Also, when looking up the block toward the top of the hill at that early hour, to see if any people without face masks are coming dangerously close, the bright sun gets in my eyes.
To put it differently, Brad, Chad, and Becky are keen to infect me, and when they jog they disperse more droplets. I hate Brad, Chad, and Becky.
Yesterday's first pipe was filled with Carter Hall, which after an interval of several years I appreciate more. My smoking rhythm has slowed down, and I can appreciate such an old-fashioned grandpa tobacco more. It's quite pleasant. Faintest soapy hint to the smoke.
LIVERPOOL SHAPE
This morning I stuffed my own Red Virginias and Perique concoction into the bowl. The pipe is a Comoy Grand slam I bought from Marty Pulvers a long time ago, when I was still working for the law office where most of my coworkers couldn't remember my name after a solid year of daily contact. Since I left that firm I mostly avoid the Embarcadero Centers.
Some of my colleagues in the Accounting Department of the toy company were fond of a hip fusion noodle place in the center, and there were a few unmemorable departmental lunches there (Fusion Cuisine is a heap of pretentious bollocks). They also thought the Thai place just south of Market Street was far too spicy, and I think they mostly preferred pizza, but if the company is paying for it, pizza is not the first thing that comes to mind.
The best lunches I had at the toy Company were the far too few jaunts with a Parsee on the other side of the cubicle divider. Not only the food, but the good company. A very well read witty woman who spoke German, French, Marathi, and Urdu in addition to English. I think she was also conversant in Gujarati, but the time I mentioned Gujus and their repulsive favourite dish ("undhiyu") to her, she expressed herself so succinctly on those subjects that I very rarely wished to ever bring them up again.
A very long time ago I worked with Gujaratis.
It was a peculiar period in my life.
Nowadays I almost never eat with other people. I am, perforce, a solitary diner. It's not very likely that the Caucasians I know would like what I prefer to eat in Chinatown -- nothing odd, just Cantonese home cooking, dishes like steamed pork patty with salt fish (鹹魚蒸肉餅 'haam yü jing yiuk beng') or bittermelon omelette over rice (涼瓜煎蛋飯 'leung gwaa jin daan faan'), but these are not what white people eat -- and it's quite probable that "baked Portuguese chicken rice (焗葡國雞飯 'guk pou gwok gai faan', "arroz com frango") would be too much of a greasy good thing for most.
[Baked Portuguese Chicken rice: a layer of egg-fried rice, covered with cooked chicken chunks, potato, and mild coconut curry sauce, grated cheese strewn over, baked under the broiler till bubbly. Lots of hot sauce and a cup of milk tea too. Sheer heaven. Not actually 'Portuguese', more Maccanese filtered through Hong Kong chachanteng (茶餐廳).]
Yeah, I miss eating in Chinatown. And I could make all of that at home.
But I like dawdling over my milk tea while observing the other patrons and catching scraps of conversation if they're seated nearby, then loading up a briar and going out for a long quiet smoke in the alleyways there.
My doctor, who works out of Chinese Hospital (東華醫院 'tung waa yi yuen') wistfully disapproves of many of my habits. Except the hot sauce. He was born in Indonesia, and food without sambal (hot chili condiments) is flavourless. Quite. Regarding that we completely agree.
Tobacco in all its forms is right out.
On that score I sin daily.
TOBACCO INDEX
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