My stomach rumbled as the steam of the momos made way from the food cart into my nose. My eyes, however, were fixed at the hot samosas, still exuding wisps of smoke. Right beside the samosas were crusty smashed potatoes, sloshed with yogurt, and stirred with chilly. The shopkeeper lifted the lid of the steamer and steam of thick cloud belched.

I was seated on an unsteady chair, and my saliva was welling in my throat. When the momos were brought to us, they were fuming. With a fork, I drove it into the heart of a momo and then proceeded to dip it in a sauce before putting it in my mouth.

“Remarkably delicious,” said my friend.

My senses were still numb because of the hot steam trapped inside the momo had burst inside my mouth. 
“Yes, sure are,” I replied. 

On another bite of the momo, I tasted vegetable inside. 

From across the vegetable market, I saw a little boy staring at the momos. As our eyes met, he hastily looked away. I lifted my arm to summon him, but he fled pulling his mother’s arm. 

I then picked up the crusty samosa, my hands became suddenly greasy. I turned towards my friend. One thing led to another, and we were holding chicken rolls wrapped in greasy paper. Carefully, I tore the wrapper and bit the thick chicken roll. The meat exploded in my mouth, and as I pushed it down my throat.

Finally, we threw away the plates in the waste paper basket. We stood from our seats, and paid the shopkeeper. My friend straightened the bicycle that was leaning on the wall, and we drew away. We went pedaling down the steep road, tearing through the menacing wind.