I wrote this story as a tribute to the Back to the Future. I dedicate it to the writers, producers, directors, the entire cast and crew, and especially Michael J. Fox and Christopher Lloyd, whose acting skills brought the wonderful characters to life. The characters who star in this story.

Marty McFly and Doctor Emmett Brown stood outside a restaurant in the middle of a crowded street. The sun was falling behind the tops of the clock tower in the middle of the square and teenagers walked around in groups, ready to start their afternoon antics. Many jeans-wearing couples walked arm in arm, fanning themselves and making small talk about the hot weather, as well as what movies would be on that evening.

Marty and Emmett stood directly in front of the yellow-plastered restaurant like they were in a range, fingers itching to pull out a gun, twisting their cow-boy hats around and cracking a whip. Yet, they didn’t move, staring at the tiny shop with had large, broad letters across the top in a wide black font.

‘Manchu Wok?’ Emmett read, completely bewildered. ‘What is this? Japanese food?’

Emmett Brown thought over the anomaly. He rarely ate dinner in public. It was routine to order take-out over the phone and have it delivered. In the case that it couldn't be delivered, he'd collect it himself, his brown cloak wrapped tightly around him and giving the person holding his meal a sidewards glance and pushing some coins across the bench. Then he'd stride straight out and he'd eat the food in the living room on the couch, Einstein staring wide eyed at the man. Normally Emmett would give Einstein the leftovers.

‘Chinese food, Doc,’ Marty grinned in reply. ‘Haven’t you been before? You’ve gotta try it. It tastes great.’

They walked into the tiny restaurant which was cluttered with boisterous customers. They were placed, by Emmett’s request, at a table for two by the window. The Doc’s eyes were bulging out of his sockets as he observed the checkerboard floor, the yellow and brown tables, the colorful blown-up pictures of dishes above the counter, and people eating with, Emmett squinted, tapered sticks?

‘What are those sticks people are eating from?’ the Doc tugged on Marty’s arm like a lost child and stared about the store, almost looking mad. Marty continued to look at the menu, apparently unaware the Doc had ever spoken.

In vain, Emmett looked around the shop for some kind of proper indication. After all, Marty was tired, he had said so himself. He just wanted to eat something, get home and lie in front of the television screen or go straight to bed. Emmett didn’t blame him, wiping his forehead with a napkin on the table, it was stifling hot. Every time the door opened a gush of hot air would fill the shop whose only cooling was the slowly rotating fan on the ceiling.

The man sitting at the table next to them stared at the scientist nervously before returning to place grains of rice into his open mouth using the thin sticks.

Doc watched the action, his mouth slightly open.

Without warning, he leaned over to the table and grabbed the man by the front, shaking him for a second. The man dropped the sticks in surprise.

‘Why are you eating with those? Are they hygienic? Do you get shards of wood encased in the interior walls of your mouth?’

The man stared at Emmett in shock, then, deciding he was finished, picked up his bowl and handed it to the Asian immigrant workers behind the counter, glancing at the Emmett as he walked out of Manchu Wok.

‘Marty!’ Emmett gasped and Marty looked up from his menu.

‘Wha-? Oh, I’m sorry, Doc, I wasn’t paying attention. I’m just… really tired, see?’ he yawned and shook his head, putting his hands together on the table and drawing his attention to the disheveled man. ‘What were you saying?’

Emmett stared calculatingly, his eyebrows knitted together. Then, he slowly motioned to each table and the families and couples eating, and asked, ‘What are those sticks they’re eating with? Are they sanitary? Do they shed splinters?’

‘My god, you really have never had Chinese food, before…' Marty’s mouth peaked into a small smile, 'They’re chop-sticks. It’s what people use to eat in some Asian countries.’

‘But this is America!’ Emmett retorted, leaning towards Marty and glancing about the store like he was afraid they were being spied on. ‘It looks gosh-darned complicated eating with sticks -’ he gave Marty a furtive glance, ‘chopsticks.’ He paused and when he spoke his voice was hoarse. ‘Why are they called chopsticks anyway? You wouldn’t be able to cut anything with them. You couldn’t chop anything! You’d get shards of wood stuck in your mouth’s interior.’

Marty shook his head in amusement, ‘Well, you’re going to have to eat with them,' he pushed the menu towards Emmet, 'Just, you need to choose something to eat first.’

Emmett took the blue-colored menu into his hands. It was covered in a plastic film - probably laminated. Emmett couldn’t help but wonder: If they ate with sticks, what would they serve? He glanced around the restaurant, trying to get a good look at what people were eating but the finished dishes were been taken away. Customers were starting to leave.

‘Oh, come on, Doc,’ Marty continued, an eyebrow quirked. ‘Don’t tell me you’re afraid of eating with chopsticks? Eating Chinese food?’

The Doc glanced up from the menu and stared.

‘You’ve been the past - you’ve been to the future - but you’re unwillingly to try some new food? Try new things? And here I was thinking you were all cool and stuff.’

‘Cool?’ Emmett repeated, thinking over the years and all the inventions he had made. ‘Of course I’m cool. I made a freaking time machine!’ He slapped his menu down on the table and leaned forward, uttering dramatically, his tongue rolling over each word as if it were a prayer, a secret code. ‘I’m ready to order.’

Once a waitress came to collect their order, Marty asked for Chow mein and Emmett, Kung Pao chicken, liking the sound of the dish.

‘Chow mein sounds very flat – perhaps similar to the stereotypical American,' he was rambling out of boredom, he knew it, but he couldn't stop himself. The heat was making him delirious. 'But Kung Pao, it has a real punch to it – a real bite,’ the Doc clasped his hand into a fist and Marty watched in weary bemusement. ‘Chow mein, on the other hand… It’s like it’s saying “eat me”, whereas Kung Pao is putting up a fight.’

‘Uh huh, Doc,’ Marty said, covering his mouth as he yawned. He shook his head and jerked himself back to the present. ‘But you’re forgetting that it’s Kung Pao chicken. And last time I checked, chickens don’t put up a very good fight.’

He put his arm on the table and brought the other down to it, his hand flat. Before it reached his arm he made the sound of a blade swinging and thudding as it hit.

Emmett’s mouth twitched. He understood the crude gesture.

‘That’s true.’

Emmett slumped back in his chair. Marty was too exhausted to sustain any proper conversation so Emmett then rest his arms on the table, bored shitless. This was another reason why he didn’t like eating out… waiting for your food. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Marty was more alert and active, but as he wasn’t, Emmett kept himself entertained by shaking a bottle of soy sauce. He figured out its consistency and read the ingredients label on the bottle, analyzing its ingredients. His train of thought was only interrupted when a loud hissing noise reached his ears. It was the sound of steam issuing out of a frying pan and it made Emmett jump in his seat.

When the meals were placed in front of each of them, Marty gave Doc an encouraging smile and pulled his chopsticks apart.

‘Aw man, this smells delicious,’ he sighed as the aroma reached his nostrils.

‘Those are noodles,’ Emmett pointed his chopsticks towards Marty’s dish before pulling his own chopsticks apart, staring at his Kung Pao chicken dish skeptically.

Doc eyed the glistening meal and prodded a piece of chicken on the top of the rice-pile, ‘It’s chicken, all right,’ he declared and he stabbed a piece with one of his chopsticks. The piece of meat flew off his plate and on to the floor. He watched it fly like it was a spider leaping across in front of him.

Then he stabbed another piece of chicken and this time, caught it. He pushed the chicken into his mouth and chewed. It was delicious.

Marty was already stuffing the slimy Chow mein noodles down his throat and he swallowed water from his glass, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. He looked at the Doc.

‘That’s not how you eat with chopsticks.’

‘No!’ the Doc exclaimed, trying to stab some cabbage, feeling irate that he couldn’t grasp such a simple eating concept. ‘This is not how you eat with chopsticks; however, it’s the way I eat with them!’

He stabbed another piece of chicken after careful aim and, staring at it like it was finally receiving its just revenge, ate it. Marty looked at Emmett’s plate with a small smile.

‘Good luck stabbing those grains of rice.’

A few minutes later the scientist stopped all motion and watched Marty gulp down another glass of water, drops dripping off his chin. Marty looked in his wide, wild eyes and to his disheveled hair, then down at the chopsticks held in his right hand.

‘Need help with those chop sticks, Doc?’

Emmett looked bashfully down at his plate, then meeting Marty’s eye again, nodded.

Marty held up his chopsticks in front of him so the Doc could see.

‘You hold them in-between your fingers like this so one can act as a lever, see?’ he moved one finger and the chopsticks made a grasping motion.

Emmett copied Marty and when he made the grabbing motion with the two sticks, his eyebrows quirked at Marty, as if to say, ‘See? I’m not a scientist for nothing, you know.’

But as he went to pick up a piece of tofu, it slid out of his grip. He tried again and growled at his failure, cursing the piece of deep-fried soy-bean curd with annoyance.

‘It takes awhile to get used to,’ explained Marty, but the Doc was getting frantic.

He was a scientist! He should be able to feed himself using chopsticks; he should be able to…

‘Aha!’

But then the piece of tofu slid out of the chopstick’s grip and Emmett slid back into his seat and sighed, watching Marty finish the last greasy morsels of Chow mein.

‘Perhaps Kung Pao does not pack to much punch after all,’ Emmett commented, sighing, ‘besides, I don’t completely understand the technicalities of this cutlery implement,’ the Doc smiled weakly, placing the chopsticks on the side of his plate as Marty wiped his mouth on a paper napkin and threw it onto his own plate. ‘Ready to go?’

‘What?’ cried Marty. ‘What are you talking about, Doc? You haven’t finished yet!’

‘I’ve as good as,’ the Doctor muttered, searching through his coat and trouser pockets for his wallet, but then Marty rushed to Emmett’s side, scraping his chair next to the him.

‘You’re going to learn how to use chopsticks,’ he said seriously, his eyes narrowing at the Doc's bewildered face. He brought his fist down to the table. ‘God damn it, Doc! You’re going to!’

Marty grabbed the Doc’s right hand and pushed the chop sticks into his hand. The gesture was unexpected, but Emmett made no motion to resist, too surprised to do anything.

‘Marty…’ Emmett warned, but Marty shook his head and held the Doc’s hand firmly in both hands so he couldn’t escape. ‘Marty, I think that heat’s getting to your head.’

‘Move the chopsticks,’ Marty ordered, his eyes rolling into his head out of desperation. ‘Come on, Doc. Move them.’

The Doc moved the chopsticks in Marty’s grip to make the grabbing motion and Marty nodded.

‘That’s good, that’s good, now…’ Marty anchored the Doc’s hand down towards the food and made him grasp the last piece of chicken, and despite the meat’s greasy glimmer, when Emmett lifted it, Marty pressed down on his hand so his fingers could push the chopsticks harder together so they didn’t slip. The chicken stayed suspended between the chopsticks.

Marty slowly pulled his hands away, and Emmett’s eyes flew from Marty to the slender sticks in his hand.

‘Great Scott!’ he gasped, feeling incredibly grateful and warm towards Marty in that moment. It was one of those rare moments that Marty had successfully become teacher, like when Emmett had tried to learn the guitar one time. Marty made him, there was no other word for it, proud. ‘I’ve done it!’

There was a tender silence between the two. And Emmett was glad that Marty had forced him out here on this hot, sweltering day. Then, as Marty put his chair back to its original spot and sculled down the remaining water in his glass, Emmett began to scoff down his dinner at lightening speed, occasionally drinking some cool water out of his own glass to stifle the spicy herbs which burned the back of his throat.

‘Jeez, Doc. Be careful. You might get indigestion.’

‘I’m a scientist! I don’t get indigestion!’ was Emmett’s reply and Marty watched in amazement as he ate, not slipping with the chopsticks once, and Emmett added, ‘Really, Marty,’ he swallowed, and thought of Albert Einstein, Thomas Edison, and then to the new scientists of 1980, 1985, and even the future, ‘if scientists continued to suffer indigestion, do you really think they’d be so many of us?’