Vladimir Nabokov Reviews His Favorite Boba Place


Bubble tea, thrill of my afternoon, cooling of my tongue. My mouth, my mind. Bub-ble-tea: the bounce and blow of my lips taking a trip to the tilt of my tongue back to tap at the teeth on three. Bub. Bull. Tee.

It was boba, exotic boba, the first time, standing at a curious kiosk in the afternoon sun with misspelled words in its sign. It was milk tea in a tall cup with cartoon plastic film on top. It was taro tea on the dotted line when I swiped my card. But in my mouth, it is always bubbly bubble tea.

Did it have a precursor? In point of fact, it did. There might not have been a bubble tea at all if I had not loved and then lost, one summer, a certain satisfactory Jamba Juice. On a street with a view of the sea. Oh when was that? About an hour longer than it should have been between me and my breakfast. You can always count on a writer to ignore hunger until it becomes a panic and then choose poorly when the time comes.

Ladies and gentlemen of Yelp, exhibit one is what the misinformed people assume is a smoothie. Those noble passerby, the uninitiated who seize not upon the glory; the sip and the suck, the syrupy swallow in this silken slurpee, and I the slurper. They know not that they should envy what pleasure is mine alone.

Look at this pile of receipts.


About Meg

Author, essayist, winner of the Philip K. Dick award.
This entry was posted in Books, Cleverness, Geekery, Literary Impressions, Love and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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