I giggle again. Not my best moment, drinking the broth from a giant bowl I could barely lift in the first place and breathing laugh bubbles into it. I have to manoeuvre the noodles and tofu around to one side of my mouth to talk without looking like more of a pig. “I can still understand you, sorry,” I say in Japanese. The fish man gasps. “What? I’m not deaf.”

The fox man laughs harder than ever. “She’s got you, fat man! Look at her food — what did you expect? She’s one of us, all right. Another hard worker, trying to make it in the World, eh? Can’t judge books by their covers anymore!”

“Well —” the man sputters, angry now. “Well — my point is, why does she get a special dish?!”

The fox man shakes his head at him, laughing. Anyone can tell that was not the fishy man’s real question. “Baku dish for baku customer!” I hear him say, puffing up his chest proudly. “Can’t be helped! Ne?” He winks at me again. “You want more, don’t you? No need to ask, it’s coming right up!”

I grin. Turns out this guy is pretty cool; I can see myself dining at this little truck every day after work. The radio changes from a chorus of men to two girls, singing about dreams. This place is so cozy, and the food is great. I may never have to worry about feeding myself again. Hang on, I find myself mulling over his words. Special dish, special customer … special? No, that’s not what he said.

“Excuse me, uncle,” I ask in Japanese. “What does ‘baku’ mean?”

“Eh?” he drops my chopsticks on their way to a tiny sink. “What’s that?”

“What does ‘baku’ mean?” I repeat. “Is it like ‘tokubetsu’?”

“Uh, yeah! Special! You …” he spreads his arms wide. “Are special! Here!” He rummages with something in a hidden fridge below the counter, grabs a tiny plate from somewhere else. A few quick movements and there’s a gorgeous cherry blossom cake on a lacquered plate in front of me. “Special dessert, too. Muryou. Free, free!”

“Oh, come on, now you’re just sucking up to her! That’s not FAIR,” the fish man bangs his fist on the counter.

“Calm down, fugu man,” says a familiar voice behind me. “You’re just jealous.”

“Ah!” the fox man lights up at the arrival of a third person. “Another ‘special’ customer! Welcome, welcome!” He gestures to the remaining stool next to me.

The fish man slumps back onto his two stools, jowls quaking with fear. I find myself shivering a little, too, and it’s not from the temperature dropping outside our little space. The scent of peach hits me.

“You!” he gurgles. “I know you! You’re the one who works for …”