I venture behind the heavy plastic curtain indicated by the cabby and am shouted at by a small, irate Chinese lady chopping a mountain of cabbages.
Back to the map.Forty minutes later I reach the Vietnamese restaurant where I’m supposed to have lunch, flustered and parched.
I’m handed an iced coffee in a bucket-sized cup. I’ve had iced coffee before. I make my own iced coffee, carefully balancing coffee strength with milkiness, so this is no big deal.But then I taste it: cold, strong and childishly sweet.
I fall instantly in love.When I get home I check recipes – they’re barely recipes, just coffee and sweetened condensed milk in specific proportions – and become an addict.
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