About ramen and a bitter-sweet dessert

It’s hot. The fresh noodles and their spicy flavour are filling my mouth. A thin film of sweat covers my forehead. With closed eyes I carefully chew and swallow. A familiar warmth instantly spreads through my throat and stomach. I smile and open my eyes.

‘So, Ela, what do you think?’

I look down at the steaming bowl of ramen. After a few seconds I lift my

head. Merely 5 inches separates Luigi’s face from mine. He has bent over the

counter. His former white apron is sprinkled with dark stains after a long day

of cooking and serving bowls. The heat and steam have brought some colour up

his cheeks and with all this sweat he almost seems to glow. Full of expectation

he stares at me.

I return the gaze.

‘It’s really good. What exactly did you change? More chilli peppers –

cumin instead of curcuma – and – just a trace muscat?’

A bright smile splits his lips and makes his moustache tremor.

‘Well, that’s the Ela I know! Her mind and senses as sharp as a knife!’

he says excessively. ‘You’re right. Never thought you’d even taste the muscat.

Maybe you should consider changing the branches!’ With a wink he points at my

stiff office costume and hair tied to an austere bun.

‘I’m flattered,’ I say, ‘Perhaps charging a fee for testing your new

recipes would be appropriate?’ I maintain my poker face, pretending to

seriously evaluate the opportunity, before I return his wink with a mischievous

smile. We laugh together.

‘Dad, would you please quit chatting and help me over here!’ A voice

breaks through our merry conversation. Simultaneously we turn around.

‘Oh, Ela, I have to introduce somebody to you,’ Luigi says proudly,

pointing at the cause of the noise – an obviously stressed out young man.

‘This is my precious son, Matteo – the mastermind behind my recent

improvements,’ he firmly hugs his offspring which earns him an annoyed groan.

‘Nice to meet you, Matteo,’ I say while trying to suppress my giggling.

That’s what I love about this tiny ramen shop – the merry laughter mixed

with hot steam and the strong smell of herbs and human sweat. Merely a thin

curtain divides us from the cold and wet streets of London’s city center.

Nevertheless, within this limited interior, it feels like living in a different

world. Or maybe it’s because of Luigi and his heart-warming and talkative

character. He used to be a foreigner, leaving his home country Italy at a young

age to start a living in London by opening a Japanese-style ramen shop. It’s

quite the unusual story but I like to sympathize with him. Luige has put his

heart and soul into his restaurant and now the wrinkles and silver strands

serve as proof. But, as much as I sympathize with him as much do I envy him.

The smile on my face slowly fades away.

‘Ela, look!’

Luigi’s voice breaks through my train of thought.

‘Recently I’ve imagined extending the menu.’

He carries a table with something that looks like little cupcakes.

‘The customers would be able to enjoy a sweet dessert after their hearty

noodles, just in keeping with the cold season.’

He places the tablet right in front of me.

I suddenly feel like throwing up.

‘I’d like you to test them. Of course, it’s on the house.’

The atmosphere changes. The hot steam now seems to pierce through my

skin like ice pickets. I feel cold sweat running down my spine.

Luigi keeps on talking.

‘The toppings have different flavours, but the cake is the same. Matteo

created them. He learns so much in this cooking school. What did he say the

ingredients were –’

I can’t concentrate. It’s like the smell of these devilish cakes are

blocking my view and driving my mind crazy.

‘Sorry, Luigi,’ I say with a tormented smile and point at my wristwatch.

‘It’s already this late. Let us continue another time. It was a long day. I

have to catch up on sleep.’

My hands are shivering as I grab bag and jacket.

He must have noticed my weird behaviour.

‘You sure you’re okay?’ he says, a sincere concern lingers within his

words.

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I assure him and with shaky legs I go, through the

curtains and into the world behind it.

My stomach is still turning. I empty its content at the first corner

that comes along. My head feels like an overripe tomato – ready to burst. I

walk along the streets. It begins to drizzle. The light bulbs of the lanterns

are playing tricks on my eyes. At the next bank I sit down.

‘Breath, Ela, in and out – slowly – in and out,’ I talk to myself. The

scent of the cakes is still in my nose and mouth. It won’t go away. With every

breath I suck it in deeper and deeper. The nausea is overwhelming. I lean back.

Rain falls on my face, slow but steadily wets my hair and clothes. I don’t

care.

I try to concentrate on something else, but to no avail. White steam

clouds appear and vanish into the darkness with every breath I take. It’s cold.

Almost December… Almost time to spend the holidays with your family.

I close my eyes. This sweet scent – I’ve never wanted to smell it again.

But the nightmare from 12 years ago repeats itself ….

Winter holidays. Christmas eve. Mom and I are in the kitchen, chatting,

washing the dishes, working under the warm lights of some candles. Outside the

window the snow piles up, covers the land around us, makes it look like an

abandoned winter wonderland.

‘Let me take care of the cookies this year, mom, will ya’?’ I say.

‘Sure, honey.’ She pats my head and sits down on the sofa next to dad. I

want to make them proud. I take the golden cookies out of the oven. It smells

delicious – the strong but sweet smell of cinnamon, cloves and vanilla spreads

through our tiny house and makes my mouth water. I pull one of the candles nearer to m workplace. Under its light I

carefully decorate them with frosting and crumbles.

All windows shut we huddle ourselves together on the small sofa. Mom and

dad tell me stories and sip on their wine glasses while I nibble on a cookie.

I’m happy. We are happy. And somehow, we fall asleep…

It’s loud. And hot – to hot. I open my eyes. A wall of black smoke

blocks my view. It’s difficult to breath. Afraid I look around. Mom and dad are

still sleeping. I shake them – no respond - shake them harder. I yell at them

as loud as I can. Smoke fills my lunges. I cough. Tears came to my eyes. Why won’t they wake up?! I try to make my

way to the window. Air, we need to breath! There

are no windows – not anymore. Instead there is a wall of fire. The flames are

gnawing on the curtains, spreading over the whole side of the room, peeling off

the wallpaper. Is this supposed to be hell? I

slide down. And I cry – I cry for mom and dad to wake up – I cry till my throat

is sore and no air left. I cry till –

‘Ela…, Ela…!’

Someone is calling my name. So loud…

‘Ela, wake up!’

Someone yells at me again, shakes me forcefully.

I open my eyes. There is a face, but blurry. I blink a few times. Matteo

leans over me, our noses merely separated by a thumb-breadth. It takes me a

second to realize the situation. As if thunderstruck I sit up straight. The

drizzle from before has stopped. I wipe my tears. Without a word Matteo sits

down next to me. An embarrassing silence settles between us.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he suddenly says.

‘I don’t know,’ I say with a raspy voice.

Another moment of silence. He doesn’t look at me nor does he rush me to

explain the situation. I don’t know if he’d even care about my answer. But his

pure presence somehow feels calming. So, I speak.

‘I killed my parents.’

Silence. No comment.

‘It was Christmas. A blizzard raged. We were living in the countryside.

A fire broke out. Because of the storm, the firefighters came late. I was

saved. But our house burned to ashes – so did my mom and dad.’

I pause.

‘Later on, they said the source of the fire was in the kitchen near the

hob.’

I take a brief breath.

‘I turned nine the week before. I wanted to make my parents proud, show

them how grown up I already was. So, this Christmas, it was my job to take care

of our traditional cookies. I decorated them – under the light of a candle. I

myself put it there - near the hob, right next to a bunch of papers and my

mother’s recipe-collection.’

A tear runs down my face again.

‘I didn’t put it back,’ I say, my voice by now a mere whisper.

We sit there for minutes. Nobody says something. But that’s good. Slowly

I calm down, wipe my tears, and take a deep refreshing breath.

‘Sorry for bothering you with my old story. It’s just – ever since that

day,’ I say partly to myself. ‘The night the firefighter saved me; between all

the black smoke and the scent of burned flesh – I could still smell the sweet

cookies, every single spice I put in them, they were so vibrant – so terrifying

strong.’

I laugh briefly. ‘I know it’s ridiculous but since that day I can’t

stand the smell of sweet biscuits – or rather the spices within them. They

trigger my memories, show me my mistakes, make me go through that day again and

again.’

I look down at my folded hands. ‘I did everything to forget. Left my

relatives in the countryside, moved to London, took on an ordinary office job.

Well, it didn’t work out in the end. `Guess, even a spicy ramen shop needs some

sweets at times.’

A quiet smile makes its way onto my face. I feel surprisingly free and

calm. I look aside. Matteo is still there, his gaze pointed straight ahead,

into the darkness.

Silence again.

I close my eyes, dwell on the harmony of the moment. Then I suck in the cold and humid air - time to go home.

‘Thanks for liste –’ As I open my eyes to say goodbye Matteo directly

looks at me. His sudden change of behaviour startles me.

‘Didn’t you notice?’ he says.

I frown. He detects my lack of understanding and points at his lap – at

a package wrapped in tinfoil.

‘You know, throwing some noodles and vegetables into the pot and you

won’t serve good ramen. Or mix eggs, sugar and flour and it doesn’t mean

you’d get a delicious cake. If it weren’t for some chilli or sweet cinnamon

nobody would like to taste your creations. That's what I like about being a chef-

creating something everybody enjoys eating. But –’ He carefully removes the

tinfoil. ‘In my opinion, there is much more to that. In the end it is not about

spices and good food but about your intention behind them.’

He carefully opens my folded hands and puts inside the unwrapped

package.

‘You loved your parents. You wanted to show your love by making them

delicious cookies. They should literally taste your feelings. The spices, every

inch of cinnamon, vanilla or whatever you mixed into the dough – they should

convey your strong feelings. And even after no cookie would be left, the smell

of the spices - the smell of your love will be still around.’

With this Matteo stands up and gently touches my shoulder. Once again,

this night I feel the tears running down my face.

‘One can’t change the past. So, keep in mind, it’s not about remembering

your mistakes but about remembering the love you spent and the happy moments

you all shared.’

He turns around and goes away. Without looking back, he shouts ‘Don’t

forget to come by to give a review!’

I laugh as I watch him disappear in the distance. My tears won’t stop

running but now they are of joy. I look at my hands and the package he left me.

The little cake within it looks pretty sweet. I laugh again.

‘Yeah, I will do so,’ I mutter.

As I go home, cold and wet from the rain, the cake feels warm in my

hands. And the smile settles down on my face - not yet ready to fade again.