I don't know what I was expecting, but it was definitely not this.
Kastiel didn't look like someone who would eat at a place like this. He looked like he belonged in silent, velvet-draped rooms where food was presented as art on oversized plates. Not at a cramped, steam-filled noodle stand tucked between a laundromat and a closed-down newsagent, its plastic sign glowing with a buzzing, neon chopstick.
But here he was, completely at ease, greeting the elderly beta woman behind the counter like an old regular. The air was thick with the mouthwateringscents of garlic, chili oil, and rich, simmering broth.
He placed our order in fluent, unaccented Mandarin something else that surprised me and then guided us to a small, wobbly metal table with two mismatched stools. He didn't even wipe his seat. He just sat, his long coat falling around him, looking utterly out of place and yet completely in command of the situation.
