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.

Thursday, August 10, 2017


When I got there the kitchen was still open, Basi-lo was disquisitioning loudly about Mou Tsaak-tong and the Gung chan tong, and a convenient table near the back was empty and available.
The only thing that could have made it better is someone with floppity hair and sparkling eyes to keep me company, but that's an unattainable fantasy, whereas the prospect of fried rice with salt fish and chopped chicken is real.

Very real.

It's something to which I had been looking forward since before the Indian tech support wallah called me up several hours earlier.
Salt fish chicken fried rice.

['Haam yü gai naap chaau faan']

By the time I finished eating, the noise had abated. The loud disquisitioner and his audience had departed, sticks of incense were lit at the earth altar at floor level behind the counter, and a Mandarin speaking family with a bossy mom had purchased their snacks and left.

A friend entered, and I invited him to sit and join me. We talked about the neighborhood as it used to be. San Wah Kue, Woey Loy Goey, the restaurant in the basement three blocks away (under the old owner), and other places. The last one to go was New Moon on Stockton Street, where the roast duck was delicious.

[Many of the restaurants that no longer exist except in their patrons' fond memories are mentioned in this post: Fading Fragrance. Yong Kee (容記糕粉) also closed a few years ago. My apartment mate used to get their big chicken bun. The century egg in a flaky pastry crust was orgasmic.]

Apparently his frat-brothers, when they visit, don't eat any of the stuff here, but stick with roasts, and, presumably, potatoes. They are from Orange County, which has a very Midwestern or Southern sensibility.
I am glad no one I know is from there.
Or so limited.

I have to inform you that the imaginary girl-friend with the floppity hair and sparkling eyes, IF she existed, would NOT like folks from Orange County.
She would be polite, but distant.
At best.

After we left the restaurant, I lit my pipe, and we chatted as we walked. He got on the bus at Montgomery Street, and I proceeded down to Sue Bierman Park to commune with the parrots.

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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.


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