[The style of confection is "pineapple cake" (鳳梨酥 'fung lei sou'). Even when it involves entirely different flavours.]
Got home before twelve last night. Our weekly pub crawl is a restrained affair. But it does involve noise. Other people's noise. Loud music at one place, caterwauling (karaoke) at another.
Several observations, from the lighting up of the pipe for watching rats in Spofford Alley (only one rat, big and pale brown) till the last smoke of the night:
The pilgrim is no longer allowed into the karaoke bar, Chinatown merchants have hired a man to paint over grafiti, arguments over money that having nothing at all to do with food at the burger joint delay cooking, and one person there has a restraining order from his parents, tea is best fairly hot, white women should not sing dreary seventies songs, at least one white woman has a yen for the Chinese fellow with a laptop, who hates remarks about his accent (sort of East Coastian) who does NOT speak Mandarin (even though I heard him doing so), fat white men should show restraint around karaoke machines and not make bad decisions, and at least two soldiers and one sailor have recently been off-pissed (scraps of conversation on Grant Avenue). Also, Mister Siu's angry dachshund is old, and calmer now.
Doesn't yip viciously as much.
Arthritic.
Also, other than wanky health, there is nothing actually wrong with me. All of the foregoing is good to know. I had the last piece of mango cake from the first box after I came home. That's why this essay started with it. It was yummy (and delicious), and I'm glad there's more.
徐福記厚切鳳梨酥芒果口味，鳳梨(菠蘿)口味
[Insert Homer Simpson sounds here.]
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