I ended up at Yabin, some old Nepalese Restaurant back across the other side of the river. I had been walking around for miles and craved something with enough heat to blow out my asshole and clear the bad lunch I had. Unfortunately these places all serve the same kind of bog-standard stuff that is about as authentic to the birthplace of Lord Buddha as a sloppy roll of Lower Hutt St. Pierre's sushi is to Toyosu’s finest cut of tuna sashimi.

Even when you ask for some kind of old-world spice, for some of that black-magic heat that Marco Polo was on the hunt for, they always seems to flinch at the idea that it might actually cause a fatality during business hours.

I smiled at the young Nepali dude running the show. They are bloody good people, at peace with the world. I could learn a thing or two.

There was a painting of Patan Durbar Square in Kathmandu up on the wall and some old 70s drama playing on the TV above the kitchen. An old Japanese couple came in while the staff were busy, waited about twelve seconds to be seated, before walking out again.

What the hell were they in a rush for? I mean, I have never seen an old person exit a building as quickly as they did. Who am I to judge? I get like that too, but that temple has been standing there since 1600 A.D. and you can’t wait for a second for the dude to come out of the kitchen?

Call it fiat living, rushing from one place to the next, not really looking at anything. All for what? Socrates said that the man and the city are one and the same. So what does the Tokyo man look like?

I looked down at my watch out of habit. Was I in a rush too? Damn it. Maybe I need to get myself to Lumbini or Pokhara before next winter comes around and see what it really tastes like.

Photography

[![yabin.jpg](https://i.postimg.cc/Xv2CB1h9/yabin.jpg)](https://postimg.cc/XZCJTLnv)

_Story and Photograph by [Cody Ellingham](https://www.instagram.com/codyellingham/)_

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**Twelve Seconds in Yabin**

I ended up at Yabin, some old Nepalese Restaurant back across the other side of the river. I had been walking around for miles and craved something with enough heat to blow out my asshole and clear the bad lunch I had. Unfortunately these places all serve the same kind of bog-standard stuff that is about as authentic to the birthplace of Lord Buddha as a sloppy roll of Lower Hutt St. Pierre's sushi is to Toyosu’s finest cut of tuna sashimi.

Even when you ask for some kind of old-world spice, for some of that black-magic heat that Marco Polo was on the hunt for, they always seems to flinch at the idea that it might actually cause a fatality during business hours.

I smiled at the young Nepali dude running the show. They are bloody good people, at peace with the world. I could learn a thing or two.

There was a painting of Patan Durbar Square in Kathmandu up on the wall and some old 70s drama playing on the TV above the kitchen. An old Japanese couple came in while the staff were busy, waited about twelve seconds to be seated, before walking out again.

What the hell were they in a rush for? I mean, I have never seen an old person exit a building as quickly as they did. Who am I to judge? I get like that too, but that temple has been standing there since 1600 A.D. and you can’t wait for a second for the dude to come out of the kitchen?

Call it fiat living, rushing from one place to the next, not really looking at anything. All for what? Socrates said that the man and the city are one and the same. So what does the Tokyo man look like?

I looked down at my watch out of habit. Was I in a rush too? Damn it. Maybe I need to get myself to Lumbini or Pokhara before next winter comes around and see what it really tastes like.
