Journal · Redhill · Ezra

Teh Before the Steam Rises

15 July 2026 · about 8.20am · ABC Brickworks food centre

ABC Brickworks is loud by noon and almost gentle at eight — fluorescent tubes humming, fans not yet working hard, the first aunties arranging condiment bottles like chess pieces.

I come here when I want breakfast without performance. The drinks stall knows my order: teh, less sweet, in a bag with a straw hole I will poke myself. I take it to a table near the service lane where you can see delivery bikes stacking up against the railing and smell dough hitting oil two stalls down. The table wobbles on the left leg. I have learned to rest my elbow on the right side where it does not.

Teh at this hour tastes different from teh at three in the afternoon — sharper, less tired, the tea leaves still willing to cooperate. I unwrap the bag slowly because the heat travels through plastic in a way that demands respect. The first sip is always too hot and exactly right. Condensation beads on the outside and runs toward my wrist. I wipe it with a tissue from my pocket, the same pocket that always holds a pen and a folded receipt I forgot to throw away.

Morning tea is a contract you make with the rest of the day — bitter first, then the sweetness catches up.

ABC Brickworks sits in that in-between zone between Redhill and the older shophouse streets, where the estate meets commerce without ceremony. Office workers will arrive by nine-thirty with lanyards tucked into shirts. Construction men in dusty boots will share tables without speaking. I am neither; I am the person who arrives early enough to hear the stallholders complain about suppliers in dialect and laugh at their own complaints.

The food centre has a particular acoustics — metal on metal, water hitting stainless steel, the soft slap of dough on a board. Underneath it, the city sends traffic noise that never fully stops but becomes background, like a radio left on in another room. I find that useful. My thoughts behave better when there is something to ignore.

There is a potted plant on the ledge near the toilet corridor, neglected but alive. Someone tied a red string around the pot for luck. I look at it between sips and wonder who maintains it — the cleaner, perhaps, or a stall owner who waters it when the hose is already out. Public green things survive on small acts of continuity. I relate to that more than I admit.

By nine the steam will rise from the noodle stalls and fog the air until the ceiling fans lose the battle. I will leave before then, carrying the last third of my drink because throwing away good teh feels wasteful in a way that has nothing to do with money. Walking back toward Redhill Lane, the bag swings against my leg and leaves a warm patch on my trousers.

At home I will rinse the cup inside the bag — yes, I reuse the bag once, judge me gently — and drop it in the bin. The taste lingers anyway, tea and condensed milk and something faintly smoky from the wok next door. The food centre continues without me: orders shouted, plates stacked, the day acquiring its proper volume. My table will be taken by someone else who does not know about the wobbly leg. That anonymity suits the place. I will return Thursday, same time, same order, same seat if it is free.