仁波切用一只手托着额头，另一只手还在盘子里忙。盘子是绿的，桌边放着一只大塑料水瓶，瓶口也有绿色的提环。背后的瓷砖画满蓝色圆圈，一个挨一个。

他穿着黄色背心，额上留着一抹红。抬起眼睛看一看，低下头，又送一口到嘴里。原先托着额头的手抬起了一点，仍停在头边。

一顿便宜饭，吃得他十分满意。

价钱便宜，赞词却一点也不节省。wahhhhh，sooooo goooooood。几个字母挤在一起，像是好味道还没过去，那个“好”字也不肯收口。

这样长的一个“好”字，给一顿便宜饭，也不觉得多。

手上的一口先吃下去。

吃到偏爱的东西，连脸也要帮忙。一小包绿叶子捏在手里，仁波切张开嘴，一只眼睛挤紧，另一只朝上望着。还没有送进去，脸上的准备已经很充分。

槟榔。他索性给它一个很大的名次：全世界最好吃的东西。

说起它的来历，他也颇为得意：五千年的食物，这才像话。依他的说法，年纪很大了；拿在手里，仍是一口大小的绿叶包。

这份偏爱，连皱巴巴的包装纸也遮不住。金色纸上印着“青果庄园”，槟榔已经拆开。他只说Unique，又添上Must eat。东西怎么样，意思都交代了。

夸一顿便宜饭，那个“好”字能拖得老长；这句Must eat却很短，像朝人招了一下手。

到了洛杉矶，照样有不丹饭菜摆上桌。白米饭盛在镶边的大盘里，小碗上的花是红的。青辣椒伸在浅色的汤汁中，旁边的菜碗满满当当，一只挨着一只。

Good old Bhutanese food。叫得这样亲热，远在洛杉矶的这顿饭，也有了重逢的意思。

熟悉的饭菜，满满地摆了一桌。

自己吃得津津有味，也关心别人的饭。灰墙的棚子里，牛把头低向地上的桶，驴站在一旁，长耳朵竖着。光从门口进来，照到它们脚边。

也许在等饭，他猜。

两头牲口都拴着绳，桶就在脚边。究竟等什么，他没有说定；先替它们想到了饭。

说起饭，他还惦记着一些小小的帮手。花上的蜂沾了满身黄粉，连脸上也有，眼睛泛着蓝紫的光。他把长寿的祝愿送给了它们。

愿你们都活得长久。他说，没有你们，我们就没有饭吃。

这句谢谢，说得像在招呼帮过忙的熟人。

一口饭好吃，他肯把赞叹拖得很长；说起谁帮忙让我们有饭吃，他又把谢意送到了花上。

这些小帮手，也请好好活着。

Rinpoche supports his forehead with one hand. The other is still busy in his plate. The plate is green. A large plastic water bottle stands at the edge of the table, with a green carrying ring at its neck. Blue circles cover the tiles behind him, one beside another.

He wears a yellow sleeveless top, with a red mark on his forehead. He looks up for a moment, lowers his head, and brings another mouthful to his lips. The hand that supported his forehead lifts a little and stays beside his head.

An inexpensive meal, and a very satisfying one.

The price is modest. The praise is anything but: “wahhhhh”, “sooooo goooooood”. The letters crowd together, as though the good taste has not quite passed and the word is reluctant to end.

All that praise for an inexpensive meal, and none of it seems excessive.

First, the mouthful in his hand.

A particular favorite calls for some help from the face. Holding a small green parcel, Rinpoche opens his mouth, squeezes one eye shut and looks upward with the other. The parcel has not gone in yet. His face is already well prepared.

Betel. He gives it a large distinction: “the best food in whole wide world”.

He is pleased with its pedigree, too: five-thousand-year-old food, now we are talking. The age he gives it is considerable. In the hand, it is still only a bite-sized parcel of green leaves.

Not even a crumpled wrapper can dim that affection. The gold paper carries the name Qingguo Zhuangyuan; the betel has been unwrapped. He says “Unique”, then adds “Must eat”. His opinion is quite clear.

Praise for an inexpensive meal can stretch on and on. This “Must eat” is brief, almost a beckoning hand.

In Los Angeles, there is Bhutanese food on the table just the same. White rice sits on a large bordered plate. The flowers on the smaller bowls are red. Green chilies lie in a pale sauce; the dishes alongside are full, bowl close to bowl.

“Good old Bhutanese food”. With a greeting as fond as that, a meal far away in Los Angeles has something of a reunion about it.

The table is full of familiar food.

He enjoys his own meal, and takes an interest in other diners. In a shed with gray walls, a buffalo lowers its head toward a bucket on the floor. A donkey stands nearby, its long ears raised. Light comes through the doorway and reaches the ground beside them.

Perhaps they are waiting for food, he guesses.

Both animals are tethered, the bucket near their feet. He does not settle what they are waiting for. Food is his first suggestion.

And then there are the small helpers he remembers when he speaks of food. A bee on a flower is covered with yellow pollen, right up to its face; its eye has a blue-violet sheen. To the bees, he sends a wish for long life.

May they all live long. Without them, he says, there will be no food for us.

The thanks have the warmth of a greeting to acquaintances who have lent a hand.

For a good mouthful, he can draw out his praise; when he speaks of those who help put food on the table, his thanks reach as far as a flower.

May these small helpers, too, live well.