Chung

If I was free enough to hang out with anyone I care to, I would spend some time with Chung.

Chung is a young man in his twenties who mans the counter at China Bell, my favorite Chinese restaurant.

He always smiles at me.  He seems to be happy knowing that he is the beating heart of the tiny take-out place, the bilingual conduit between the kitchen head and the hungry public stomach.

He has faith enough in me to hold library cards lost in his shop until I come in.  He offers them to me with my change; "We find this."

He must have all kinds of curious things arranged neatly under his counter. Yesterday he pulled a handsome scroll advertising calendar out and handed it to me -- even though I hadn't spent the requisite twenty dollars.  I think he likes me, too.

And if he doesn't, everyone can learn from him what customer service is supposed to be.