Ground spice makes everything nice. There is something inherently more satisfying about munching on a snack bought at a roadside stall than wining and dining in a four-star restaurant whose bill would rival the down payment you made on your car. More often than not, the roadside stall you’ve stopped at is a mom-and-pop joint, owned by a grandmotherly matriarch or cantankerous old man who has manned the store for longer than you have been alive. S/he has his or her hands on everything, from the recipes used to the cutlery served (or lack thereof) to which frying pan the cook is supposed to use. Most of the time, the owner is even there too, fixing his or her one good eye on you as s/he rings up your order.
You watch the entire cooking process from your rickety bench or stool. You see every ingredient the cook throws into the fire that will eventually appear in your meal, on your questionably washed plate. When you take that initial bite, you taste the road it was made on, the hands that have shaped it, the history of the dish’s conception. You taste an experience. You taste a life.
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