The Golden Chef

That night feels like a lifetime ago. I remember my skin slick from the rain like oil suffocating me, burning my eyes, soaking into my pores. I was a walking natural disaster - the moment the dirt feels soft underfoot before the landslide, or the ripple of water before the earthquake tears a building asunder.

The sickly glow of the neon sign drew my attention to the silhouette of the food cart with only a small striped umbrella as protection from the onslaught of the storm. I see now that it was a lifeline reaching out to me in the darkness, a distraction from the gun burning a hole through my inner jacket pocket, knocking against the metal cross hanging around my neck.

“Good evening, sir,” the stout cook said. “Chef’s special noodles with the lot?”

The cart was set up in the most dangerous part of town; there was no such thing as a good evening. I grumbled some sort of agreement. He gazed lovingly at the swirls of fragrant steam billowing from the bowl before he turned his hypnotic golden eye to me.

“Patience brings joy. Take your time.”

I'm not sure what I ate, I was so enraptured it didn't matter. He had a power to create something so perfect I forgot everything else. It was nothing short of a miracle, or magic; no mere man could create this.

The next night, he was gone. I never thanked the hero who met me at a crossroads and redirected my life with the best meal I will ever eat. I've only heard him referred to as The Golden Chef. I’ve heard stories about him since, he's never where people want him to be, but exactly where he needs to be. I wonder if I was the first?