Cheongsam had already rolled and cut the noodles. They boiled quickly in a wide pot, the strands turning silky yet firm. Mianmian drained them, arranging a neat portion into each waiting bowl.
She layered the toppings carefully, the beef, the pickled greens, chopped scallions, and a ladle of broth that released steam into the cool midday air.
When she carried the first bowl to the counter, the aroma drifted out through the open door.
Passersby slowed, glancing inside. A middle-aged man stepped in, following the scent.
"What is that smell?" he asked, smiling as he looked between them.
"Braised beef noodles with pickled vegetables..." Mianmian replied. "Fresh this morning."
He nodded eagerly. "Then I'll have one bowl."
And just like that, their quiet lunch hour began to fill with the sound of clinking bowls, satisfied sighs, and the rhythmic scrape of chopsticks.
