He and she happened to meet at a food festival in Hawaii, both eyeing the same fruit salad. Like a true gentleman, he let her have it, sparking a conversation. In reality, both were food enthusiasts, and they hit it off instantly, chatting like old friends.
They exchanged phone numbers, and as his office wasn’t far from her workplace, he frequently invited her to try different cuisines after work. Soon, they both became enamored with the harmony ribs at Wu Yue Ren Jia [a name of a restaurant]. Interestingly, he loved the salt and pepper ribs, while she preferred the crispy fried tofu skin rolls. Their tastes complemented each other seamlessly.
Wu Yue Ren Jia was always calm and quiet, without the usual hustle and bustle of most restaurants. With its serene corridors, calligraphy and paintings on the walls, whitewashed walls, and gray bricks, it was a visual and culinary delight. The two of them would sit across from each other in silence, and she gradually unwound from the tensions of the office. He was the perfect dining companion, and the harmony between their taste buds and the food was indescribably wonderful.
Gradually, he also began inviting her out for lunch. He couldn’t tolerate poorly made takeout, and neither could she. Though time was tight, savoring a bowl of vegetarian noodles with dried shrimp and mustard greens left a lingering aftertaste. Together, they dined at almost every unique restaurant in the city, and his knowledge of food was encyclopedic. He even knew that the best bowl of plain noodles was served at the second shop around the corner. On Saturdays, he would drive her to a newly opened restaurant in another district to sample the dishes, and they delighted in it.
Despite all this, they rarely spoke, too busy eating. When they did talk, the conversation mostly revolved around food. He was incredibly picky—especially about food. With one taste, he could tell if the head chef or the sous chef was cooking, or if the Kobe beef on the plate was truly imported from Japan. She thought to herself that whoever cooked for him at home would have to be extraordinary to meet his high standards.
One day, while they were eating tuna sashimi, she finished two portions. He suddenly laughed, saying she had the healthiest appetite of any woman he’d ever met, and that watching her eat was a real feast for the eyes. She laughed too; they had been dining together every day, but he had never said something like that before. She replied that she thought he had forgotten she was a woman.
"How could I?" he said.
After blurting this out, he seemed to regret it a little, paused, and then smiled again. She didn’t take it to heart. She knew what kind of person he was—her coworkers had long noticed his car parked outside the office, and the gossip had spread in the break room. In recent years, the rising stars of IT had been at their peak, though she hadn’t expected that they even recognized his car. One female colleague said, “Wow, we see his car outside our office every day, he must be waiting for his girlfriend to finish work. I wonder who in our building is lucky enough to have their Cinderella moment.”
Someone else chimed in, “But isn’t he married?”
“Divorce is easier than getting married these days,” another said.
Indeed, nowadays, divorce is less complicated than making a proper crab roe meatball, but she had always refrained from getting involved with anyone else's leftovers.
Her favorite thing after a meal was to head to Zenbo Café and enjoy a cup of their signature charcoal-roasted coffee. That day, she probably ate too much sashimi, and her stomach started to feel uncomfortable. He went to buy her some medicine, and she didn’t stop him, letting him go. Sitting alone in the café, on the green leather sofa with brown trim, she wore yellow that day and could see her pale reflection in the window. She stared blankly at her coffee, as if holding a hot potato, and after taking a sip, she quickly set it down. Before he returned with the medicine, she left.
Halfway home, her phone rang—it was his number. The monotonous ringtone rang again and again, like a haunting melody. In the end, she didn’t answer.
When she got home, her stomach was still upset. Maybe she should eat something warm to soothe it. She opened the fridge, finding only a few eggs left, so she made herself a bowl of sweet boiled eggs.
The eggs were overcooked, and she added too much sugar. After one bite, she couldn’t eat any more and sighed.
Her phone rang again, and this time she answered.
“What’s wrong?”
“I suddenly felt unwell, so I went home.”
“You should come out for some hot porridge; it might make you feel better.”
He knew the best Cantonese porridge places.
On the table, in the white porcelain bowl, the sweet eggs floated up and down, as if undecided.
[The End]
1 Comments
I'm confused. Was he married? It ended with no conclusion.
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