The crooner and his aide.

We begged and pleaded. Finally he relented. "But you will have to wait for forty five minutes," he thundered. We burst into a toothy grin. We would wait. He lumbered up a wooden staircase and disappeared.It was well past the time for the last order. The smell of vinegar pierced through the warm night air.
A lone couple sat on the corner table, their heads hung in silent meditation over a bowl of noodles. A gentle drone of the electric fan was the only musical accompaniment to the occassional clatter of the cutlery. Vhiner set his lips in a pout. He wanted to go to the outlet of mass manufactured sandwiches, across the street. Papayaflakes had raised her eyebrows in exasperated impatience. She didn't have patience with food or people. Now, she dropped a fork only to stir up the silence.
A short pudgy man suddenly popped up from behind the rather tall counter. He looked around the small restaurant, alarmed. His pixie like ears had tweeked up in fearful anxiety. Seeing us, he recovered. Longlashes flashed him a dramatically heartfelt smile. "We'll get our food faster" she whispered through her teeth.He disappeared behind the counter once again. We turned our backs and resumed our wait.
A few moments later a voice boomed cheerfully from behind the counter, "you like Elvis?" He waved out a couple of cds in one hand and a mike in the other. "YES!" we almost answered in unison.He was elated.
He whisked out his mike and switched on his jukebox. For the next thirty minutes he seranaded us with Elvis' soleful melodies. When Michael, our grumpy waiter finally returned, he too was smiling, a heap of momos stacked up on the plate in his hand. Michael and his boss, the man behind the counter, loved Elvis.
The steaming momos he served us, were soft and delicious.

Everytime a vinegary pungent smell wafts through the air and Elvis croones "Falling in love with you" I fondly remember Michael and his boss. And of course the momos.