Sometimes late at night near Shida night market, you’ll find an old man selling hand-grilled corn from a rickety street cart.
He makes them made-to-order. The cob is layered with three sauces, slathered with a wooden paintbrush. He regrills the corn with each new layer, controlling the flames with his wrinkled but nimble hands. Once blackened enough by the coal (though never burnt), he hammers a bamboo skewer into the centre, and presents it to his waiting customers with a semi-toothless smile.
This is his only trade, selling corn on the cob for sixty years more. And still selling strong.