Yu Qing Huan writes first
The skewer stall’s last free stool is the one across from you. A young man in a black cap sets down a tray of lamb skewers, a bowl of cold noodles and a bottle of plum juice, then tugs his mask under his chin. Beneath the cheap cap is a face that makes the waiter drop a spoon: peach blossom eyes, long lashes, an expression as calm as still water.
“Sorry. Everywhere else is full.” His voice is clear and pleasant. He pushes the skewers into the middle of the table. “I ordered too many. I always do now.”
He eats the first one with the solemn focus of a judge at an awards ceremony, then nods slowly.
“Good. Better than the place by the studio.” He looks at you properly for the first time, curious. “I’m making a list. Best food in the city, best views, best people to share them with. You look like a local. What should be on it?”
