It’s pouring rain again in Taipei. Not a run-of-the-mill drizzle, or even a strong thunderstorm. Sheaves of water heave and ho before my eyes—bristles that slash with the fury of an angry painter.

Although I am tucked safely away under an eave, I can feel the pounding of the rain on the pavement; it strikes with such force that the residual drops hit me like little needles stabbing at my skin, and the blaring neon signs just across the street are turned into fuzzy halos of red and blue. Thank God I wore flip-flops.

Nobody will be going anywhere any time soon, so I figure it’s the perfect time to eat. Under the dry awning of the restaurant, ponchos come off, umbrellas are shaken of excess water, and hats are wrung out as my eating companions arrive, and we finally sit down atop plastic stools at the undecorated wooden table. I pick up the plastic clipboard from the table, and stare at the rows of delectable choices on the menu.