Sun Letian had just set out the sauce his mother had simmered the day before. He was wiping up a spill when th…
Sun Letian had just set out the sauce his mother had simmered the day before. He was wiping up a spill when the first customer of the day stepped in.
"Well, look at that. New press?" The customer was a friendly-looking man in his forties or fifties.
"Yeah. Replaced it a few years back." Sun Letian smiled. "What can I get you?"
"Last time I came, you were still helping your ma with the books. Now you're running the stall yourself. Good. Real good."
The customer ordered the simplest bowl of Hele noodles, plus an extra serving of sauce.
Sun Letian packed the dough into the press and watched thin strands spill out from the bottom, coiling neatly into the bowl. As a kid, he used to find it fascinating: a plump ball of dough went in, and a bowl of fine noodles came out. With a few tweaks, you could even press different shapes.
Whenever his mother wasn't looking, little Letian would sneak up on tiptoe, eyes wide, waiting for the noodles to appear like a magic trick. If she was too busy to scold him, she'd ladle sauce over the noodles he pressed and serve them to a customer.
He would stand off to the side, studying the customer's face. The smallest hint of satisfaction would have him quietly proud all day, convinced he'd done something important.
Customers came and went. The press broke, got fixed, and was replaced again. These days, Letian no longer found anything magical about those long, thin strands.
But a few words of praise from a customer could still make him happy. He kept every compliment tucked away, saving them to tell his mother when he got home.