The Secret Sesame Noodle Stall

The heart of our town is a fascinating maze of alleys. There’s one long main thoroughfare with countless side streets branching off. By day, it's a bustling market where local moms shop for fresh ingredients. But come evening, it transforms, shedding its skin to become a lively night market, packed with families, couples, and food lovers.

On weekends, this night market is shoulder-to-shoulder busy. That’s because it sits near a famous hiking trail and a riverside bike path. Tourists pour in after their evening exercise, eager to feast. But on weekdays, it’s much quieter.

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I was walking through the final intersection of the night market when a new storefront caught my eye. A vertical sign, white with black lettering, declared: **"XX Signature Sesame Noodles (Formerly A-Guo Noodles)."**

*Wait a minute,* I thought, remembering a certain noodle stall I used to frequent—a stall that also specialized in famous sesame noodles, which had suddenly vanished months ago.

I glanced toward the shop entrance. Bending over the stove, cooking noodles with quick, practiced motions, was a slightly plump, dark-skinned man with a bit of a belly, wearing a red shirt. Wasn't that the same owner from my favorite old stall?

The Reunion

It was! This was the same humble noodle stall that used to operate near the front of the night market, now relocated to a proper storefront with an indoor dining area at the very back.

A few months ago, the stall just stopped operating. I visited several times, but there was no notice of relocation, and I assumed they had simply closed for good. It turned out they had just moved to the far end of the market!

This unassuming little stall, famed for its rich, fragrant sesame noodles—a dish only locals really knew about—was a family favorite of mine.

*Well, I know where dinner is coming from tonight,* I thought, changing my initial plan.

“Boss, I’d like two small sesame noodles and two orders of pork liver soup to go,” I said.

“Small size for the noodles?” he confirmed.

“Yes, small.”

“Got it.”

The owner quickly started boiling the noodles and heating the soup. Just then, his slender wife, the boss lady, emerged from the indoor dining area.

Back when they were just a small stall on a covered sidewalk near the front, they only had two small tables out front. They were always occupied, and the turnover was fast. Their small glass counter held all sorts of delicious side dishes: century egg tofu, cold-dressed cucumbers, cold pork liver, seasoned pig’s head skin, dried fish with peanuts, seaweed, braised eggs, and dried tofu.

“Boss lady, I’d also like an order of the cold pork liver, the pig’s head skin, and some blanched greens to go,” I added, turning to her.

“Sure thing,” she replied with a smile, turning to pack the dishes.

“Boss lady, did you move here from the old spot up front?” I asked, wanting to know why they disappeared without a trace.

“We did, yes,” she replied, turning back with a slight Mainland accent after packing the sides.

“I went back to the old stall so many times, but you had suddenly closed, and there was no notice. I only figured it out today because I recognized your husband!” I said, laughing.

“We are so sorry you couldn't find us!” she said apologetically. “A lot of people say they only found us because they saw my husband.”

She looked at her husband with a smile. “He should just stand at the door as a human sign!”

She went on to explain: “The reason we had to move was that the landlord's son was selling the property and needed it back, so they didn't renew our lease.”

“We did put up a relocation notice, but the new property owner tore it down right away, so hardly anyone knew we had moved back here to the final section,” she finished.

The owner, taking a brief pause after finishing the noodles, joined our conversation.

“My in-laws back home *love* the way I make the pork liver and pig’s head skin,” he said proudly. “My brother-in-law even helped me do a market survey! I was all ready to expand these side dishes to the Mainland market.”

“But then, because of the issues with Ractopamine in pork at the time, the whole plan fell apart,” he said, sighing with a look of utter disappointment, feeling he had missed a big opportunity to make serious money.

“*That’s just how it is when you’re not destined to make big money* (in Taiwanese),” he muttered, truly feeling the loss.

“Don’t say that, Boss,” I interjected comfortingly. “Look at it differently. Maybe Heaven wants you to take it easy so you can stay healthier!”

I remembered watching them at the old stall. Their prices were great, and the food was fantastic. During peak hours, customers were non-stop. Both the owner and his wife were constantly scrambling. The owner’s hands, especially, never stopped moving as he boiled noodles, and beads of sweat constantly dripped from his brow. That kind of relentless pace had to lead to exhaustion or illness eventually.

“You know what? You're right! I feel much better thinking about it that way,” the husband and wife both nodded, smiling happily.

We exchanged cheerful goodbyes, the three of us basking in the warm glow of our pleasant chat.

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Sometimes, what you gain isn't necessarily a good thing, and what you miss out on isn't necessarily bad.

You might think you’ve endured a major disappointment, but perhaps you’ve dodged a major bullet.

Who’s to say, really?