Yesterday I was off work. So lunch and errands. Restaurant, bank, grocery store, vegetable mart, another grocery store, Walgreens, and finally a bakery for an egg tart, milk tea, and another egg tart (because a man needs to recoup his energy). Only at the bank and the bakery was English employed -- at the latter because a Nepali lady wished to negotiate a cake large enough for several dozen people; I know she was Nepali because I asked "aap kahan sa pradesh ka hai?" and got that answer -- and the word for tres leche is more understandable to everybody as "saam nai". Though it may look like trilatchi.
And, for some reason, even though I ate well, as is customary when I'm not in Marin, the idea of a rich Indian dish cropped up in my head. I might have to teach the folks at the restaurant how to make it, and despite it being a heart-attack on a plate as well as dangerous to anyone with lactose intolerance because of the sheer buckets of ghee, doodh, and malai, I think their customers would love it. Hong Kong people have a liking for artery busting food.
And would probably request plenty of melted cheese on top.
"Let's just push that envelope as far as it will go."
All the way to the cardiac ward.
The problem is that at a chachanteng the customers might ask that it be served on top of spaghetti Bolognese, and I do not wish to imagine that. Even worse: carbonara. My heart specialist, whom I see again in August, would never forgive me if I introduced all that to an innocent unsuspecting Chinatown public. Who already labour under a fatty pork overload.
And any day now will demand mui choi kau yiuk on top of spaghetti.
Avec beaucoup de fromage fondu dessus.
Evil Dutchman!
I have everyone's best wishes at heart.
So I shall restrain myself.
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