Two meals by 9:30 a.m.

One of the things I find endearing about Ipoh is that there is no nightlife to speak of. A lot of the restaurants close by 7 p.m., many as early as 4. For late-night eats, the Indian joints several blocks west stay open till all hours, with guys sitting on the sidewalk watching soccer on TV. But for the most part it's an early-to-bed, early-to-rise city, and I woke up this morning hungry af.

I'd been hearing about this hakka mee stall called Paris about a hundred yards from my front door, so I went over there at 7:30 because reportedly they sell out fast. So glad I did! Hakka mee is a real simple dish of dry Chinese noodles and minced pork. That's it! But the pork, my god. How do they make it so dark and concentrated with flavor? I saw a guy pulling it out of a 7-gallon aluminum pot, which tells me it's been cooking a long time. It's one of those family recipes, like the carne asada at El Charro back home, that gets passed down through generations. Browsing online, you see a lot of moist-eyed testimonials of locals who say the place reminds them of when their grandfather took them there as a kid, stuff like that.

There were no available tables, so I asked a young man if I could sit with him, and he held out his arm, palm up, as if to help me slide into the seat opposite him. He held no such nostalgia about Paris. He was simply having breakfast before going to work at the phone store across the street. The restaurant's "boss," with low eyebrows and a bulldog expression, basically ordered for me before I could open my mouth. All I had to add was "And two fishballs." He asked where I was from.

"U.S."
"How are you liking your president?"
"He's crazy."

People at the next table laughed. When it comes to Trump (who always comes up), I tell people what I think they want to hear just to move things along.

Even though this is not a coffee shop, per se, it is organized like a kopitiam, because a young lady took my drink order and I paid her separately. I asked my companion what he was drinking and copied him. "I'll have barley juice." Seeing the barley grains drawn up into your straw ― well, it's kind of a poor man's boba tea. So now I'm a barley juice guy.

I am here four more days. Just seeing this picture of hakka mee makes me resolved to set my alarm for 7:30 a.m. on each day so I can get this in my belly. Well, except Tuesday morning, when the Browns play the Niners.

Fishball soup, barley juice and hakka mee. The phone-store guy told me to mix a red condiment and a white condiment in the small red bowl at left. The result was a thermally spicy, vinegary accompaniment for the noodles. Thanks, man!

The locals adore this place, and there can scarcely be a better endorsement. It's at 190 Jalan Sultan Iskandar, a major east-west artery.

These are the bounciest, rubbery-est fishballs ever. That is the desired effect. It takes a LOT of pressure just to poke one with a chopstick.

The portions here are kinda small, and seeing a line develop a couple of doors down, I walked over to a packed Restoran Xin Quan Fang, asked two guys if I could sit with them, and of course they said yes. The people here are so kind and curious. As it turns out, Xin Quan Fang specializes in curry mee ("mee"= noodles), and they helped me order, suggesting a side of roast pork, chicken, shrimp and pig's head skin. I ordered a barley juice like I had been doing it all my life, and they were impressed. They came up from Kuala Lumpur on insurance business.

We were able to discuss a lot of interesting stuff ― the difference between the Singaporean and Malaysian economies (transparency/equal playing field vs. corruption/favoritism), the health of the 94-year-old prime minister (quite good!)  racial relations (not so good; gov't is pro-Malay, Malays get mortgages that are 6% cheaper; PM stokes racial divisions to fire up his base). This last part surprised me. I asked them as ethnic Chinese whether they were proud Malaysians, if they loved their country. They looked at each other and said, "It's complicated."

They asked me if Trump was a popular president. I said I thought he was strongly opposed by 55% of voters but that he would probably be re-elected.

"How is this possible?"

"It's complicated." Fun banter.

Noodles float in chili oil in this spicy curry mee. Nobody does noodles like the Chinese. Always springy, never mushy. It's a gift.

Chicken, shrimp, roasted pork slices, pig skin, scallions and bean sprouts. I asked my companions if I should dump it in the noodle dish, and they said no.

My new friends surreptitiously paid my tab ("You're our guest!") ― a small gesture, maybe $3, but one I will never forget.