You’ll Never Enjoy This Bowl of Noodles the Same Way Again
Savour each moment like it is your only chance
Some truths are best gleaned in the middle of the night staring at the murky reflection of the street lamp in a bowl of soup. There is a moment of clarity, as if the mysterious fog of steam that wafts out of the bowl takes shape of a particular truth of the universe.
This particular truth in question was found along the streets of Pham Ngu Lao, the end of a night of walking aimlessly down the streets of Ho Chi Minh City. I had at many times walked past this street corner before in the day, but as those who know the city will also tell you, Ho Chi Minh City, or Saigon, as the locals sometimes call it, is a very different place at night.
This very night, a noodle stall was set up in a nearby alleyway, its low plastic seats, and foldable metal tables spilling out onto the sidewalk. They were just setting up for the night. The owners and their staff work silently, setting up tables and arranging cutlery for use.
As I take my seat, people started appearing almost on cue, taking their seats at the tables. They come singularly, or sometimes in pairs. They all order the same thing. There are few words exchanged. Perhaps a moment of eye contact with the owner, a slight hand gesture, and a brief mutter in Vietnamese. And then the contact is broken. Everyone goes back to what they were doing just before. Cigarettes are lit, conversations continue, and the motorbikes which seemed to be gone just a moment ago continue on their way past the roadside eatery as if a pause button on an old VCR machine is finally released. I get the feeling that they have done this many times before, and that I am somehow not privy to some kind of obvious secret.
There are no judgements here — you sit next to a red-faced-and-clearly-inebriated man with his overdressed ‘girlfriend’ from the bar next door, a couple of ladies of the night who sit on stools almost uncomfortably (at least to me) in their mini skirts, and the guy next door who from his hair and clothes, seemed to have been sleeping up till about five minutes ago and woke up feeling hungry. There is something oddly amusing about the whole scene unfolding in front of me — it is almost as if every possible caricatured stereotype (including me, a clueless tourist) had found its way into the area.
The bowl arrives. It is a steaming bowl of murky goodness. I could smell lemongrass, chills, and meat. There is a sense of mystery as I pick up my chopsticks and stir my noodles a little bit, hoping to cool the broth down a little. The proprietor puts down an accompanying plate of greens in front of me, meant to be eaten fresh together with the noodles. The smell is intoxicating.
The strangers (are they strangers anymore?) around me eat quietly with slurping noises and the occasional metallic clang of metal spoons put down on tables so that the eater can take a long draw of soup to his/ her lips.
And then they depart, quietly, almost reverently, leaving behind a couple of empty bowls, used tissue papers, and a half-drunk glass of cha da (lotus tea) in a chipped Saigon Bia mug. That vanishes soon after as the table is cleared of all traces of them ever being there, almost adding to the sense of temporality of the space. Each time I look up from my bowl, the scene has changed. People who were there a moment ago aren’t there anymore. Uncleared tables now lay ready for the next customer. I wondered if what I saw a moment ago was just a figment of my imagination. Perhaps the guy with his “girlfriend” was never here, and I had seen them at another stall down the road when I walked past it a couple of minutes ago. Then again, does it really matter?
The thought is gone almost as soon as it appeared in my mind, muddled perhaps by a chilli-fuelled haze. As I put my bowl down, what remains is the reflection of the same street lamp above, lingering, slightly distorted in a sheen of oil remaining in the bowl that was full just a couple of minutes before.
Ending Thoughts
I have since gone about my life, but I have thought about that moment - especially the nature of how transitory that moment was - constantly and fondly. I have since had many other moments in my life, yet it is interesting that I’ve never felt exactly the same way about any two of them. What did I truly experience that night? Relatedly, could this ‘truth’, or moment ever be accurately captured or conveyed to someone else? I am clearly aware of the irony of trying to capture the moment I experienced in words, and an even greater irony knowing that this story will exist throughout time on the internet after it has been published.
All I can tell you is that I know I enjoyed that very moment with that bowl of noodles, and I felt something real that night, something that I would never feel again in the same way. And perhaps life can be seen as a series of interconnected moments that should be enjoyed and appreciated individually, as each moment exists in the very moment that it does, never to be experienced again.
