A lacquered box of careful partitions.
Each compartment a small meditation —
rice pressed just so, plum at center
like a sun in a white sky.
A croque at the zinc, a half-glass of red.
The newspaper folded to the crossword.
Noon passes slowly here, measured
in crumbs and small sips.
Chilaquiles dissolving in green salsa,
the plate a painted circle from Oaxaca.
Every lunch here is an argument
between crunch and surrender.
A steel cosmos of small bowls,
each one a different weather —
the storm of dal, the calm of curd,
roti tearing like a coastline.
Steel box, shaken before opening —
rice and kimchi and japchae
all tumbled together, the flavors
arguing their way to harmony.
Every culture answers the same question differently:
what shall we eat at noon?