Years ago, I read a brief mention in a newspaper about a noodle stand whose unprecedented popularity was eventually revealed as due to the addition of opium to its recipes. Remembering that is causing me to wonder about a certain restaurant in town, whose phở I crave. I want some right now, but the place is 30 miles away from me, and the odds are not good that any will magically appear. Is there opium in them noodles? I want to know. Wait: I do not want to know. I just want more phở.

My friend Becky and I were overdue to get together, and so following a flurry of text messages, I called her up and shared the siren call of the phở. �And we could get mai tais,� I added. The mai tais at this particular place come in a pint glass, adorned with a festival of cut fruit.

When I arrived, bundled against the cold in a coat and scarf and a pair of tights whose elastic waist had given up the ghost, I found Becky seated at the bar, in pigtails, wearing black and a long necklace of white shells, for maximum tropical allure. Beside her were two mai tais, one for each of us, and an oblong present wrapped in a navy blue satin ribbon and an indeterminate sequined patch about seven inches square. At that moment, I realized I�d forgotten to bring the presents I had for her, despite putting them next to the door so I�d be sure to remember them. The call of the phở had obliterated all but its own sweet allure.

My presents came packed in a whimsical fabric case advertising fruit cocktail (�It�s so fun!!� read the text beside a trio of cartoon fruits.) Inside was a set of Mr. Sketch scented markers, which Becky and I had to open and smell. Also, Becky had made little thumbtacks, each topped with a picture of a vampy lady�perfect for my office--and packaged in a neat glass-topped tin. �Bonus points for presentation!� she pointed out, and I agreed, between sips of delicious noodles and broth. The sparkly item turned out to be a magnificent patch in the shape of a pony�s head, with what appeared to be emerald-green bangs, and some loose foliage emanating from his mouth. He had a bridle, which seemed to avoid his mouth completely, and attach somewhere under his chin �It must be bolted directly to his jaw,� I surmised. Two knitted finger puppets followed, one appearing to be a burglar or superhero in a mask and cape, one in a long robe and turban. Accompanying them was a tiny beaded electric guitar. There ensued some mighty puppet rocking, there in the light of the candle!

Becky picked up the check, kind-hearted as she is, and although the restaurant is charming and has a blazing gas fireplace and a cheerful luau theme, we opted to head next door, avoiding the drum circle performing onstage in the back room. Becky watched it while I was in the ladies� room. �It�s strangely mesmerizing,� she noted. �You not stay for the music?� asked the restaurant�s owner, rushing by on her way from the kitchen. She always asks that, every time I go, and I always tell her what I said this time, which was, �Next time.�

A band was advertised at the place next door, but we arrived to find the room nearly empty except for a thick cloud of smoke, emanating from the tight knot of drinkers at the bar. Becky hesitated at the threshold, and we peeked inside, suddenly scared. Our eyes met, and thus emboldened, we entered and selected a booth, upholstered in tufted red vinyl (like all good booths).

We sat and talked, waiting for the band to come on. I brought Becky a Bud Light, given to me by mistake. �Does someone think I need to lose weight?!� she asked, giving me the suspicious eye, which I denied. The puppets rocked their beaded electric guitar, and danced atop the table to the music from the jukebox: John Mellencamp, Led Zeppelin, the Stones.

At last, the band loaded in, and began their set. Their first number was a spoken acknowledgement of the attractiveness of the audience, which included the assessment that most of the crowd was from out of town. Becky and I exchanged a glance and stilled our finger puppets. Next came a barrage of slap-bass that led us to the understanding that we were about to witness a Red Hot Chili Peppers cover band. Or tribute band. I am never really clear on the difference, and largely I don�t care. The band�s name, �Mild Green Pepperoncinis,� which when Becky had read it to me over the phone, made no sense, suddenly became clear.

The back door to the parking lot was open, and after stashing my finger puppets, we headed out into a light rain, past a deserted restaurant, and a stand of exuberant trees trimmed into lollipop shapes, silhouetted against a painted brick wall. We stopped to consider the trees for a moment, and I walked Becky to her car, feeling my tights edge slowly down my legs.

I jaywalked across the street to my car, waving goodbye as Becky pulled away into the night, only then remembering that I�d forgotten to get the book she�d offered to lend me. It�s called �Stiff,� and it�s the story of what happens to bodies donated to science. I am dying to read it. Not literally.

Star of the day. . .Boaty Boatwright