He was always there, in the alley sandwiched between two monolithic towers. He may have been out of place, selling poor man's grub uptown, but he was happy there. Even with the trash everywhere and the cat that begs food from him. He was happy, and fulfilled with his job.

Everyday, without fail, he would hike from his home to his friend in the nearby Chinatown. They would laugh over a bowl of Pansit Canton, gulping down glasses of cold tea all the while, then trade over some money for a packet of still-frozen fishballs. Then, they would laugh some more, foot the bill, and leave, each going their separate ways.

The happy vendor, fulfilled after his early breakfast, would get to work once he reached his abode. Thawing the fishballs was an easy thing, and he could even do it on the run. He checked his inventory: his barbecue sticks, the trashcan attached to his bike, and even the fryer, to see if it was still in good condition.

Fulfilled, he would then start up his motorbike, and leave for the financial district.

From all his time there, he developed a way to stay in his one area, instead of being shooed away by the security guards, going to different places like a pesky fly. 

He had a loyal customer base! He knew what he was doing.

The vendor started to work, heating up the oil, and checking on the state of his (now thawed) fishballs. He then started skewering the fishballs, and tossing them into the heated oil. The smell of frying oil and starch wafted into the air, making the vendor smile at the sheer joy of being able to cook simple pleasures.

He pulled one stick out, marvelling at the golden sheen of fishballs fried to perfection, droplets of oil slowly sliding down to the bottom. The vendor could picture it now: the soft springiness of the fishball, combined with the crunch of the outer layer. And the soft, almost creamy fish taste, filling your mouth all the while.

Of all his years selling street food in the urban areas of the Philippines, the vendor had always held his products with the utmost reverence, handling his goods like a gardener takes care of his plants. He only made the most perfect epitome of the products, to make sure his customers would, at the very least, satisfy their taste of home.

The vendor looked up at the sound of a light pitter-patter of rain on his affixed umbrella. The rainy season was here, and in Manila, that meant it was going to be a rain worthy of Noah's Ark.

He quickly went to work: putting up small plastic awnings in front of his bike, and covering up his selection of sauces. The rain was a mighty force of nature, but the human survival instinct trumps all.

Time passed, and the vendor managed to sell his stock. To hungry businessmen, to some adventurous kids, and to some security guards who wanted a quick snack before coming back to the job. They all braved the rain and the puddles just to take a snack, and to the vendor, that meant a lot. 

And after the afternoon rush out of the offices, the workers unhampered by the downpour, the vendor looked reflectively at the puddles around him. It was a common habit of his, to look somewhere and just … rest. 

Rest from the long day. Rest from the razor-sharp hustle and bustle of the city. Rest from life, and everything else in-between. 

He was gently awoken from his "rest" by another lady, a customer. He didn't waste time frying one more stick of fishballs, and handing it over to the missus. After all, efficiency was something he prided himself on.

As the vendor watched the lady douse her purchase in chili sauce, sour sauce, and sweet sauce, he couldn't help but feel … rewarded somehow. That he felt good, serving his wares to people and comfort them. 

She finally bit into the fishballs, and the vendor could picture everything going on inside. The smooth taste of the fish, the mixture of the sauces adding to the golden brown crunch of the outer surface.

And the taste of home, permeating not just the mouth, but the soul.

The vendor was happy.