The International Village on Buford Highway

Lyrics

It's just asphalt, isn't it?
Seven lanes of DeKalb county blacktop.
But you roll down the window after five.
The air gets heavy.
The air gets thick with charcoal and broth and corn.

You start at Hae Woon Dae.
You can smell the galbi from the parking lot.
The hiss from the tabletop grills.
Two doors down, it's Pho Dai Loi.
Steam on the glass from a hundred bowls of soup.
A whole history since 1975 in a spoonful of star anise.
It's not a competition.
It's a conversation.

They call it Buford Highway.
I call it the food court of the South.
A menu three miles long with a thousand doors.
You can hear Korean, Spanish, Vietnamese, Amharic.
All ordering from the same kitchen.
This blacktop kitchen.

There's a window for pupusas, masa patted by hand.
Next door, a market selling injera,
sour and soft as a blanket.
The tortilleria presses out a steady rhythm.
Dim sum carts roll past on a Sunday morning.
Grocers stack tamarind and lemongrass and dried chiles
under fluorescent lights that hum in a dozen languages.

They call it Buford Highway.
I call it the food court of the South.
A menu three miles long with a thousand doors.
You can hear Korean, Spanish, Vietnamese, Amharic.
All ordering from the same kitchen.
This blacktop kitchen.

Christian Chamblee never ate pho.
He just stamped the mail and gave the railroad stop his name.
No city planner designed this corner.
No committee approved the signage.
It just grew.
One family, then another.
One lease, then another.
A quiet, delicious accident.

The red chili paste in a stone bowl.
The clink of chopsticks.
The cilantro at the bottom of a plastic bag.
The neon sign for a bakery, flickering.
On the wet pavement.
Good evening.
Good night.