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First published April 13, 2004
My booth, the one against the back wall, was empty, as always. So was the rest of the place. Occasionally, some tourists would ignore the filthy, fly-specked front window and wander inside. If the service didn’t send them packing, the food they were served would guarantee they’d never come back.
…
Mama came through the kitchen, carrying a heavy white tureen on a tray with three matching bowls, slightly larger than cups. She placed the tray on the table, uncovered the tureen, and ladled out a bowl for me. Hot-and-sour soup – Mama’s personal creation. I bowed my thanks, took a sip. “Perfect,” I said.
At that, Mama sat down across from me, and helped herself to a bowl.