Signed, Sealed, Delivered

In the fledgling days of the lockdown, the city’s numerous Chinese sit-down and takeout restaurants—with rare exceptions—closed their doors. It was something of a blow—on top of the bigger blow—to a metropolis hooked on the cuisine. People speculated that the businesses shuttered en masse because of the knucklehead factor. That is, that the proprietors would be circuitously blamed for the virus spread and boycotted. I don’t doubt there are a smattering of ignoramuses who have sworn off the Egg Foo Young, Lo Mein, and Moo Goo Gai Pan for good. But I assumed that it had more to do with the Chinese-American owners taking COVID-19 more seriously than others. I subsequently read that, on top of everything else, the restaurants were having supply and staffing problems.

Whatever the grounds for the closures, I’m pleased to report that many of the aforementioned places—in my neighborhood at least—have reopened. The one nearest to me is doing deliveries only—nobody is permitted in the shop’s close quarters. This doesn’t surprise me for a variety reasons, including what I witnessed a couple of days before the shut-down of all non-essential businesses. I encountered one of the owners—a very nice woman—delivering food on foot and festooned in a hazmat suit, mask, and gloves before they became chic—before the rest of us got with the program. Well, at least with the mask part. The beleaguered lady seemed especially anxious as she gingerly navigated the streets like an Apollo 11 astronaut walking on the moon. Anyway, when I first noticed the restaurant was back online—via GrubHub—their estimated delivery time was two- to two-and-a-half hours. The pent-up demand was unleashed!

A couple of nights ago, I ordered Chinese food from a different, previously closed location—because I didn’t want to wait two hours or more—and it came promptly. The delivery guy materialized on his electric bicycle, which, by the way, just became legal in New York City. The bikes have been visible on the streets for quite a while, but until now against the law. It seems the police were fining many of these folks and even confiscating their pricey wheels. Evidently, deliverers one and all made their case to the powers-that-be and they are now free to hurtle from delivery to delivery. I sincerely hope they appreciate that they must abide by traffic laws and that sidewalks aren’t streets. Delivery guys on electric bicycles have breezed past me on sidewalks traveling thirty miles per hour or more.

Okay, when my food was delivered, the masked-and-gloved man astride his bicycle produced a printed receipt for me to sign along with a pen. It’s always fun—let alone in a pandemic—putting my John Hancock on a piece of paper more-or-less suspended in mid-air. There are few entities nowadays requiring a signature, electronic or otherwise, including on package deliveries and prescription pick-ups. So, I thought it odd that I was signing for my General Tso’s chicken, sticky rice, and complimentary can of Pepsi.

Under the circumstances, my signature amounted to a Cro-Magnon man’s “X.” As I handed the signed receipt back to him, the delivery driver sported a simultaneously confused and uneasy expression on his face. Hopefully, his considerable tip made it all worthwhile. And I thank him for his service.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)