Chapter 1: Noelle 1 Noelle
Sometimes I feel like a poorly planned design project, the sort cobbled together by engineering students pulling an all-nighter, possibly held in place by the miracle of duct tape. It might work under very specific conditions, but it could be knocked over by a stiff breeze.

Except in my case, I’m held together by routine and caffeine. Although I might seem calm on the outside, I have a sneaking suspicion that I can’t deal with anything approaching an emergency, or even a minor surprise.

I take another sip of my tea and stare at the computer. I should do some work so I can get out of the office at a half-decent time, rather than ruminating on the state of my life.

“Last one here again?” Fernando asks as he heads to the door at six.

I paste on a smile. “Yep. Just want to get this proposal finished.” Then I’ll read through it over the weekend, and it’ll be ready to go out on Monday.

“Don’t stay too late. It’s Friday, after all.”

“I’ll be done soon.”

That’s a lie. I’ve got at least another hour of work to do on this proposal, since Tyler did a piss-poor job. That man is the bane of my existence. I was supposed to just look over his work, but I’ve had to rewrite much of what I’ve read so far. As usual.

I reach the “Cost” section and find only blank space under the heading. Since I’m alone in the office, I release a little howl of frustration, then get on with what I do best: keeping my head down and doing the work. It’ll pay off eventually.

Tyler waltzed out of here at four thirty, but I don’t leave Woods & Olson Engineering until after seven. As I pack up my laptop and lock the door behind me, I realize I haven’t eaten since lunch. I stuff my hand into my bag and come up with two mints and a granola bar wrapper that I forgot to throw in the trash. Hmph. The Jamaican patty place near the office is closed, and I don’t feel like delaying my trip home any longer—I want to put on my pajamas and turn on the TV—so I head to the nearest TTC station and get on the subway.

My stomach, however, keeps growling, which I don’t understand. It’s used to me forgetting to eat, and it’s usually better behaved than this. But today, I’m so hungry I can barely pay attention to a podcast. I take out my earbuds with a sigh. My usual routine is to go right home after work, but maybe I can do something different for once. There’s a night market this weekend, not far from the station before mine—I saw signs for it earlier. Yes, I’ll do something fun on a Friday for once. By myself, but still.

Unfortunately, the thought of what food I might find there makes my stomach growl even louder, but at least I have a plan.

My friend Veronica—I really should text her—used to talk about the night markets she’d visited on her trips to Seoul and Singapore, but I’ve never left North America. This market in the north part of Toronto won’t be like those, but surely they’ll have something good.

When I get to Mel Lastman Square, the place is crowded with booths and people and mouthwatering fragrances. The first booth I examine is selling upscale bánh mì for prices that make me clutch my wallet. The second has a selection of ube treats, the purple hue particularly tempting, but I need something other than sugar. I get jostled while trying to read the menu for the third booth, which has a long line—too long for my hungry stomach.

Before I turn up the next row, I see someone wearing a Pocky box costume, then a young man and woman feeding each other satay sticks. She holds one up to his mouth, and he nibbles off a piece of meat before she tries it herself. A young kid bumps into her, but she doesn’t notice. They’re off in their little love bubble.

I roll my eyes and continue. I see booths selling noodles, samosas, mochi… all with several people out front. Then I come to a booth that has no customers and no sign. There’s only one woman working here, and she looks old enough to be my grandmother. On a piece of white printer paper, a menu is scribbled in blue ballpoint pen.

Dumplings: $5

No explanation of what kind of dumplings are on offer. It doesn’t fit with the rest of the businesses here, which all have nice, clear signage. But dumplings do sound good, there’s no line, and it’s not expensive, though how many I’ll get for the price, I don’t know. I step closer to the booth, and the woman says something to me in Mandarin, I think.

Before I can explain that I don’t speak it, she switches to English. “You want dumplings? They give you what you need most.”

Well, what I need most is food to ease my hunger, so yes, they should do the trick.

“What kind?” I ask.

“Anything you don’t eat?”

I shake my head.

“I choose for you.” She taps her temple before pointing to a sheet of paper that says “Cash Only.”

That’s probably another reason the booth isn’t busy: a lot of people don’t carry cash anymore, but I always do. I pull out some money and hand it over.

“You come back in fifteen minutes, yes?”

My eyes widen. Fifteen minutes might as well be an hour to my stomach. There are boiled dumplings in a metal tray—why can’t I have some of those?

“You don’t need to cook them fresh,” I say.

She clucks her tongue. “Trust me. Better this way.”

Since she seems so insistent, I nod.

I walk around the rest of the night market, in a bit of a daze because I’m so ravenous. I’m also thirsty, so I buy some calamansi iced tea. I’ve drunk most of it by the time I return to the dumpling booth, which is still empty. The elderly woman is bent over, scooping some pan-fried dumplings into a paper food tray. Her hand shakes slightly. After giving me the food, she gestures to the soy sauce and vinegar jars. I help myself and grab some chopsticks.

“Thank you,” I say.

I swear I can feel her watching me as I seek out a place to eat. Since the nearby benches are full, I simply stand at the end of a row of booths.

At the first bite of dumpling, I groan. Oh my god, that was definitely worth the wait. Juicy pork and vegetables… and something else that I can’t pinpoint. It’s a little different from any dumpling I’ve had before—and I’ve had a lot of dumplings. If I weren’t so hungry, I’d try to figure it out.

I pick up the second dumpling with my chopsticks, and it’s somehow even better than the first. Or maybe I’m just better able to appreciate it because I’m not quite as famished now.

By the time I get to the sixth dumpling, my pace has slowed, and I’m taking my time to appreciate how good these dumplings are. I’m also eyeing the food that the other market-goers are carrying. I see ice cream, donuts… and that same young couple again, sharing a cup with alternating white and green layers. Matcha tiramisu?

After finishing my dumplings, I discard the tray in the overflowing trash bin and continue walking around the market. I’m feeling too stingy for some picture-perfect cupcakes, but I happen upon a small stall selling flavored pandesal and decide one of those would be an appropriate, not-too-extravagant treat. I also happen upon, miracle of miracles, a half-empty bench. A man and a toddler are sitting on one end, but the other half is open.

After taking a seat, I bite into my ube halaya pandesal. It’s fluffy and buttery and even better than I expected. I close my eyes and savor it, then debate whether to get another one for breakfast tomorrow, eventually deciding that I should. I wince a little as I hand over some coins in exchange for a second pandesal, but it smells heavenly. I pack the bag into my purse, careful not to crush it.

Today is the longest day of the year, the summer solstice, and as dusk finally falls on the market, there’s an almost magical quality to it. The lights, the faint music, the crowds enjoying their food. The scent of grilled meat and fried food is nearly enough to make me hungry again, even if my stomach is pleasantly full. As I wind my way to the subway station, I pass the dumpling lady. She smiles at me and I smile back. Still no customers at the booth, which is curious, even if it’s cash only and the signage leaves a little to be desired.

By the time I get off the bus, it’s almost ten. I begin the short walk home, and when I see a car whose bumper is precariously held together by duct tape, I chuckle. I wonder how long that will last.

Back at my apartment, I pack the pandesal into a container, take off my work clothes, have a shower, and flop into bed. Another long day at the office, though at least I did something to celebrate the fact that it’s Friday, and tomorrow, I can sleep in. Then I’ll spend a couple of hours on that proposal, buy some groceries, call my parents…

My list of things to do running through my head, I fall asleep.