I went to a local Chinese eatery I had heard a lot about but never visited. It sits in a congested part of town. Almost like a hole in the wall. It's an area I usually avoid. But this time, I had to go.
From the outside, the place wasn’t inviting at all. Still, I stepped in reluctantly.
The moment I entered, I felt overwhelmed. On the left sat a Chinese gentleman, probably the owner and the cook, his mouth filled with paan and teeth were stained a deep red. The air in the room carried a strong scent of paan masala. My first instinct was to turn around and leave. But then he gave me a big smile.
“Helloooo… come, come,” he said warmly.
I instantly froze. For a moment I couldn't think of what to do. I wanted to leave but his kind face made me follow him.
He guided me to a table at the far end of the room. I took a seat and settled. The place, despite everything, looked neat. I picked up the menu and was surprised. It was elaborate, filled with dishes I hadn’t seen even in bigger restaurants.
I decided to take a chance and ordered Cantonese-style vegetable noodles.
The waiter, a Nepali man, looked at me and said rather condescendingly, “You won’t like it. It has gravy… soft texture.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s exactly what I want.”
He hesitated, but eventually nodded.
When the noodles arrived, they looked simple but inviting. I took the first bite and was instantly transported back to my childhood in Delhi, when we used to visit small, authentic Chinese eateries, long before Indian-Chinese flavours took over.
The flavors were mild, comforting, and deeply satisfying. No excess spice, no loud colors, just honest flavours.
I was so glad I had come.
Before leaving, I smiled at the old gentleman and complimented him. He smiled back with his red-mouth.
I don’t know if I’ll easily convince myself to go there again. But perhaps, on a crisp winter morning when the air is kinder I just might.
