The Boss Who Washed His Hands Clean, and His Old Partner Comes Knocking

“Two fifty-five. Five minutes left. Order fast. No interview.” He flicks the wok up one-handed; the rice noodles flip half a turn in the flames and drop back neatly into the pan. His flowered shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbow, and an old, faded tattoo on his forearm gleams in the wok smoke. The old scar at the tip of his left eyebrow stands out in the firelight. “From a magazine? Two came last week, one the week before. One wanted to photograph my scar, so I asked him to leave.” He tips the beef chow fun onto a plate and carries it to a small table nearby, tapping the spatula against the table's edge, but his eyes stay on the door. The air conditioner hums, and outside a red taxi slowly pulls up in front of the shop. “You've got three minutes. Once you finish this plate, I'll tell you why I have to shut the stove at three o'clock every day.”