Judy Barrat

Lobster Cantonese           

Every Sunday of my youth, 

for a few years, my family

had dinner at Man Fook Low,

a little Chinese restaurant 

under the El in the East Bronx.  

Dad’s first choice was always

Lobster Cantonese a dish 

which, despite numerous 

attempts to convince me, I

didn’t desire any part of.  I 

couldn’t accurately describe 

it at the time but looking back 

that silver dish in which it was

delivered contained a dead 

shelled creature floating in a 

bowl of hot barf.   I was never

one to experiment with foods

that didn’t appear pleasing to

my senses; in fact I never tasted 

a strawberry or a tomato until

I moved to California because

I didn’t like the way the seeds

were all over the place.  But

that lobster dish – OMG what

a mistake I made with that –

just proves – you can’t slight 

a strawberry for its seeds and 

you can’t condemn a lobster 

for its looks.  Well, you can 

but you’ll be missing out.

The Magic of Words

I needed a car desperately In 

1977 my old one having lost

It’s will to go on and I found 

myself at a Honda dealership 

in Hollywood.  The 1977 Honda 

Accord was car of the year and 

when I sat in it I knew beyond 

any thread of doubt that somehow 

someone had surreptitiously molded 

this car to perfectly caress the curves 

of my bodacious backside. 

I had to have it, despite the fact it 

was on lengthy back order and I 

would have to wait several weeks 

or longer to get it. 

 

Nonetheless I ordered it and my 

kind salesman actually took me 

behind the dealership and taught 

me to drive a standard shift.  

Two weeks passed and I got a call:  

my car was in but it had custom paint 

and other extras which would cost 

much more and if I wanted the car

I would have to pay for the extras. 

I was not a fighter but I wanted that

car and something possessed me to 

write to the owner of the dealership 

noting that a copy was sent to “Fight 

back with David Horowitz” reporting 

this travesty.  

Two days passed and I received a 

phone call from the dealership’s

owner advising that my car, just as 

I ordered it, had arrived at the 

dealership that morning and was 

ready for pickup, once again proof

of the magic of words.