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He shrugs. “Luck, I guess.”
My expression drops. “No way.”
“Followed the trail of your alluring perfume?” he tries.
I give him a bitchy look.
“Okay, I stepped out after you rushed out, then watched you bunny-hop across the parking lot and down the street.”
He gestures to the elderly owner. “Hot and Sour soup for me, please, Mr. Nguyen. And maybe some more tea for this little bunny.”
The owner waves. “Sure, Mr. Derek. Where you been?”
“Out of town. But I’m here a while.”
“Good, good,” Mr. Nguyen says.
His wife pokes her head out from the swinging door into the kitchen.
“Mr. Derek! Hello! We didn’t see you for a long time!”
He waves. “How’s the most beautiful lady and best cook in the world?”
She smiles wide and waves at him like he’s a naughty boy before disappearing back into the kitchen.
Derek turns his gaze back to me.
“You’re a regular here?” I ask.
“Oh yeah,” Derek says, leaning back in his chair. “First sign of a tickle in the throat in my family, someone’s comin’ over here to pick up soup.”
I’m surprised.
It’s a little independent donut shop. The décor is still circa 1980-something, but it’s famous among the locals. You get house-made-from-scratch soups for cheap from the sweet, elderly Asian couple who get wounded if you go too long between visits. When me and Alannah moved to Columbus for college we practically lived on this soup. It suited our broke college girl budget quite well. And I could swear the Nguyens put extra wontons in it for us.
When I came in a while back (after not coming for three or four months) they laid grandparent-like guilt on me. When I told them why I hadn’t been by, they reacted as if they knew Adam themselves even though they’ve never met him. They sent me home with two family-sized containers of won ton soup.
Adam wasn’t in the headspace to find the gesture as sweet as he normally would. Since he isn’t much of an Asian soup person, I froze the soups in individual serving sizes and had them twice a week for several weeks.
“You grow up on this stuff, too?” Derek asks.
I shake my head. “Moved here for college from Dayton with my best friend Alannah, who works upstairs from your club in the offices. We decided to stay. Got hooked on this place back then and still come as often as we can.”
“What’s your favorite?” Derek asks. “That one?”
“Definitely.”
His mouth splits into a wide smile.
“What about your favorite donut?” he asks.
“Hm?” I ask, eyes on his smiling mouth.
“You save room for dessert?” His head tips toward the counter. “You should. If you get too full on that soup, get something for later.”
This is technically a coffee shop and is known for not just the soup, but also for their donuts and pastries which are still made from scratch.
“I always take a chocolate éclair to go. When I’m lucky enough to get here before they run out, of course,” I tell him. “They’re out today so I’m trying to decide between a powdered jelly donut and a sour cream dipped.”
