Thursday, November 21, 2019


Well shucks! The baker at one of my regular places for Hong Kong style milk tea is on vacation till the second week of December. No baked goods! No lo po bing (老婆餠). No dau saa bing (豆沙餠). No ji baau dan gou (紙包蛋糕). No cha siu sou (叉燒酥). No daan taat (蛋撻). No po lo baau (菠蘿包). No naai yau baau (奶油包). No hap tou sou (合桃酥).
Mat dou mow laaa! 乜都冇啦!!!!

How about a sandwich? Mm, no. Don't want it. I may be so white I glow in the dark, but I really was looking forward to a wintermelon pastry with my milk tea. So I'm devastated. Bereft. Deprived. Forlorn. In deep sadness.
Despondent. Feeling a lack unto the very fibre of my being.

I'm sorry, but your sandwich does not inspire me.

No wonder the place was so quiet.

The waitress had noted my deep longing for a lo po bing from a mile away, and had approached trepidatiously. Her hesitation was understandable.
She knew she had nothing that would satisfy.

While enjoying my cup of milk tea, I observed the middle-aged couple along the opposite wall eating noodle soup. The woman, with her fingers clenched firmly and precisely around the chopsticks, fished morsels from her bowl, the man let his soup cool so he could dig in without discomfort. They seemed delighted in each other's company, and obviously had similar tastes and a shared sense of humour. Two people growing old, comfortably together.

Tea-pot Uncle was also there. Near the front, but not in his favourite seat; that table was occupied by a young white couple.

Some of the usual old ladies were at a back table facing the entirely empty baked goods counter.

Other than that, no one.

Perhaps I should have had some noodle soup. Tea with nothing to eat with it is dry and uninspiring.

Now I know how Washington felt when he couldn't get any lo po bing.

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