At the back of the hill

Warning: If you stay here long enough you will gain weight! Grazing here strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton. And you might like cheese-doodles.
BTW: I'm presently searching for another person who likes cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Tuesday, September 27, 2016


Years ago I worked part-time at an Indian restaurant here in the City. Because, as you should instinctively understand, every Indian restaurant needs a calm and phlegmatic Dutchman guarding the cash box like an angry pit-viper. Indians are an unruly lot, and I was ready to go ballistic at a moments notice.
We Dutch are stubborn, sometimes rabid.

Actually the problem was due to the belief of every intelligent Indian that they were always right, and the nearest Patel was automatically wrong.
Some one had to tell the Patels that.

Eventually all our Patels were replaced by Nepalis and Mexicans.
The Panjabis (mostly Sikhs) and the Tamil stayed.
My job became harder than ever.

After seventeen years they installed a computer system for doing the table checks and totaling up sales, and naturally with so many Indians on staff modifying it and reprogramming it, it was different every time (different colours, layout, logic, and clickable options), and damned well reprogrammed on a daily if not hourly basis.
So I regretfully departed.

I like fighting over minutiae as much as the next man, but sometimes you have to let the Panjabis do their own thing without getting involved.
I think they're all working in the computer industry now.


Everything you expect from an Indian Restaurant can be had at the Rang Mahal on Queen's Road in Central, near Jubilee, Gutzlaff, and Graham.
It's not far at all from the International Finance Centre, Exchange Square, and Hong Kong City Hall, a reasonable distance from the HSBC offices, and if an intoxicated Australian in Lan Kwai Fong were to walk westward down D'Aguilar two blocks and then turn left, a relatively short but determined stumble would bring his drunken ass there.
Alas, they do NOT have Vegemite.

Please imagine a typical Indian restaurant menu. Plus roasted papads.
The interior will make you think you are in Birmingham.
They open at eleven for lunch.

Or sleep late, and make a breakfast out of it. Dinner ("supper") at any of the places favoured by Englishmen and Australians will likely put you in contact with a drunken Anglo at his worst (squiffy, pugnacious, plus stupendous body odour and beer breath -- that is why you hire big burly Panjabis; it is to control the rabble), especially as it gets later, so go early (they open for dinner at six in the evening), and have a walk with a pipe afterwards.

It is a very clean place, attentive staff, delicious food.
Prices are comparable to anywhere in SF.
The mutton is always excellent.

A splendid restaurant.

No Vegemite.

Very nice, very nice. Very nice, very nice. Very nice, very nice. Very nice, very nice. Very nice, very nice. Very nice, very nice. Very nice, very nice. Very nice, very nice. Very nice, very
nice. Very nice, very nice. Very nice, very nice. Very nice, very nice. Very nice, very nice.

There used to be five Indian restaurants within walking distance of my digs here in SF, but only two are left. The busiest food sellers are those rancid Pakistanis three blocks south. Suleiman used to work for them, and one should distrust everything that loathsome little man had a hand in, though their naan is good. They are across the street from the Delhiwallas, whose efforts are entirely besvad, aur ghatia kach'ro.
Naan takes a Panjabi.

You cannot smoke a pipe on Polk Street, as street-people will harass you about marijuana, and programmers will look at you funny. At any moment a yuppie or a vicious old wheatgerm freak will accuse you of destroying the environment and poisoning puppies and little children, and self-righteous harridans of all ages and genders may scream at you.

This city is filled with f***ing Protestants.

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