Beef Phở For the Soul

It wasn’t even a dream job, just a slightly better paying one. The email stung all the same though.

"Based on your responses, we have determined you do not meet the basic requirements for this position. Please do not respond to this automated email."

Hal slipped his phone into his pocket after turning it back off. He wasn’t in the mood for any more "How are you?" calls. It was the tone, the sound of trying so hard to be sincere that put him off. The whispery, NPR host earnestness in the voice of the caller. It was just a break up, they happened everyday all over the place. His was no different, people split with their fiancé’s all the time. He was fine. Just fine. Lana and Rob were a good match anyhow. They had met doing yoga, they probably had lots of shared interests. It was fine.

It would have been nice to have a reason to move across the country though.

"Fuck it. I’ll move anyway." Hal muttered, and he started walking home from the movie theater.

This late at night, not much was open downtown besides the random food truck. The smell of grilled onions, or carne asada, or gravy would sneak out of the side alleys and parking lots, effectively advertising to drunks much better than any sign ever could.

Lana had always felt a little guilty after they stopped at one together, saying something about being on a diet, or carbs or sugars. As Hal caught a whiff of Nutella and syrup from a waffle truck, he remembered making crepes in the morning after Lana had stayed over the first time. Ten, almost eleven years ago?

Hal had snuck out as quiet as he could at five in the morning, after waking up and realizing he had nothing in the fridge but whiskey and mustard.

The only shop within walking distance to his loft that was open that early was out of bacon.

"What do you serve with waffles besides bacon?" Hal has asked the round Russian woman behind the counter.

"Bacon sold out." Her accent was almost as thick as her chins.

Hal must have looked pretty defeated that morning. Running his hands though his shaggy hair while in pajamas and mis-matched Chuck Taylor’s. While wondering just what he was going to feed the beautiful woman in his bed when she woke up, he felt a soft tap on his shoulder.

"Try crepes, love. They’re easy as sin to make, and you can fill them with fruit or sweets." The short woman with gray curls peeking out from under a scarf handed him a box of mix with instructions on it. "I find strawberries and Nutella to be particularly tasty." She winked as she patted his chest before turning to walk away.

Hal turned back to the matryoshka behind the counter. "Where are your strawberries?"

"Strawberries on order."

STRONG RAMEN 

The sign caught Hal’s attention first. The words were hand-painted in blocky blue letters onto the boards of a scavenged pallet. Despite it being rickety, the letters were neat and precise. On the top slat of the pallet was an arrow pointing down the alley.

Hal then noticed the smell. Rich and hearty, it spoke of warmth by a fire while it rained, or early evenings with a book when you don’t have to be anywhere. There was soy and beef, and chicken and butter. There was salt and siracha and cilantro coming from that alley.

It was when Hal’s stomach rumbled hard enough to rattle the keys in his pockets he realized he hadn’t eaten since dinner last night with Lana.

"Fuck it, I’m hungry."

It wasn’t a truck at all, but a narrow door in a narrow alley Hal was sure he’d walked past before, but never down. Restaurants came and went so fast in this part of town, it wasn’t surprising he hadn't seen this place before.

The door squeaked as he opened it, and a bell tied to a string hung from the stained drop-ceiling hit the top at a worn dent with a jolly tingle.

"Right with you!" A woman called out sing-song from behind the counter. Her back was turned to Hal, but her thinning black hair was done in a feathered style that reminded him of photos taken of his mother from around the time he was born.

The shop was small, there wasn't room for more than two booths on either side of the narrow space, leaving four booths total. A basketball team in there would have violated the fire code. An opening framed in stainless steel in the wall behind the counter allowed for the cook to pass finished dishes up to the the front counter. Through it, Hal caught glimpses of an old bald man sweating over a stock pot the size of a big paint bucket, singing along to the tinny voice of Thom Yorke coming from a small 80's looking radio.

The woman finished chopping something and turned around to face Hal.

"How I help you today?"

"Uh...." There was no menu on the wall behind the counter, and none was to be found on it either. "I'm not sure what to order. Do you have a menu?"

From the kitchen, the old man spoke up "No menu! Tell her about day you had. Ayma knows what you need." The bald man winked as he reached for a cleaver far too large to slice the garlic on the cutting board in front of him.

Hal's brow furrowed, then one eyebrow went up. "What?"

"Your day. You tell me what kind you have. I listen and choose." Ayma propped her elbows on the counter, then rested her chin on her fists, smiling expectantly.

Fuck it. Hal wanted to tell someone.

"My day has been shit."

The woman's smile vanished, replaced by a frown of matronly concern. 

"Why shit? Explain for me."

"Use detail!" The old man called, not looking up from the garlic.

"Okay. It actually started yesterday. I had applied for a job on the other side of the country, doing what I do now, but with slightly better pay and in a new place. I thought it would be exciting, a fun adventure to have with the woman I love. I took her out to her favorite restaurant, just because you know?"

The woman nodded, her head still on her hands.

"I told her there about the job, about how if I got it we could do what we had always talked about. Moving somewhere new, selling everything and starting over from scratch."

The old man stopped slicing the garlic.

"She started to cry. She took off her ring and pushed it across the table to me. She didn't hand it, she pushed it, like it was something distasteful she wanted distance from. She told me she had met someone. That he understood her, that she felt special and excited around him."

The woman reached out and patted Hal's hand, leaving one under her chin. The old man sighed and began chopping up chicken.

"I told her to keep the ring, that I didn't want to try and sell the physical manifestation of what was supposed to be. I left her at the restaurant. I haven't been home, I don't want to go home. Her stuff is there. Her smell is there.

"I got a hotel room last night, and I didn't sleep in it. I just laid there in a king-size bed all alone. At some point, Lana must have said something on Facebook, because the calls and texts started coming in around 2 AM. I told everyone I'm fine, but I'm not. I'm not fine at all. I'm fucking broken."

The woman sniffed.

"I spent all day today at the movies. I'm not even sure what I saw. I think Russel Crowe was in one of them, but I don't know. I just wanted some noise so I didn't have be alone with my thoughts. And as I was walking out of theater after the last showing of the night, I turned my phone back on and saw that I didn't even merit an interview for the job that set all of this off in the first place."

Hal wasn't crying, but he was feeling deeply. Each breath was long, each time he blinked it felt like he was holding back, not tears really, but holding back the frustration and greif and pain he was finally letting himself feel in this tiny shop.

"I'm sorry, so sorry. That is shit day." Ayma sniffed again, and wiped at her eyes with her mouth open wide while she tried not to smudge her makeup.

"Very shit." The old man agreed from the kitchen.

"You need special ramen for shit day." She turned and said something to the man in what Hal assumed to be their native language, and the man busied himself grabbing various spice jars.

Hal took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay."

"Take seat, I bring to you."

Hal sat in the nearest booth, and rested his head on his arms, the way a recalcitrant middle school student would do during economics.

Hal wasn't sure how much time had passed before he felt a soft hand on his back, and heard the "tunk" of a bowl set in front of him.

"On house. Feel nicer, okay?" The soft hand patted his back.

The bowl of ramen in front of him steamed. The little tendrils winding up and towards the slowly rotating fan on the ceiling. It smelled delicious, and tasted even better. It was savory and sweet tart and filling. It’s warmth seeped into his bones, and for jist a moment, the taste of onions and garlic and peppers helped him forget his shit day. How had Hal never been here before?

The little bell on the front door tinkled again, and Hal heard, "Right with you!" sing-song from behind the counter again.

"It's me meak"

Ayma said something else in what Hal assumed to be her native language, and the woman who entered answered back.

Hal was surprised when the young woman that came into the shop stood next to Hal's booth, dressed up like she had just come home from a night on the town. 

"I'm Kathy, can I sit down?"

Fuck it. Hal was lonely.

"Sure"