THE TOTAL ABSENCE OF A CIGAR

Seeing as I was woken up in the middle of the night by the ghost cat that also dwells in this apartment, it isn't suprising that when I saw Chicken à la King on the menu I should order it. It's an easy choice, an old chachanteng special, and mild enough that on a day that's been considerable cooler than yesterday it would be appropriate and bland. And suitable for adding salt, pepper, and hot sauce to zip it up good.

It could have used some nutmeg. Or garlic.

And more butter in the béchamel.

...

Well, okay, I've had better versions. I've made better versions. But at that price, no complaints. The inner cat is satisfied. And the Hong Kong milk tea was good.

And there were four people there whom I recognized. Two more came in after I was already there. None of the crazy white people out on the street entered, and as per usual the tourists shunned the place, probably because it did not look like it had eggrolls, barbecue pork buns, or even the obligatory cans of Coca Cola and 7-Up which are so necessary for their comfort.
In fact, the only thing visible from the doorway was three little old ladies.

On must assume that most Europeans already have one of those. Not Americans, because they shove 'em into an old folks home as soon as they can so that they can be done with her. Or send her off to Florida to die in a hurricane or the school system there, which is known to kill people and pooh-pooh their demises as 'wokism' just like everything else Christian white people don't like.

Sorry, that was a gratuitous jab at Waspy America.

Undeserved. They sent a man to the moon.

There are no old folks there.

Maybe soon, though.


Chicken à la King should be chunks of chicken in a cream sauce made with mushrooms and sherry, pinch nutmeg, white pepper, cayenne, sprinkle of parsley or chives (substitute minced green onions), some chopped vegetables for colour (please, no damned peas), over rice or noodles. This wasn't exactly that.

It was kind of close.
Okay, lah.



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