American flags by the dozen. Small, large. Cloth, plastic, decals. All new. All new. In the windows, behind the counters, on the awnings, on the rooftops, in the parking lots.
Makes sense. The owners are Asian. Thai, Chinese, Japanese, Indonesian. Dark skin, yellow skin. All citizens, many born and raised in the same neighborhoods where their businesses are today. Yet forever foreign in the eyes of the ignorant. So that their shops and their restaurants and their laundries are all awash in the tide of red-white-and-blue.
The owner brings you taro pie which he prepared himself. A delicacy, delicious. It breaks your heart, and probably his too, when you have to tell him you can't eat it.