It was a quiet Sunday morning in their small, sun-drenched apartment. The curtains danced gently with the breeze coming through the half-open window. The world outside was still waking up, but inside, Lala’s stomach had already issued a very loud demand.
She was lying flat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket like a sushi roll, when it hit her—an intense craving for instant noodles. Not just any noodles. She wanted Thuy’s noodles. Spicy, savory, a little bit sweet, with perfectly cooked eggs, greens, and that magical swirl of chili oil on top.
Lala groaned dramatically and rolled off the couch. “Thuyyyyyyy,” she whined.
From the kitchen, Thuy peeked around the corner, already holding a cup of tea. “What now?”
“I need… instant noodles,” Lala declared, rubbing her stomach. “Your kind. The special kind.”
Thuy raised an eyebrow. “It’s 8 a.m.”
“Exactly. Breakfast.”
Thuy took a long sip of her tea and stared at Lala. “Did you seriously wake up just to make me cook you noodles?”
“I didn’t wake up to make you cook. I woke up because my stomach had a dream about your noodles,” Lala said, now sitting cross-legged on the couch like a hungry monk. “Please. I’ll do the dishes for two days.”
Thuy smirked. “Three.”
“Fine,” Lala said without hesitation. “I’ll even clean the microwave.”
Now that was serious. The microwave was a place of mysterious splashes and forgotten spills. Thuy couldn’t say no to that.
“Okay, deal,” Thuy said. “But you have to help me prep.”
Lala leapt up. “Yes, Chef!”
In their tiny kitchen, the two friends began the morning ritual of what they called “gourmet instant noodles.” It was a tradition they had started back in university, when money was tight but their imaginations were rich. Over time, it evolved into something much more than just boiling water and tossing in a seasoning packet.
Thuy opened the cabinet and pulled out two packs of instant ramen. “Mì Hảo Hảo or Shin Ramyun?
Lala didn’t even hesitate. “Hảo Hảo. Spicy shrimp forever.”
Thuy nodded and began boiling water in their battered little pot. Meanwhile, Lala washed some bok choy and cracked two eggs into a bowl, mixing them gently.
“I’m gonna add sesame oil this time,” Thuy said, fishing it from the back of the spice rack. “And maybe some fried garlic.”
Lala’s eyes lit up. “Yesss. Make it fancy.”
Thuy grinned. “You mean, make it legendary.”
They worked in rhythm, moving around each other in the narrow kitchen like dancers in a noodle-themed ballet. The scent of garlic hit first, followed by the sharp tang of chili paste, and then the umami promise of shrimp broth powder.
By the time the noodles were cooked, the kitchen smelled like heaven, or at least like the corner noodle shop in Saigon that Thuy often reminisced about. She carefully layered the noodles into two bowls, poured over the broth, dropped in the soft eggs, and topped everything with bok choy, sesame oil, garlic, and a sprinkle of crushed peanuts.
“Ta-da,” Thuy said proudly. “Breakfast is served.”
They sat at the small table by the window, sunlight spilling over their bowls like golden syrup.
Lala took one bite and let out a dramatic sigh. “This… this is art. This is love. This is why I keep you around.”
Thuy laughed. “You mean the only reason?”
“Well, that and your sparkling personality,” Lala winked.
For a few quiet minutes, the only sound was the slurp of noodles and the occasional happy hum from Lala. It was one of those perfect, ordinary mornings that you remember later—not because anything big happened, but because of how good it felt just to be there, eating noodles with someone who knew exactly how you liked them.
Halfway through her bowl, Lala looked up and said, “Do you think other people know how good noodles can be? Like, do they really know?”
Thuy shrugged. “Probably not. Unless they have someone who makes it special.”
Lala smiled at that. “You should open a noodle shop one day.”
“Nah,” Thuy said, scooping up some egg. “Then you’d expect free noodles all the time.”
“Exactly,” Lala said with a grin. “Friends with noodle benefits.”
They both cracked up at the same time, noodles nearly flying out of their mouths. After the laughter died down, Lala leaned back in her chair, content.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “every time you make me noodles, it reminds me that happiness doesn’t have to be complicated.”
Thuy looked at her and nodded slowly. “It’s true. Sometimes it’s just broth, noodles, and a good friend.”
“And sesame oil,” Lala added.
“Obviously.”
Later, after the bowls were empty and the dishes piled in the sink (waiting for Lala to make good on her promise), they curled up on the couch, still wrapped in the warmth of their noodle morning.
Outside, the city had come alive, but inside, everything was still soft and slow. There would be other meals, other days, but this one—this silly, flavorful, cozy morning—would stay in their hearts a little longer than most.
And just before she dozed off into a light nap, Lala mumbled, “Next time, I’m craving pho.”
From the kitchen, Thuy called back, “You better be ready to chop onions!”
