This guy was making little puffy batter things (really, there just isn't a more apt description) that, in Hong Kong, are known, more or less, as "egg balls". Basically, they seem to be fairly sweet batter (pancake-oid) cooked in something kind of like a waffle iron (except that where a waffle iron has spaces, the "egg ball iron" has, well, um, egg balls). There were other vendors along the strip who also made egg balls, but this guy was the Fred Astaire, the Gene Kelly, the...uh-0h...Michael Jackson, of egg balls. He moved. He witnessed egg balls. He elevated egg balls. And yet, the young woman (accompanied, it would seem, by her mother) remained unmoved. So young. So jaded. Ah, one despairs for our youth, does not one? Or two?