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During my two year stint in a bustling metropolis in the Western mountains of China, I found a place to go when I felt sad or lonely. It was a small Lanzhou noodle shop near the main gate of my school. The Lanzhourens are particularly famous for their pulled noodles, and this place is no exception. I accompanied my students there the first time. A couple weeks later I made my way there alone, and they surprised me by remembering who I was before I even opened my mouth. The same students took me there a few more times, and every time I was impressed. It's the only place I've ever been where the servers and even the owner will come sit across the table and chat while I wait for my food, or while I'm eating. The noodle boy was a particular favorite of mine, as he would take every opportunity he could to sneak away from his noodle pulling post to sit with me. Sometimes he just flashes his big innocent smile and watches me self-consciously pick at my noodles, all the while racking his brain for something to say. They speak standard putonghua, unlike most restaurateurs here, because, like me, they're not from around here. It's wonderful to be able to understand them, and they listen to my halting, butchered version of their language with good humor.

On a night when I was feeling low, I made my way to their place to warm myself with a bowl of spicy, braised beef noodles. That night, they all came into the enclosed area where I was slowly savoring my bowl of noodles. They settled down to eat their own dinner, but not before insisting that I try some of it as well. Over my mild protests the boss's wife set a bowl down in front of me. I relaxed into the comfortable atmosphere of family that permeated the tiny room. The young boss, a good-natured man with a big belly and a rumbling laugh, sat next to his pretty wife and his little sister who bore a striking resemblance to him. They wore scarves on their heads, covering their hair, indicating their Muslim faith. Just as the two young server-busboys-dishwashers who now sat across from me wore small, round white caps with simple embroidered trims around the edges. As I sat there basking in the warmth of their camaraderie, they teased one another about what kind of action heroes they would be if cast in a martial arts film (think Stephen Chow). "You would be the Noodle Master!" the tall, skinny boy exclaimed breathlessly. "And you would be the Dish Washing Master!" retorted the other. He then turned to me and confided, "He," pointing to the tall, skinny one, "can wash two bowls with one hand tied behind his back before you could finish washing one with both hands!" This thought amused me and made me wonder at how clean my bowl was. I was quickly distracted from thoughts of sanitation though when the two boys became very animated and declared, "And the boss is the Money Counting Master!" And the two began pantomiming the boss counting imaginary money furiously between their fingers as they fell into fits of laughter. The boss grinned widely and feigned abashment, but I could see from the twinkle in his eyes that he was proud of the success of their little shop. I engaged in their company for a while longer until new guests arrived and they were forced to return to their duties. When I left, the boss refused to take my money, as did the rest of them when I turned helplessly from one to the other insisting that I pay. At last I conceded and headed back, looking back as I made my way down the sidewalk, to wave a few more goodbyes. What they gave me that evening was worth so much more than a bowl of noodles. For a couple of hours it was home.