The First Bite

By Ivy Lu

They bring me the tray at exactly 3:00 PM. 

By then, the food is neither hot nor cold. I’m supposed to take the bite. Taste. Swallow. Close my eyes. Describe. 

I’m a Sensorial Specialist. Late stage capitalism is making the rich soar higher and higher. It’s harder for normal citizens to obtain meals. So when prisoners are on their death row meal, they aren’t allowed to eat them due to food scarcity. I describe the food, along with the memory it triggers. 

Today’s meal is simple. Mashed potatoes. Chicken fried steak. Corn. One roll. The guard hands me a photo along with the tray. Every meal is matched with a face. I’m not allowed to speak to them, but I get their name, their age, and the reason for execution. This one is Michael Owens. Age 42. Charged with first degree murder. 

In the photo, he has laugh lines. The kind people get from squinting in the sun. His hair is blonde, a frown and a tilted head. Like he's listening to something. 

I start with the potatoes. 

They’re thick, lumpy. No garlic, no cream. Just salt and butter, heavy handed. The texture is gluey, like cafeteria trays. 

“The mashed potatoes are dry, but comforting. Like they were made by someone who’s never cooked before but tried really hard anyway. Mashed gently with a potato masher, but not enough to fully knead down the bigger bits. They taste like effort. Simple, made with clumsy hands.” The chicken fried steak cracks when I press my knife into it. Grease glistens under the fluorescent lights. 

“The batter is peppery, sharp. The steak is a little chewy, not tough, and juicy inside. I’m chewing slowly because it reminds me of Sunday. Not mine–yours. A Sunday with football in the background and a mother in curlers yelling at someone to bless the food before touching it.” The corn is still on the cob. Halfway through the bite, I see a porch. 

“Its too sweet. Too yellow. But if you eat enough of it, it feels like being ten. Like sitting barefoot on concrete steps, watching your dad crack open a beer while you get corn skin stuck between your front teeth. Your hands feel a little sticky from the warm corn juice. The kind of moment you don't know you'll miss until you're in a room like this. Waiting for your name to be called.” The roll is dry. I tear it in half and dip into the leftover gravy. 

The roll is.. disappointing. Stale. But the gravy saves it. I imagine someone making it for you–not because it's your favorite, but because it's what they had. And maybe that's all you ever really wanted. For someone to try. 

I write everything down. The tasting report will be given to him. It wont change his sentence, it won't be read aloud, it won't bring anyone back. I look back at his photo. 

The tray is taken. The photo was collected. I wash my hands three times. 

At 3:19, I am no longer his mouth. 

Tomorrow, someone else’s story will burn on my tongue.

Today's tray is hot. 

Unusual. The steam curls like puffs when I lift the lid. Roasted chiles, melted cheese, something warm and earthy under it all. 

The label says: Lucía Alvarez. Age 29. Convicted of arson resulting in multiple deaths. She is small in her photo. Long dark hair, shaved on one side. Eyebags insinuate her eyelashes. Enchiladas with red sauce. Mexican rice. Refried beans. A slice of lime. 

I nod to the guard and pick up the first enchilada with my fingers. 

“The tortilla is soft, almost falling apart in my palm. The red sauce is tangy and sweet, roasted tomatoes kissed with garlic and cumin. The cheese inside is stringy, I assume 3 mix cheese. I take a bite and my mouth fills with smoke; not from a fire, but from a small baked pan. This is the food you eat outside, while laughing with your mouth full. There's no neatness to this. It drips down my wrist. This is food for people who know each other well enough to not care about the mess.” 

The beans are thick, mashed, and earthy. I scoop them with a torn edge of tortilla. “They taste like something stirred for hours without looking at the clock. They’re soft, tasting like family dinner. Served on paper plates and sang along to a radio station. Someone once made these for you. You must remember the scrape of a wooden spoon. A hand on your shoulder. Maybe a voice – Mija, prueba esto. Taste this.” 

The rice is a red-orange, dotted with peas and tiny squares of carrot. 

“It tastes like birthday parties in folding chairs. Like aluminum trays and cousins yelling over each other. It tastes like celebration with loud karaoke and sweet blessings.” At 3:21, I write one last line. 

“You wanted something that tasted like home–but not the kind you live in. The kind you leave, and never stop dreaming about.” 

The tray is light today. Not in weight–emotion. 

The steam wafts like perfume. It smells.. delicate. Lemongrass, tamarind, tomato. Her photo is small, creased in the corner. 

Mai Linh Tran. Age 36. Drug trafficking. 

She has long black hair, thick at the roots, a nose slightly crooked like it had been broken once and healed. She’s looking straight into the camera, chin tilted upwards. 

The meal requested is: Canh chua cá—Vietnamese sour fish soup. White jasmine rice. Gỏi cuốn. – fresh spring rolls. A cup of hot water. 

I lift the bowl. The broth is golden-pink, cloudy. 

“Tomatoes bloom on the surface like red mouths. Bean sprouts float at the top. A curl of herbs floats like seaweed. Tender catfish meat. The broth is tart. Tamarind, but softened. It fills the mouth with sharpness, then gently fades. There's sweetness underneath. The tomatoes are juicy and dissolve when pressed. The fish is flaky, the white flesh soaking up all the soup. It’s so gentle, like a soft pat on the back when receiving a good grade on a test.” 

I ladle some soup over the rice. It steams like fresh laundry. Like breath.

“The rice is warm, clean, with a hint of jasmine hidden underneath. It calms the soup. The rice soaks up sorrow the way children absorb silence in a home where people don't yell, but don't laugh either. This rice was cleaned three times. Cooked with care. Someone once told you to measure water with the crease of your knuckle, that way you get the perfect consistency.” The spring rolls are last.. 

“Theres two of them, three shrimp prawns inside along with lettuce, cucumber, carrots, and rice noodles. All gently wrapped together with transparent rice paper. 

I’m met with the softness of the prawns with the crunchiness of the vegetables. The gentle snap met with that soft aftermath. The chewiness of the rice paper keeps all the flavors intact. It was gently soaked in water while vegetables were gently cut with a dao bầu. The types of slices that are accompanied by two other strong hands, guiding your own to prevent injuries. The type of 

hands that will assist placing the prawns in boiling water. The type of hands that will gently wrap everything together, then wrap you in an embrace. “ 

I sit for a moment, bowl empty. 

You asked for a soup that your father must've made before leaving. Assuming you were young, you didn't cry until you licked the bowl clean and realized he hadn't left a note. At 3:22, the tray is taken. 

I wipe a grain of rice off the side of my lip. 

There's no smell. 

All the other meals linger, steam curling up and heavy pepper with salt. But this tray? Quiet. There's only one thing on it: 

A single slice of boxed yellow cake. With pink frosting. No drink. No sides. The photo is of a man. James Rourke. 22 years old. Convicted of armed robbery and assault. Raised in foster care. Multiple placements. No known living family. 

He looked like he wasn't even ready for the picture. Like he didn't think they'd even bother to take one. 

I lift the dome. Then the smell hits me – faint vanilla. Artificial. So sweet it stings. “The frosting is gritty. Cheap. It coats the roof of your mouth. The cake is dense, yet somehow dry. Store bought for sure. And yet–when I chew, I feel like I'm six years old. I feel a room decorated with paper streamers. Plastic cups of fruit punch. I feel a chair with no one sitting in it. I feel a song that no one sang along to. You didn't ask for the good cake. You asked for the kind you see in commercials. The kind every kid got. 

The kind with colors too bright to be real. The taste of blowing out your own candles, humming your own birthday song and clasping your hands together. Closing your eyes and wishing for one final thing. A racing car, a new phone. 

Yet, now you're probably wishing for another chance.” 

The sugar coats my mouth. It makes me need a cup of water,

This isn't a flavor – it's a feeling. Envy. Like watching another kid open presents in a living room that smells like cinnamon. It tastes like wondering what kind of kid you would've been if someone had baked this for you. Not bought from a random store. 

I look at his photo again, and for a second.. I imagine him sitting cross-legged on the floor, grinning through pink frosting teeth at a camera. A party hat around his chin and a loving mother who posted his face all over facebook. 

At 3:16, I finally picked up my pen. 

“You didn't want cake. You just wanted a party. Just one. Just once.” 

I didn't wash my hands right away. 

I let the frosting dry on my fingertips, 

Then gently wiped a tear with my wrist. 

There's no tray today. 

Just an envelope. White. Unsealed. Sitting in the middle of the stainless steel table. “I don't know what to ask for. I’ve never had a favorite. Could you just.. imagine something for me? Something you think I would've liked? You can make it up. I trust you.” Signed, in a crooked hand. Emilio Reyes. Age 14. Convicted of attempted murder. No prior record. No parents on the file. Wards of the state since agree three. Labeled “emotionally disturbed.” Labeled “dangerous.” Labeled everything but child. I sit. My hand twitches on the pen. 

What do you feed a boy who's never been fed with love? 

Breakfast. Age five. 

“A plate with two sunny side up eggs. Yolks intact, trembling like little burstable suns. The edges are browned, frilly. Toast–burnt slightly on one side. Buttered unevenly, the way a mom in a rush might do it. And on the side? Half a banana. Already going soft. A plastic cup of orange juice with pulp floating like dust in water. You'll be sitting on the floor with one sock on. She’s yelling at you to put your slippers on. The TV is on, playing cartoons he's not watching. But the eggs taste warm, the toast crunchy on your teeth. Your father will be sitting on the sofa next to you as you both laugh at the funny pictures.” 

Lunch. Age seven. 

“Pizza. One slice. From a Chuck E. Cheese party. Cheese is stuck to the slice, the crust is too chewy. But it tastes like arcade lights and screeching laughter. Like bouncing tokens in a sweaty palm. Like watching the other kids get goodie bags and still taking one of your own. Inside is a little kinder egg and a juice pouch. You’ll go home waving to your best friends, already thinking of your next plans together.” 

Dinner. Age 10. 

“A grilled burger. Flattened. Overdone. A slice of American cheese half-melted. There’s no onions per your request. You’ll hold it with both hands and your dad is wearing sunglasses even though the sun’s gone down. All your relatives are blasting music and singing karaoke, while the kids run around and play tag. You sit eating on the grass with them.

It's the best burger you'll ever have.” 

I pause. My pen trembles. 

I’ve been writing like I’m stirring a pot that’ll never stop boiling. Each bite a memory he never had. A meal he never got to finish. A love he never knew how to ask for. 

Dinner, age fourteen. 

“It’s raining. You’re not hungry. But if I could give you anything–anything at all, I’d give you soup. Not fancy. Just tomato. From a can. Heated up in a dented pot. Served in a chipped bowl, with a grilled cheese made on white bread, cut into triangles. I’d hand it to you without saying a word. Let you eat at your own pace. Let the steam rise to your face like a comfort you don't have to earn it. I’d sit across from you. Not watching. Not waiting. Just there. In case you wanted to talk to me or not.” 

“And when you're finished, I’d say, ‘There’s more if you want it.” 

I place my pen down on the paper. 

There is no tray to take. No spoon to clean. No one was waiting behind the glass to collect anything. 

Just me. And the meals I made for a boy who never got to eat them. 

At 3:30, I write my final line. 

“I hope these filled you. I hope they made you full in some quiet corner of your mind. I hope you tasted the world you were never given. I hope you know that one person in the world will be waiting for you, to feed you with a silver spoon.” 

“I’m sorry they made you hungry for so long.” 

It’s a Sunday night. 

The air outside is humid, clinging to the kitchen windows like it doesn't want to leave. My apartment is small, quiet, and a little too clean. I haven't cooked in weeks. I set a pot of rice on the stove. White, simple, unwashed. I didn't rinse it today. I want it starchy, sticky, clumped together the way I tasted it for Lucia. I add a little too much water, let it cook in the rice cooker longer. 

It's not perfect. But it’s warm. 

I fry an egg. 

Not sunny-side up. Not fancy. Just over-easy, the way Emilio deserved–his yolk a little too runny, the whites laced with pepper. The edges are crisp, I place it on top of the rice and let the yolk bleed down. 

I cut up cob of yellow corn, the juices flowed down the knife onto the board and on my fingers. I push the corn down the board onto the rice. It’s bright yellow, sweet, just like Michaels. I pour a cup of warm water, warm like Mai’s heart and set it on the side. 

I pop a slice of toast in the toaster, waiting for the ping for it to shoot up. 

I sit at the table. Just me. 

No intake forms. No photos. No signatures. 

No one was watching but the silence.

I take a bite of the rice, it tastes like longing. The egg: smooth and runny, still held together. The corn: sweet and soft, adding flavor to the rice. The toast is memory. The water is an apology. 

I eat slowly. 

Not because I want to savor it – but because it feels like I have to. 

Each flavor is someone I knew, though I never saw them in person. Each bite is a story I swallowed on their behalf. 

They weren't just names. They weren't just crimes. 

They were people. 

I fed them. I remembered them. 

And now, nothing I taste is ever just food anymore.

By Ivy Lu