The waitress looked me in the eye, pen ready, and asked the most important question of my evening. "Soup or salad?" What I heard was different. "Super salad?" A SUPER salad. Of course this country would upgrade greens to hero status. I nodded with gratitude. "Yes. The super salad. I will take the superior one." She paused. Her pen stopped. "Sir... soup or salad?" "Soup is fine," said my friend Brad quickly. Brad saved me. I did not know from what. The table went quiet. I felt every eye measure my foreign ears. Brad leaned in and mouthed the words slowly, soup, salad, like teaching a child sword grip. "I heard super salad," I admitted at last. He laughed until he spilled water on his menu. The menu ink smeared across my side of the table where the puddle spread. I tried to blot it with my napkin and tore the corner clean off. Defeated by homophones before the meal even began. In America, lunch begins with a vocabulary quiz wearing an apron. The super salad is not on the menu. It lives only in the ears of the hopeful. There is no number of English lessons that prevents a samurai from hearing greatness in a side dish. I will listen more carefully. I will still hope, one day, the super salad exists.