“Doctor, let me take a moment to prepare myself, then I’ll go for the check-up.”
I almost burned my tongue with the heat of the pork bone soup with bamboo fungus. I looked up at the sound and saw the lady looking at me. Her voice shouted from the stove and that hot pan.
People in the shop probably heard the voice along with me.
“Are you going for a check-up?” I mimed squeezing my own breasts with both hands and mouthed the words silently.
“No, I’m going for a cervical cancer check-up.” She continued to shout loudly.
I was embarrassed because I had disguised myself as a local, sipping hot bamboo fungus soup and scooping rice into my mouth with delight. The goji berries had a slightly sour taste, and the bamboo fungus was perfectly tender. Actually, I intended to have bitter melon soup, but she said it wasn’t tender yet and wouldn’t let me eat it, fearing it would ruin her reputation.
“I’m afraid of getting cancer. Do you know that person, doctor?” She asked about someone she assumed I might know.
“She has breast cancer, still young, and doesn’t have a husband.” Such market gossip was something I wasn’t quite used to, so I just smiled and shook my head.
The lady’s soup is truly exceptional.
She brought chili fish sauce, from which I only took the fresh chilies to put on my rice plate, mixed it thoroughly, then poured the clear soup over it. I picked up the pork bone, crushed it to separate the meat from the bone, and scooped both the soup-soaked rice and pork into my mouth, chewing slowly. The pork was tender, the fat melted silently in my mouth, with only its flavor that I understood and appreciated, unable to express it in words.
“How should I prepare, doctor? Should I go before or after my period?” She continued to be concerned about her health while pouring the stir-fried morning glory onto a plate and handing it to a shop assistant to serve to a customer. Steam billowed from the pan.
“Table nine,” she said.
“Either is fine, ma’am.” I didn’t want to say more because other customers were eating. I wanted to tell her that as long as there’s no blood, it’s sufficient.
The last grain of rice was slowly savored into my mouth. The goji berries were gone from the soup. The broth, with a slight layer of fat, was left only a quarter of the bowl, left elegantly as the gentry would (haha).
“How much, ma’am?”
“Fifty, doctor.”
“Ma’am, just avoid sexual intercourse for three days, that’s enough,” I told her.
“Oh, for someone like me, make it three years.”
That’s the end of it.
Thanaphan Chuboon, the Hainanese lady’s grandson who loves soup
January 7, 2019