If I could only have one type of food with me, I would bring soy

Host: The neon lights of the late-night noodle shop buzzed softly, flickering against the glass like lazy fireflies. The air was thick with steam and garlic, the scent of ginger, sesame, and soy wrapping itself around every conversation in the room. Outside, rain fell steadily, tapping against the windows in a slow, rhythmic applause.

Jack and Jeeny sat in a corner booth, a half-eaten bowl of dumplings between them, and two bottles of soy sauce standing like tiny dark pillars of civilization. The clock above the counter ticked toward midnight, indifferent and precise.

Jeeny: “Martin Yan once said, ‘If I could only have one type of food with me, I would bring soy sauce. The reason being that if I have soy sauce, I can flavor a lot of things.’”

Jack: (grinning) “A man who understands the art of survival — and the science of taste.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he understands something deeper. Soy sauce isn’t just flavor — it’s transformation. A few drops, and even the plain becomes meaningful.”

Jack: “That’s life in a bottle, isn’t it? The alchemy of small things. The idea that with the right touch, even blandness can become beauty.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Soy sauce isn’t about extravagance — it’s about possibility.”

Host: The waitress passed by, refilling their tea cups with quiet efficiency. The steam curled up, tracing invisible patterns in the air before vanishing. A soft hum of laughter and clinking chopsticks surrounded them, the background music of midnight humanity.

Jack: “You know, I think what Yan meant isn’t just culinary. He’s talking about adaptability. You don’t need much if you know how to make something out of anything.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Soy sauce is resilience. It’s the immigrant story. It’s the artist’s story. The idea that flavor isn’t given — it’s created.”

Jack: “It’s also a kind of philosophy — that depth comes from fermentation, from time. You can’t rush complexity.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. The umami of patience.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, drumming against the glass in sync with the low jazz tune playing from an old speaker. Jeeny poured a few drops of soy sauce into her bowl of noodles — dark, glossy, fragrant. The color changed immediately, deepened, became something alive.

Jeeny: “You see that? It’s like identity. A little darkness added, and suddenly everything has depth.”

Jack: “You make it sound like soy sauce is a metaphor for the human condition.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. It’s balance — salt and sweetness, bitterness and body. Everything in harmony, nothing erased.”

Jack: “Like people — contradictions that somehow make sense together.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And it’s made from what’s been broken down. That’s the secret. Soy sauce is built on decay — on beans and wheat that have been fermented, transformed. Out of breakdown comes richness.”

Jack: (nodding) “So it’s proof that what spoils can still create flavor.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Like life.”

Host: A soft light reflected off the dark sauce in their bowls — shimmering, alive, as if it held stories.

Jack: “You know, if I had to choose one thing to carry through life, it wouldn’t be money or comfort. It’d be what soy sauce represents — the ability to adapt flavor to circumstance.”

Jeeny: “That’s wisdom. To live as seasoning — not as the meal. To bring meaning without needing to dominate.”

Jack: “But that’s rare. Most people want to be the feast. They want the applause, not the aftertaste.”

Jeeny: “True. But the aftertaste lasts longer. Soy sauce lingers.”

Host: The wind pressed against the glass, shaking the hanging red lanterns outside. The shop felt cocooned — small, safe, full of warmth and salt.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? Soy sauce is ancient — it’s survived centuries, empires, wars. And it’s still universal. No matter where you go — East, West, rich, poor — there’s a bottle of it somewhere, waiting to make something ordinary better.”

Jack: “That’s why I think Yan was secretly talking about philosophy. He’s saying that culture — real culture — is what you can carry with you. What you can use to turn survival into joy.”

Jeeny: “Yes. He’s saying: if you have the essence of who you are, you’ll never starve — not spiritually, not emotionally.”

Jack: “That’s powerful. Soy sauce as soul.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “Exactly. You can lose the kitchen, the recipe, the tradition — but if you remember the taste, you can rebuild everything.”

Host: The last customer at the counter paid and left. The bell above the door jingled, then silence returned — except for the rain and the soft crackle of the kitchen oil.

Jack: “You ever think about how something so simple — just soy, wheat, salt, and time — could hold centuries of humanity? Families, trade, migration, hunger, survival… all distilled into a condiment.”

Jeeny: “That’s what art is too. A reduction. You take pain, memory, history — you boil it down until only the flavor remains.”

Jack: “And people call it taste.”

Jeeny: “But it’s really endurance.”

Host: The clock ticked past midnight. The waitress began wiping tables, humming under her breath. The air had grown cooler, and the steam from their tea cups rose like thin threads of light.

Jack: “You know, I love that about him — Yan. He’s joyful. He’s not talking about desperation or limitation. He’s talking about gratitude — the miracle of enough.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The philosophy of ‘enough’ — that with a few drops of the right thing, you can turn scarcity into abundance.”

Jack: “That’s how faith tastes, doesn’t it? Not grand, but seasoned.”

Jeeny: “Faith with umami.”

Host: They both laughed quietly, the sound mingling with the rain.

Jeeny: “So maybe the real wisdom in that quote is this: You don’t need everything — you just need something that can make everything else matter.”

Jack: “A life with flavor, not luxury.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain slowed to a drizzle, and the reflection of the red lanterns shimmered on the wet pavement outside — like small fires refusing to die.

And in that dim, fragrant room, Martin Yan’s words took on the tone of something deeper than humor — something elemental:

That flavor is not luxury,
but the art of transformation.

That even in simplicity, there can be depth —
in scarcity, creativity —
in fermentation, rebirth.

That a drop of what is essential
can elevate the ordinary,
and that survival, when seasoned with gratitude,
becomes joy.

Host: Jeeny poured the last of the soy sauce into the bowl, swirling it slowly.
Jack raised his chopsticks, smiling faintly.

And as they ate — quiet, content —
the world outside blurred in the rain,
leaving only warmth,
salt,
and the taste of something that had always been enough.