〈The Night I Was Won Over by a Bowl of Noodle Soup〉

As I was leaving work, I suddenly craved noodles. Not some fancy ramen, but the kind from a small stall at the end of the alley, with plastic chairs, folding tables, and the steam from the chef cooking noodles fogging up the streetlights. I took a detour and walked to the noodle shop I hadn't visited in a long time. "It's been a while since I've seen you," the owner's wife recognized me. "I've been busy lately." "The usual? Plain noodles with a braised egg?" I nodded. She turned and called to the owner, "One bowl of plain noodles, add an egg, no green onions." She still remembered I didn't like green onions. I sat on a plastic chair and watched the owner drop the noodles into the boiling water. Steam billowed up, fogging his glasses. He took them off, wiped them, put them back on, and continued cooking. At the next table, a couple was sharing a bowl of noodle soup. The woman picked up the noodles and cooled them, while the man waited beside her. Their heads were very close together. I suddenly thought the scene was beautiful, like a painting. The noodles arrived. I picked up my chopsticks, mixed them, and the heat hit my face. I took a sip of the soup first; it was light and bland, but very warm. Then I took a bite of the noodles; they were cooked just right. The braised egg was flavorful, the yolk creamy, and I saved it for last. Halfway through my meal, the owner's wife brought over a plate of blanched vegetables. "On the house. The vegetables are very tender today." "Oh, you shouldn't have—" "Don't be silly. You used to come every day, like our own daughter." I lowered my head to eat the vegetables, feeling a slight sting in my eyes. It was probably from the steam. After finishing the noodles, I brought the bowl to the counter. The owner was packing up. He saw me and said, "All done?" "Yes, I'm full.