I’ve been eating out alone pretty frequently this weekend. At home I cook for Flavia or Kevin, depending on the city. I can always pad over to Pam and Sumaya’s to have a little taste of stuffed grape leaves or sweet potato soup. Kevin told me I’m so extroverted I have to live alone, because no roommate could handle all the company. Notably, he and I are sharing a room this fall.

Anyway, being on my own in a restaurant with a pretty high language barrier makes me choose venues with a great view, or wildly decorated walls, or some kind of entertainment. I was going to pass this spare little noodle shop on street 172 by, until I noticed that the waiter stretched his own noodles. Two dollars a bowl.

As I watched him, and I really watched him, I was struck by his dexterity and expertise. I’ve had stretched noodles before, but never like these. The dough was perfectly homogenous and elastic, and he wound his fingers as he stretched to create fine delicate strands, each slightly different so that they were interesting on the tongue. He added some cardamom or something else to the noodle broth so that the soup was nutty and surprising. I went into a kind of observant reverie, I’m sure it was creepy from his end.

Reminded me of watching the stovemaker in Kampong Chenang last week — how her fingers worked the sand and mud into a fine clay and then evenly pounded the stove chamber into the mold. It struck me, how precise and competent some people are in the things they do every day.

And then maybe it was the sentimentality of being alone in a restaurant, but I was flooded with a sense of great injustice while eating my noodles. There is so much talent in the world, so much perfectionism and pride in one’s work, and only the very lucky few, born in the right place, get financially rewarded for what they bring to the table.