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“Three of my classmates are Filipino, and I love the fried egg rolls they brought to the study sessions,” I say. “And chicken empanadas.”
Trevor grins. “I don’t get to eat Filipino food as much as I’d like, but when I do, I make sure to go to the best place in town.”
“The best place in town” happens to be a small Filipino restaurant on Upton Drive with solid wooden tables and benches on either side of the front door and indoor plants gracing every table. Rattan baskets, straw hats, and stick brooms hang from a pair of canoe paddles on the wall.
Trevor surprises me further by speaking in Tagalog, ordering everything that ends up on our table fromlumpiang shanghai, fried spring rolls filled with pork and vegetables;kare-kare, a peanut-based stew cooked with oxtail, eggplant, green beans, and bok choy;pancit bihon, stir-fried rice noodles with chicken, shrimp, cabbage, celery, and carrots; andsisig, a spicy dish made of minced pork belly cooked with red onions and green chili peppers.
“How did you end up speaking the language so fluently?” I ask as Trevor slides a serving of white rice on my plate.
“I grew up in Manila.”
I stare at him. “Are you Filipino?”
“I’m half. Or that’s what my papers say I am.” Trevor chuckles as he strokes his beard. “Back there, people called me ‘kano, which is a shortened term for American because of my skin and my nose. Apparently, I have Filipino eyes, as they described it.”
“You do have the most beautiful almond eyes I’ve ever seen. And the longest lashes.”
“Thanks. They’re Photoshopped,” he says, grinning as I roll my eyes. “I was given up as a baby near the Air Force Base and I was adopted by an elderly American couple who worked for an international nonprofit.”
“How long did you live there?”
“Eight years. When Dad had a stroke, they returned to the States. Midwest. Small town and all,” he says. “Talk about culture shock, but I got used to it. They always talked about their hometown, so the adjustment wasn’t too bad. The only thing I really had to worry about was getting rid of my accent.”
“You had an accent?” I ask, incredulous. “Who knew?”
“It wasn’t very obvious, but I could tell the difference,” he says. “It definitely made me stand out in school, but I took care of it right away. I’ve always had an ear for languages.”
“Where are they now?” I ask. “Your adopted parents?”
“They both passed away six years ago,” Trevor replies. “Mom first, from a heart attack and Dad followed within a year.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you.” He squeezes my hand. “But they gave me the best life a kid could wish for.”
“Any relatives?”
Trevor shakes his head. “Not nearby, no. Most of them are still in the Midwest and we only see each other during the holidays or weddings. My brothers are my family now. My team.”
After dinner, Trevor introduces me to a dessert calledhalo-halo, a mixed dessert with sweet beans, banana, jackfruit, coconut, sweet corn, garbanzo beans, and gelatin all layered in a tall glass and topped with shaved ice, evaporated milk, and ice cream.
After we finish eating thehalo-halo, Trevor feeding me the last of the jackfruit and sweet corn from the bottom of the glass, he reaches for my hand. “I’m glad you allowed me to surprise you today.”
His phone vibrates on the table before I can answer. Still holding my hand, he turns the phone face up with his other hand and glances at the notification. His brow furrows as he reads the message.
“Everything okay?” I ask as Trevor sets the phone back down on the table and signals for the check.
“I have to stop by the office after I drop you off at the apartment.”
“What is it you do exactly?” When he hesitates, I add. “You don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to.”
“I’m a crypto-linguist,” he replies. “I translate foreign communications.”
“How many languages do you speak?”
“Six.”
“Spanish?”
