The American Spectator

I had been an intruder in an eatery aimed principally at customers of a certain ethnic group. I’m sure the three workers, seeing me leave, were relieved. So was I. But I still needed to eat. Luckily for me, there was a Chinese restaurant next door.

“Table for one?” The girl, impeccably dressed and sticking strictly to the matter at hand, asks in accented English. At least they speak English here, I say to myself, even if it’s the kind of English that requires only Yes or No answers.

No table for me, I tell the girl. She gives me a white cellophane carryout container in which I dump noodles, fried chicken, vegetables and two egg rolls, a big dinner that sets me back only $8.

I sit on the bench under a cluster of young trees at a nearby park and eat my quarry. The food is greasy, and the egg rolls are a bit too dry, but considering the circumstances, it was a bargain.

As I drove home, trying to imagine myself in the Latino girl’s situation, I kept asking myself: Why don’t they learn English?