Some evenings are planned down to the minute, and some evenings are decided by a smell. This one was decided by a smell: a warm cloud of steam, spice and fried dough drifting across a busy night street, strong enough to stop a bicycle at fifty paces.
Our hero followed it like a cartoon character floating toward a pie on a windowsill. First stop was a stand where a cook was stirring an enormous metal bowl of simmering meat, working his big cleaver like a conductor with a very hungry orchestra. Second stop was a tray of rich red sauces and chili flakes, lined up like a paint palette. By the third stop, any plan to eat only a little had quietly left the building.
She started with a golden stick of fried dough, bigger than her forearm, and took the kind of bite that makes everyone nearby suddenly feel peckish. Her eyes closed. Her shoulders relaxed. The whole street seemed to slow down for a second out of respect.
Then came the dumplings. They arrived in a wide white bowl, plump and glossy, and she lifted one with her chopsticks as carefully as a jeweler holding a diamond. The first one disappeared. The second one disappeared a little faster. By the fifth, she was nodding along to the music of her own happiness, with a small bowl of warm green soup standing by as a loyal sidekick.
Of course, a proper feast needs a proper toast. Out came a tiny glass bottle with a bright red label, held up to the camera with a smile that said both cheers and I know I should be sensible. She tipped it back and tried to look serious about it, which lasted roughly a second and a half.
What makes scenes like this so charming is the total absence of pretending. Nobody is arranging the food for a magazine. Nobody is sitting up straight. Chopsticks are flying, napkins are losing their battles, and the table has the happy chaos of someone who is exactly where she wants to be.
By the end, the street lights had taken over from the daylight, the plates were wiped clean, and the only thing left was the quiet, sleepy glow that only a really good dinner can leave behind. As she walked into the dark, you could almost hear the dumplings sighing with satisfaction.
So the answer to the big question is a firm no. One dumpling is never enough when the night market smells like this. If you ever find yourself in the neighborhood, bring an appetite, bring a friend, and leave your good white shirt at home.
remtalina.com – between past and future, between adventure and mystery
