Cross-hatched lampshades, sunny orange walls and pastel tiles. An alcove of knit cushions and cane dividers, never short of steamed buns with toothpick flags or the carefully timed saffron kahwa.
We watched as swarms of people filed in on a weekday afternoon, clutching oversized purses and birthday cake.
A man near the door stood behind a counter stacked with yellow and blue jars, selling tea leaves.
We crunched on Burmese falafels and bits of gossip. We painted ourselves The Regulars and stumbled into the sheer joy of sharing a lovely meal. We fell in love with the details, like sprinkled black sesame or honey caviar on avocado ice-cream.
We had found the sort of place you could write about.