By strange circumstance, I found myself at Katy’s again today around 2:00. The place was empty, C2’s laughter would have been quite welcome, and I was sorry to disturb the employees who were lunching themselves.
I have an infamously sensitive stomach, a foodie-bane, that necessitates constant control of what, when, and how much I eat. I wasn’t feeling too well today. I gave up meat for Lent, over indulged on Easter, and was still paying a price.
I ordered a bowl of wonton soup from the always dressed the same owner (his apron was cleaner today than usual) and settled into a table with a pencil puzzle out of my pocket. It took along time, but I didn’t mind – the day was fine, with the breeze blowing through the propped open door and the chimes were soothing.
The soup was pretty bland – predominant flavors were the scallion garnish and sesame oil. The wontons were gentle, mostly filled with tiny shrimp. I spooned this up slowly, feeling better with each mouthful. I found myself humming various original and classic tunes, though I tried not to be too obvious about it.
Finishing, I carried my dishes to the counter to place another order. The owner looked at me a bit askance. I asked for stir fried noodles with shrimp, “for here.”
“For here?” he said.
“For here.” I said.
“Too much for you!” he said. I assured him I would bring home and consume all leftovers as I’ve dutifully done in the past. He nodded, took my cash, and went in back as I returned to my puzzle. I now heard the owner singing from the kitchen in a not unpleasant voice. When he stopped I wanted to urge him to sing more. By the time my courage was up to request this, he started his tune again, and I fell into a blissful reverie.
When he brought me the heaping dish he told me the noodles were homemade, something he’s now told me at least three times. I smiled at him, told him I know, and that’s why I drove so far to be there.
I spent along time eating with my chopsticks, all the staff occasionally beaming at me in encouragement. I’d like to report a transcendent dish, but in truth, these beautiful noodles were overcooked, a crime. They would have benefited from a nice drizzle of the chile oil, but I steered away. Still quite tasty.
At one point I returned to the counter to order a Coke, the owner laughed with genuine humor, “No more food for you.” And laughed even more when he heard my order.
When he saw I was satiated, he brought a box and a bag. I attempted to fill the container myself, he laughed with good cheer, boxed and bagged my leftovers, and escorted me to the door with a warm smile. I walked into the sunshine better fitted to face the day.
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For those visiting Katy’s, it is worth touring the Hunan Market and Indo-Pak Grocery / Snack bar in the same strip mall. While my non-foodie friends think I know everything culinary, I’m lost and fascinated in places such as these.
Right next door to Katy’s is a genuine head shop “Sight and Sound.” Incense burning, Boston cranked, bongs in the back. I was asked too many times what I was looking for. At one point an employee pointed to a framed poster of a naked sitting Frank Zappa and said to me, “That’s Joe’s girlfriend.”
I did not ask for elaboration.
-ramon