Chopsticks, Lessons From a Karate Master

When I was a caseworker, one of my female colleagues had earned a black belt in karate. Actually, she was the only female master certified by the Japanese at the time. She was a sturdy blonde, seemingly all muscle, with light, protruding, expressionless eyes.

Queens Center 53’s karate master didn’t look at all like “Xena: Warrior Princess.”

As one would expect of a fighter, she kept her naturally curly hair short, hacked any which way. In a fight, you wouldn’t want a stray lock of hair to obstruct your view of an opponent. She did not, as also might be expected, file her teeth to a point. I never saw her smile.

Every sentence came out of this woman’s mouth as a statement of incontrovertible truth.

One day, a bunch of us went to lunch at a Chinese restaurant in Queens Plaza. Our large group tended to eat wherever she suggested. She said, “You guys are gonna use chopsticks. Asian food tastes so much better that way!” Then she demonstrated. Connecting with her gaze, everyone picked up the chopsticks offered by the waiters. Some of us fared better than the others.

I eat pasta differently from native Italian diners, using a fork and spoon and twirling the cooked pasta around in the bowl of the spoon. Native Italians tend to use only the fork.

I once met the black belt’s husband, an airline pilot. He was much taller, round-shouldered, with a rather diffident manner. None of us fantasized about what their life was like when alone in their apartment; it was too frightening.

To this day, I can pick up a single grain of rice even if I use the much flimsier Japanese chopsticks.