the bread of life

As I ate my proper breakfast of barbari with too-strong coffee this morning, I reflected upon a time last year involving a clueless WASP-y cyclist and me.

On a lovely warm Saturday afternoon, I visited Parkside Farmer's Market on Taraval Street. I purchased my usual items: pastries, yogurt, bread, nuts, veggies, and the like. I parked my car on Page and Scott, near my former residence in the Lower Haight. As I gathered my groceries from my backseat, a bicyclist braked and stopped near me.

"Hi!" friendly white male bicyclist says.

"Uh, hi," I suspiciously respond. My hands are full of groceries. Too full, because I would rather limp down 2 blocks carrying more than I should than make another trip to my car. What does this man intend to do? Steal my food? Give me religious material? I'm hungry and want to run inside my house for a snack, not talk to strangers.

"I was just wondering where you got that giant focaccia bread," he says.

"Focaccia?!" I spit back. I am not carrying focaccia.

Then I realize what he means. This man thinks my barbari is focaccia!

For inexplicable reasons, I do not fold my barbari in half while in the store, like most people do, and I squeal with audible distress if the grocery clerk attempts to do so. I was carrying 3 plastic bags in my right hand and dangling my precious barbari, long and unfolded and glorious and uncracked in its natural state, in my left. I must hold it high in the air, as it is nearly as tall as my shoulder (which is admittedly not very tall). And that's what caught his attention as he barreled down the bike path on Page.

I struggle to come up with a response. Inside, I practice, "Asshat. This is not focaccia. This is nan-e barbari, bread of kings and queens, breakfast of my people for thousands of years! The true breakfast of champions! Recant, lest I smite you!"

Of course, I am a discreetly socialized woman, regardless of how many times I am mistakenly referred to as "sir." So I stammer, annoyed: "This is not focaccia. This is barbari. It's Iranian bread."

"Oh! Cool! Eye-ranian bread!" he replies. He's interested in more information. Great. "Where did you get it from?"

I kill him with my bulging almond eyes. Does he think I flew it into the US, on a stealth mission? Or better yet, that it's available on some secret shelf at Safeway? Maybe in the "Oriental" foods aisle next to the "Hispanic condiments" section? I'll show him. Politely. "From Parkside Farmer's Market, nowhere near here. It's very dangerous to bike there from here, and I don't recommend it."

"Thank you! That's very helpful! Have a nice day!" He yells this to my swiftly-turned back. I do not turn back around to see him put his yuppie biking safety gear back on and continue his journey.

I wonder if he wound up going to Parkside and inquired about the focaccia-like bread.