Sunday, 17 November 2019
The kitchen clatter. The cackle of Asian voices. What Marco Polo discovered (or did he introduce them?) is being shared. The waiter knows me from previous visits. “Good morning” he says; it is evening. I point to my items on the menu, recognising the pictures. Ramen and fried rice (is it ever ‘ordinary’). The food arrives and I remind myself not to rush. I am alone this evening with nothing to do:
with every mouthful
a long story
this noodle bar
line dancing flute playing dancing in formation the public park trademark of this unique nation old men with caged birds hanging in trees ch...