udon know how good this soup is
Herein lies a tale of the will to munch surreptitiously overcoming the will of the bus driver. This story takes place on a warm day in September, inspired by a long stop-over in Newark, arriving at 6am and leaving again at 4pm.
Determined as I was to visit Manhattan, having only spent a few days there previously, I splurged (well, I splurged and work reimbursed, the dears) on an $80 car-ride to the city. After an hour’s roam around the park I ventured down 7th Avenue, boldly believing I’d make it to Chinatown on foot, and still be back in time for my flight.
Realising too late the inadequacy of my pace, I got on a bus, which proved to be even slower. Eventually deciding that the teapot I was dreaming of buying would have to remain in the realm of fantasy, I disembarked and started making my way north-west, in the direction of Penn Station, for a bus to the airport.
On my way I was fortunate enough to find a hole-in-the-wall Korean place selling, among other treats, udon noodle soup. Being in a hurry, I lugged it with me to Penn Station, where the driver made a point of saying “No food or drink allowed on the bus, ma’am”. Not to be defeated, I found myself the most discreet seat I could – out of view of the driver and security camera, designed specifically for naughty little law-breakers like me – and hunched protectively and hungrily over my soup.
Anyway, I figure:
a) he can’t tell ME what to do
b) the only spillage by the time I got off the bus was a bottle of water from some other jerk
c) how could I resist those delicious squares of tofu, and pretty little slices of dried reconstituted mushroom?
d) the benefit compared to the risk was worth it
Anyway, the happy punchline to this tale is that there is no punchline, only good soup eating.
Gotta love that udon.