The Taste of Home

I haven't been back to that market in a long time.

The market began at six every morning.

People arrived early to prepare for business, arranging fresh vegetables, fish, and meat, putting price tags on everything, and waiting for customers to come. They bargained, negotiated, and eventually settled on what felt like a fair exchange.

There were all kinds of vendors inside the market, including little noodle stalls where food was cooked right in front of you.

In my family, my grandmother had always been the one responsible for buying food.

Whenever she went to the market, she would not only buy groceries for the family. She would also pick up some of the traditional foods she personally liked.

After years of being responsible for feeding everyone, she knew exactly what each person in the family liked—and what they didn't.

There was one noodle stall that was practically the favorite of our whole family.

It was our no-menu menu.

My father and my aunt were both devoted regulars.

My father always ordered pork liver rice noodles.

My aunt preferred wonton rice noodles.

My grandfather didn't really like eating outside.

My grandmother didn't have a particular favorite.

And me?

I was a kid. I didn't get much of a say. I simply ate whatever the adults were eating.

Whenever I saw my father or aunt eating something outside the house, something that felt like a special snack, I would become curious and hungry.

I'd ask for a bite.

Or a sip of their soup.

Eventually, I fell in love with the little noodle stall too.

The three of us called it simply “the market noodles.”

My own favorite was shredded pork with pickled mustard greens over rice noodles in hot broth.

There was nothing luxurious about the place.

It wasn't even really a restaurant.

It was a small roadside noodle stall inside the market, an open dining space tucked beneath a roof and a makeshift awning at the corner.

And yet, people were always coming and going.

Customers who had arrived to buy groceries would stop for a bowl. Others would come simply because someone had told them about it.

There was no proper name.

No sign.

No business card.

The owners didn't need any of that.

They had regular customers, and regular customers brought more regular customers.

The whole family worked there.

They had started when they were young, and continued through marriage and having children. During school holidays, their children would come and help at the market too.

My father and the owner’s wife had been classmates in elementary school.

So whenever my father stopped by for a meal, even if he only had fifteen minutes to eat, she would still find a moment to ask how he was doing.

She never really stopped working, but somehow she always had time to ask.

Because it was a roadside stall, sharing a table with strangers was completely normal.

Looking back, I think that was a kind of friendliness that has become harder to find in cities.

People sat beside people they didn't know.

They ate together.

And then they went back to their own lives.

Eventually, I left the home where I grew up for school and work.

Later, I moved overseas.

But I kept thinking about that noodle stall.

And about that bowl of shredded pork and pickled mustard greens rice noodles in hot broth.

I've traveled to many countries.

I've eaten in expensive restaurants.

I've sat at Michelin-starred restaurants and enjoyed everything they had to offer—the service, the atmosphere, the carefully prepared dishes, and sometimes the very high prices.

I enjoyed all of it.

But in my memory, my Michelin star has always belonged to that little noodle stall in the market.

Whenever I happen to be back in that city, if time allows and the stall is open, I want to go there.

Just for one bowl.

That bowl of rice noodles has become inseparable from the memory of growing up.

The steaming broth.

The familiar way the noodles are prepared.

The taste that somehow stayed the same while everything else around it changed.

Even when I am far from home, that short time sitting at the market stall can bring something back to me.

A feeling of warmth.

A feeling of familiarity.

A feeling that, for a few minutes, everything is where it is supposed to be.

Maybe that is why I don't need a reservation to remember it.

It was never on a menu.

But it has always been one of the most memorable meals of my life.