Behind the knife shop, where chain mail stands by the door, are the targets. Practice your skills — throw and land, throw and land. Next door, the The Pit. Across the street at Maru, tilting toward the sidewalk, they call Chris a “faithful customer.” Add a bow. Then change your angle. You’re sipping a Barolo at a wine bar over oysters. You’re eating a taco with chili aoili swirled artistically over the top. You’re admiring what the architect has done with this space that used to be so humble.
June 6, 2015
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The tom kha gai is tangy and creamy, the tofu crisped and floating in the broth. Back when I wrote stories for the university, I would head downstairs and sit at Madam Mam’s eating it, book or draft in hand. It’s the soup I chose when I was getting a cold. When the days sat too heavy on me. When I needed escape. The soup at Sap’s is the same, same woody bits to work around, same scoop of the whitest rice to the side. Praise the old standby. Praise spooning it onto the plate in a practiced way. Praise how it was there on the day I needed comfort. Praise umbrellas hanging from the ceiling. Praise the good husband who came when I called only an hour later, who sat in the room while a machine clanged and banged, all so that we can know that I’m okay. Praise being okay. Praise it every day.
