The soup came without words.
The woman didn’t ask what I wanted.
She just looked at me, nodded, and walked back to her corner of the stall.
There was steam.
The scent of cinnamon, blood, basil, garlic.
A tiny bowl, dark broth, sliced meat folded like memory.
I sat on a blue stool that wobbled slightly.
It was raining.
The only sound was the soft clink of spoons and bowls around me.
I didn’t take a photo. I didn’t check the name of the shop. I just ate.
And in the quiet of that moment —
as the broth warmed my mouth and the noodles disappeared too quickly —
I realized that the best food doesn’t try to impress you.
It just understands you.
Some bowls don’t need explaining. They don’t need garnish. They don’t even need conversation.
They just need you to sit.
And let them do what they were made to do.