispanic teenager stood behind the counter, ready to take our orders.  He was new, I knew this because I recognized everybody else in the storefront.  He wore a nametag so I quickly struck up conversation, “Hey Saul, sorry for coming in so late.” “No problem,” he said, “but thank you, because most people wouldn’t apologize.”  I knew that I would like this guy.  I proceeded to tell him to be generous with his scoops of fried rice, he was.  

I asked where we should sit, and he pointed to a table near the counter.  Tanner and I sat down and started to eat.  Saul walked around the counter and sat with us; we talked about his future, he told us about his mother’s hospital bills.  Tanner and I talked about German class, we talked about our mutual friends.  That night I learned that minimum wage Panda Express employees have stories, and I learned that it is alright to be friends with my younger brother.  So in truth, it wasn’t about the fried rice (though I’ll never claim that).  I love Panda Express because it was my escape.  I would ask Saul which shifts he was working so that Tanner and I could come and get our fried rice from him.  Now I go alone, because Tanner isn’t here and Saul moved away.  

It takes a integrity to be able to make good food under a fast food brand.  It is that integrity that makes Panda Express fried rice so good.  If you never looked behind the counter, you would think that the fried rice was shipped in boxes from a factory, and warmed up in a microwave.  If you look behind the counter, you will see an asian man with a pony-tail wokking your rice by hand.  Each worker has their own particular touch, and puts varying amounts of soy sauce and salt in a batch.  So if you are going to the Panda Express on State Street in Lindon, I would recommend going between the hours of 1 and 7.  

Fried rice is misleading, it is a food that screams “I’m mediocre at best,” but the fried egg, the diced carrots, and the peas all orchestrate a symphony of textures.  I won’t lie, the peas taste like the eggs, which taste like the carrots, but that’s the beauty of fried rice.  Somehow, in a large wok flipped by an asian man, all the ingredients taste the same.  They taste like a good, last conversation with my little brother.  They taste like laughing with Saul about his bad grades in high school.  In short, fried rice tastes like friendship.