The street toward the temple was packed.
Cars pushed through gaps between pedestrians while storefront speakers blasted the same electronic beat. Vendors stepped into the crowd holding up wool hats, silk scarves, and imitation electronics.
“Hello! Look!”
“Good price!”
“Come see!”
The voices disappeared beneath the music.
Then I smelled something cooking.
A man stood behind a steel griddle balanced across two folding tables. Crates of eggs sat beneath him. Scallions spilled from a plastic basket. Finished pancakes disappeared into paper wrappers as quickly as he could make them.
“Four!”
“Six!”
“Eight!”
People paid and carried them away steaming.
We joined the line.
The man ahead of us looked back at Dani, then at me. He smiled and waved us forward.
The cook poured batter onto the griddle.
It spread into a thin circle.
He scattered scallions across it, cracked an egg into the middle, then laid down crisp lettuce, fried dough, and a handful of crunchy pork rinds.
The edges browned.
He folded one side over the other, tucked in the filling, and wrapped the whole thing in paper.
Next.
Another circle of batter.
Another egg.
I watched him work.
When ours appeared, I grabbed it before the steam had stopped escaping.
I bit down.
The roof of my mouth burned.
I kept eating.