The Night Market Stall – Part 1: Beef Noodle

"Xièxiè," said the foreigner, for the ninth night in a row, in a Mandarin so mangled that Wei had to bite his lip.

"You're welcome," he said, in English.

"Did I say it right?"

"You said 'thank you' as 'sit down.'"

"Ah." The man grinned, unabashed. "Well, I did sit down."

He was thirty-two, tall, with sun-bleached hair, a warm Australian drawl and a camera round his neck. Jamie. He'd been in Taipei for a month, teaching English, and had found Wei's stall by following the smell of star anise. Every night at eight, he sat on the same plastic stool, ordered the same bowl, and attempted conversation.

Wei was twenty-eight, wiry, quiet, with a towel round his neck and flour on his forearms. The stall had been his grandmother's. He ladled broth into the bowl, added tender beef, thick noodles, a spoon of pickled greens. Steam rose in the neon glow.

"Today's special," he said, "is chilli oil."

"I like chilli."

"This is very strong."

"I'm Australian."

"That is not a qualification."

Jamie took a mouthful, and went crimson. Tears ran down his face. He laughed so hard he nearly fell off the stool, and Wei, helplessly, laughed too, a rare, delighted sound.

"Can I ask you something?" said Jamie, wiping his eyes.

"Yes."

"Why do you work so late?"

"Because the people come late," said Wei. "Many are lonely. The soup helps."

Jamie's face softened. "It helps me."

"I know. You come every night."

"I come for the soup."

"Do you?"

"...Not only the soup."

"Green?" said Wei, shyly, a word from a guidebook.

"Green," said Jamie, grinning. "Very green. How do you say 'chilli oil' in Mandarin?"

Continue the story: Part 2 – Closing Time.