ANSWERS TO WEIGHTY QUESTIONS

So the big question today is 'are my refills ready for pick-up?' Yesterday was three months since the last visit to the pharmacy at Chinese Hospital, and there's enough to last barely another week. So I expect they are. That is the only question I have.
For readers of my blog there may be some other questions. Like "does my mother love me?" "Is the world going to end?" "Why are we here? "Will he still say he loves me afterwards?" "What happened on Real Housewives?" "Is this what existential despair feels like?"
And "what is there to snack upon?"

The answers to all of that: 1) Not really, but she's kind of okay with how you turned out. 2) Not in the foreseeable future. 3) Who the heck knows, kid, who the heck knows. 4) Ditch him, he's young and shallow, and his friends are probably problem drinkers. 5) They fought, they screamed, and there were cocktails. 6) You're probably too young to have existential despair, that's the coffee wearing off, plus your brassiere is constricting your chest and interfering with your breathing. Consult a professional, not the dingbats at Victoria's Secret.
7) I'm hoping it's an oven-hot egg tart and a charsiu turnover.

Shortly after I've visited the pharmacy.


Another key question is 'which briar pipe should I be conspicuously twiddling when I drop by the pharmacy to ellicit cheerful protestation from whoever assists me there that smoking is very bad I should stop if I do I might live to be a hundred plus children animals elderly civilians will all like me and not recoil shrieking in terror.

For maximum effect -- the shrieking in terror and recoiling -- it is probably best to light up in the most crowded part of Chinatown, four or five blocks from the pharmacy, so that there are plenty of white tourist kiddie winkies animals old dumptrucks around. Yesterday afternoon a small person stared at me and my pipe in consternation and wonder. There probably aren't any pipe smokers left in Iowa, Kansas, or Ohio. Sad.


We'll find out the answers to both of those questions shortly.

I'm looking forward to it all.



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VERY PINK WILDLIFE

One thing wich I still find unbelievable is that the Mormons have a mission in Chinatown. "If you believe what we believe -- which is some really crazy shiznit -- eventually God will make you beautiful and just like us!" "Oh please no, you lot smell bad and look rather corpse-like, anthing but that!" And grannie scurries away determined to get as far as possible from the daemonic creatures and their zombie wizard king.

Mormons are extraordinarily optimistic and innocent. They have a ping pong table. Surely that will convince the locals of their good will. And some of them have learned Mandarin, totally ignorant of the fact that the only conceivable use for that language is to transact business or converse with Northern Chinese, who, sadly, aren't able to learn a civilized tongue. Like Toishanese.

Two blocks away from the old Sam Wo, where the Mormons have established their sacred pied-à-terre in Tong Yan Fao -- bulwark, beachhead, voodoo lounge, whatever -- is a place where I often have dragon tongue fish with garlic butter over rice, but today ate the paradigm of Hong Kong Western chow: a club sandwich with fries. And a cup of milk tea.

公司三文治

The 'gong si saam man ji'. Or "company three literature administer". In wich the last three characters are used purely phonetically, and the first two are used like they often are in a South East Asian Sinitic context, meaning variously company, clan association, gang, social club, common interest society, or even a group of people with something that ties them together. That set of meanings got borrowed by Indies Chinese Malay dialect, and subsequently glided effortlessly into Indies Dutch speech.

[Indies Dutch: Indo. Indonesian descent Netherlander, Netherlander whose ancestors spent time in the East Indies, Dutchman with some Indies blood, Indonesian culturally influenced Dutchman, Dutchman whose social circle often speaks Malay and whose food is almost always hybridized Indonesian. It's a flexible term. Indies Dutch (Petjoh) is a version of the language with a debrided grammar and pronunciation and many Malay Indonesian Javanese locutions, reduplicatives, and simplified sentence structure. Almost a creole language. The situation is fluid and complex.]

In standard Cantonese and Mandarin, gong si (公司) means a company.
It's a legal and business term.

The Hong Kong Club Sandwich has luncheon meat, fried egg, lettuce, and tomato, contained within three slices of toasted bread, diagonally cut into quarters, each quarter held together with toothpicks.

SAM WO RESTAURANT, GREAT WALL RESTAURANT

This was the nicest version of the club sandwich I've had in Chinatown. I had seen it pass by a few times while eating there, and finally remembered to order it. Suprising the bejazus out of three waitresses, who are used to me ordering one of the lunch sets, usually nowadays dragon tongue fish rice soup milktea.


Afterwards: Pipe smoking, grocery shopping, followed by a slice of lemon Swiss roll and another cup of milk tea. Then dodging a herd of blond walrusses who came out of nowhere when I was lighting my second bowl. The city is awash with wildlife.

That and tattooed loonies.



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DISTANTLY THE SOUND OF BAGPIPES

We met each other in front of the old theatre and got into a long conversation. An intelligent woman who asked questions, and said sweetly that she thought I was lying when I told her about the Romanian I once dated who came to this country with only two things in mind: medical school and driving the length of the U.S.- Canadian border. Which I was.
It was very perspicacious of her. She didn't seem to mind.

It was an odd but pleasant dream. Sunlight. North Beach. Washington Square. The probability of something to eat. Possibly in company. For some reason an old friend was in there too. What threw it into left field was that I could hear the Hong Kong Police Band.

[The Hong Kong Police Band (香港警察樂隊 'heung gong ging chaat ngok teui'), with bagpipes, and their excellent rendition of We're no awa tae bide awa, which has quite unpronounceable lyrics (!), but as a British quick march is brisk and stirring.]

Several of the movie theatres that once existed in San Francisco are no longer around, having been converted entirely or torn down. There used to be two on Polk Street, three with multiple screens on Van Ness, and four, sometimes five, then three in Chinatown.


The only time I ever took a date to the movies was when I was still in Berkeley. The movie was Woody Allen's Bananas. It was the wrong choice, she didn't "understand" it, and that relationship didn't go anywhere.

If you think about it, that's a good indicator. Take her to see a Woody Allen movie, and note her reaction. If she enjoys it, there are possibilities, and she can hold her own in a conversation. Same probably goes for Monty Python.

Of course the other thing is that there are fewer things to do on dates nowadays.
There's always food and caffeinated beverages.

Sadly, I lack an imagination in that regard. I cannot imagine what a woman would like to do. And so few people read books that that too is not much of a possibility.

Dating requires being comfortable with each other and having things to talk about.



By the way: Mister Vampire (殭屍先生 'geung si sin saang') is probably not a good date movie. I'm just guessing here. But it would be interesting to try.



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HOPPING CORPSE

Yesterday was a real slice. The mind said "carry on, maintiendrai, sally forth with confidence!" The body, however, said "no way" and "get bent, old guy". And proceeded to feel wrecked for most of it. Achy. Tired. Result of the third shot. Which makes three prophylactic injections to prevent Covid. Because unlike Florida or Texas, this blogger has a brain.

Still, better than the old guy who took a tumble on Jackson street opposite Hue An.
I've seen him around the neighborhood. He dodders.
But kudos for ambulating!

Hue An is up the street from the old Washington Theater. Which closed down years ago, after a long run of really mediciocre and downright questionable films. The antique gentleman probably went there back in the day, when he was still young and sparky.
Jack, whom I met twice yesterday -- once because he ate at the same chachanteng, the other time as a fellow witness to the old gent's slippage -- sadly remarked that the neighborhood had changed, every body he knew was dying.
Well, in a way, yes. But there is still lots of life in the old gal. Little kiddies are everywhere, plus vibrant and rather well-behaved teenagers, younger entrepeneurs, fairly recent immigrants .....

I saw 'Mr. Vampire' at that theatre. And I like change; it isn't a bad thing.
Although I do miss the coffee shop where I used to have snacks.
Before I'd head up the street for cinematic entertainment.

It seems so innocent, doesn't it? Coffee, slice of pie, and a Hong Kong movie.

But things are looking up.





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THE WORSHIPFUL PLACES

People often complain that California has no distinct seasons, unlike the rest of the country. Where the four seasons are: Hot as blazes, Strange, Icy weather, and Fixing to get unbearable. This is wrong. We HAVE distinct seasons! Allergy season, Stupid Tourists season, Tarantula Mating season, and Pumpkinsgiving Drunk season. In the rest of the country (Vermont, Ohio, Appalachia, New York) the colours during Tarantula Mating season are stupendous; here it simply means that spindly furballs will occasionally skitter across the pavement.

California: it's a state of mind. With tarantulas.
Please stay home, no need to visit.

The restaurant where I had delightful porkchops recently almost never gets tourists, because they're off the main drags, and offer a cuisine that does not appeal to those. The interior looks exactly like several eateries in the Hokkien-speaking part of the world (insular South East Asia), as it's plain, straightforward, clean, comfortable, and entirely lacking the ambiantic stage props so essential for Caucasian food comfort.

There are porkchop places at either end of this alley.

As you would naturally assume, it's one of my favourite alleys. In addition to porkchops, there's also a place for delicious Swiss Roll Cakes (瑞士捲 'seui si kuen') at one end. You can also find Swiss roll cakes just a lttle further beyond the other end. The Swiss roll cake is a peculiarly Hong Kong thing; every bakery that caters to HK expats has a selection.

After dark the red lanters above the doorway to the Ma Tsu temple are gay and bright, the hubub from the nearby restaurants on Jackson Street testifying to cheerful company, and the windows of the housing complex on the north corner showing residents in the bosom of their families. Oh, and the occasional unbalanced street person engaged in dubious activities that the children inside the buildings should not know about, because it might call their family's settlement in this strange new world entirely into question. San Francisco's public spaces, long after nightfall, are an alternate universe. Especially if the street lighting is poor.

During the porkchop time of day, dubious activities are not evident.



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THE FERRY

A dream on the ferry, possibly between Hong Kong and Kowloon. It was warm gentle weather, and I wasn't alone. It was a pleasant dream. Somehow masks were an important part of it.
I may be obsessed by face masks.
Or eyes.

That it was warm is very important.

In San Francisco we haven't had much overly warm weather this year. It has been a peculiar summer, without the usual excessive heat that we usually get in August and September.


These last few weeks have rather been like early Autumn. The city is more beautiful like this. And people are more comfortable.

There are fewer street people in our part of the city nowadays, it feels far less borderline than it did. People have adjusted to the current situation, and have for the most part adjusted to present realities. Once the height has passed normalcy will gradually return.
With it, possibly improvements, and a greater calm.

Equilibrium.


After this we will not take our friends and our community for granted.




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TRIGGERING PODUNKUM

I headed over to Chinatown recently for some essential groceries. It remains my favourite neighborhood, because it's small, tight, and home-like. It has everything I need except cheese and yoghurt. Also, it's long-time familiar, there are fewer stupid white people without masks, and no one makes fun of my accent.

But it's changing. The pandemic has forced many businesses to close.

After my purchases, I filled a pipe and headed down to Montgomery Street in the Financial Disctrict. Which is also changing, except that I like that. If any neighborhood used to be filled with suburbanite yutzes, it was there, and their absence improves it immensely.

Some of the businesses in C'town which I hope will survive are old familiar places, such as several on Jackson Street. Pictured below is where, in perhaps six months time, I shall meet John O. for a porkchop. Reason being that he hates the word "lunting". A lunt, he maintains, is a slow fuse, wick, or taper, perhaps used on occasion to light a pipe or cigar. As a verb (for ambling about with a smoke) he loathes it. I myself think it quite unnecessary also.
While wandering, I smoke.

THE NEW LUN TING CAFÉ

When I "lunt", it might on occasion be when heading toward a pork chop with sauce over rice, with a bowl of old fire soup, and a hot cup of Hong Kong Milk Tea.
After which I may take a walk with my pipe.
Which triggers suburbanites.

A woman at the New Lun Ting once marveled at my excellent Mandarin. Because what I spoke was NOT her language, Toishanese, but was never-the-less intelligible. In fact my Mandarin is bloody awful, and what I was speaking at the time was Cantonese.
My native language, Dutch, sounds much like Mandarin.
All those difficult sounds, man.

Surely a Caucasian trying to speak Chinese must be speaking Mandarin, yes?
Because it is inconceivable that intelligible language should erupt from his face.
Maybe he's just mush-mouthed clenching that pipe? Yes, that's probably it.

I'm always pleased as punch that people actually understand me there. It makes shopping and associating so much easier. And again, no one has ever commented on my accent in English, or told me I should go the hell back where I came from. Or bellyached vociferously about my pipe, which is icing on the cake.

You know, it's just not nice when inbred Jed from Podunkum Arkansas says something snotty about how I speak. Doesn't he have a Capitol Building somewhere to storm or something?
I'm probably not a nice person. Too harshly critical of my fellow citizens.
Probably because of my foreigness.


Lunch today was nasi goreng, a grilled sausage, and Gouda cheese.
My own private Amsterdam on a plate
With lots of sambal.

Now, tea, and a pipeful of a new tobacco.
Juno, for Savinelli by MacBaren.
Smells plummy.

TOBACCO INDEX


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SOME OF YOU ARE VERY STUPID

Having confirmed with the pharmacy that my refills are ready, the biggest decision today is "what pipe do I twiddle with while picking up my medications to achieve optimum reaction?" Because the ladies at the pharmacy endearingly insist on hollering that I should quit smoking, which isn't going to happen. A handsome old piece is required. Which will then be filled and lit while wandering around shopping for veggies.

Jackson Street at Stockton, downhill from the pharmacy at CHSF

Yeah, I'll pop my mask back on when anywhere near people.

So smoking while anywhere near the shops is out of the question. Too many folks on Stockton Street, and on side streets nearby, who, like me, will assume that Caucasians are in the main dumbasses who spread infection, because we've seen the blighters dining outdoors, drinking alcohol, jogging, or walking their pets without masking. Small herds of them in close proximity. And we've read the news about Florida and Georgia.
Frat boys, gun nuts, and Republicans.

阿嘜生，戒煙，吸煙好危害健康吖!

Honestly, I'd rather not be around white people right now. As a group, we've been particularly stupid during this pandemic. Except for the Canadians. If you look at the infection maps, you'll see that the red ends at the border. Testimony to common sense and sound policy.

So I guess the pipe should be a Canadian shape briar.

It would fit my off-kilter sense of humour, as well as being appropriate. The tobacco will be foreign too, because good pipe tobacco is almost entirely from outside the country. Not an English product, though. They're heading into another set of lockdowns (probably far too American in their behaviours), but likely Danish, flying under a German flag.

Pharmacy, food shops, hardware store, UPS, and PGE.
After that, relax with a cup of tea.
Dinner, and sleep.

Three days at work ahead. Time enough to deal with people so white they glow in the dark.
I'll just pretend I'm from outer space.

TOBACCO INDEX


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SAFE HAVEN AT THE END OF A JOURNEY

At the end of Beckett, on Pacific Avenue, there are two eateries which I miss, and one place where they do very nice congee. So obviously it's one of my favourite alleyways in Chinatown, and one which has acquired layers of fond memories, from heading to good food and toddling off afterwards content, lighting up my pipe, and enjoying the afterglow.
Milk tea, something with rice, hot sauce, and comforting noise.
Not necessarily a social event, but being social.
While happily not required to.

Porkchops, mainly. At the regent those are often on one of the set lunches, with a bowl of soup and a thick slice of garlic bread. At the New Hollywood, pan-grilled chop with tomato over rice, soup, and a warm roll. In both cases a cup of Hong Kong Milk Tea is part of the programme. While observing the other patrons, and half-listening in on what's going on around me.

To the right in the painting above is the Ping Yuen Housing Estate, to the left the backends of buildings on Grant Avenue. The business with the orange awning at the end is New Hollywood (荷里活茶餐廳 'ho lei wut chaa chanteng'), which also has lovely baked goods, as well as a full chachanteng menu. To the right of that, not visible, Yin Du wonton Noodle (銀都雲吞麵 'ngaan do wan tan min'), and next to that, which you cannot see, New Regent Cafe (新麗晶西餐廳 'san lei jing sai chanteng'). Invisible entirely is a transdimensional portal in the brick wall to the left, which leads you to Eight Legs Cafe.

Which I only know about because they allow pipe smoking.


For reasons which are obvious only to me, I associate the three pipes below with that place.

At the moment I am enjoying a cup of hot strong milk tea. Long after lunch, and past tea-time. My days are rather unstructured these days, I do not have to get to a chanteng before two for the lunch set, and dinner has kind of faded. In any case it's no longer outside the house.

Just came back from a stroll at dusk. With a pipe.

It is quiet in the apartment now, my apartment mate has not returned yet from her office. There is a lovely fragrance of garlic wafting in from the air well. I wonder what I should have as a snack. There are no more cookies, we ate them all. It's been a long time since I had a warm egg tart (蛋撻 'daan taat') or an old wife cake (老婆餠 'lo po bing').

Tomorrow I'll check to see if some of my haunts still exist.
And whether they are doing any kind of business.
I hope they come through this.

TOBACCO INDEX


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PREAMBLE TO A WALK

It's rather strange looking at hams. This from the apartment mate, while leafing through a food catalogue. Which tells me that the holidays are coming up, because nothing says "Christmas Spirit" better than giving piles of dead meat to people.

This is the same person who voices for the more murderous and demented stuffed creatures, some of whom are quite disturbing. Such as the turkey vulture, who wishes to eat little girl hamsters. Or Louise, a small Holstein cow, who believes herself a temptress.

She's realized that she works in a place with strange people, and worries that she'll become a gibbering idiot like them. I feel that worry is unjustified. Too inventive a mind.

While she talked, I finished my tea and the painting I was working on, that being a view toward the Great Star Theater on Jackson Street from the bakery near the corner.

The Great Star Theater [大明星戲院]

Years ago when it was still operational, I spent many happy hours there sucking up derring do and gangster chivalry. They still had the contract for Golden Harvest, and many of the offerings were bullet operas. Stupendously entertaining. Chow Yunfat in his prime.
Maggie Cheung, Cherie Chung, and Anita Mui.
It was glorious.

It's been a good teatime today, strong cuppa which energizes, plus stimulation. Need to walk it off with a pipe. While remembering those movies when I still lived three blocks away from the street shown above. Good tobacco stimulates the memory.
Heck, remembering how that street was too.
Jackson Street near Kearny.

The theater has been closed for years. As has the nearby coffeeshop restaurant where I read newspapers after work (Ping Yuen Bakery: 平園咖啡店 'ping yuen ga fei dim' ). The DPD (一品香 'yat pan heung') is also gone, as is the Shanghainese lunch counter with noodle soup.


The cinemas near where I live now have also been closed for years.
People don't go to see movies much anymore.


No one objected when one smoked in the backrows of the theater. Mostly ciggies, of course.
A pipe was a stealth indulgence on slow evenings.

TOBACCO INDEX


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PASTRY AND AN AFFORDABLE CUP OF JOE

Years ago, before I moved out of North Beach, I acquired the nickname 豆沙餅 ('dau saa bing'), after a comestible I often had at the counter with my hot beverage. It was of course easier to call me that than my real name (multiple consonants, where they should not be), or after the sunday breakfast I would often have there: pile of rice, sausage and fried egg, hash browns, and lots of hot sauce. Washed down with a bucket of Java.

They still had lunch counters in Chinatown then, but those have all disappeared. Dau saa bing are still around -- sweet bean paste biscuits -- as well as coffee crunch cake, lotus seed paste pastries, apple turnovers, and various baau. So not much has changed.

And I wish to clarify that "Sunday Breakfast" means sometime after two o'clock, when the lunch crowd had died down. Eight hours after having coffee and a nice smoke. Dawdling afterwards to devour the Sunday Chronicle, still worth reading in those days, and delaying a post-meal pipe because the two little kids there kept telling me "no smoke!".

Litte children are often either fascinated by briars, or consider them the instruments of evil, and these two were, as taught by their parents, convinced that I would go to hell in a short period of time if I persisted. Either an old-folks home or a cancer ward. Despite being younger than their father. Who did not smoke. Which I considered a failing on his part.

Delightful kids. But sometimes too disapproving.


不准吸煙！


Yeah, one can't really pop outside for a quick pipe, despite there being an alley nearby, because in pipe-smoking terms a short smoke (half a bowlful) will take thirty minutes. 

And you'll return reeking sootily of Latakia and Turkish leaf, with a silly grin on your face.

I haven't had rice-sausage-egg-hash browns-hot sauce in several years.
And I no longer swill coffee like it was mothers milk.
But I still have that pipe.

TOBACCO INDEX


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THINKING OF LITTLE DUMPLINGS

Almost everyone has heard of "Mister Vampire", an iconic semi-camp classic of the Hong Kong spooky comedy genre. Which came out in the mid-eighties, featuring Lam Ching-ying and Ricky Hui. The production values were not very high, but that wasn't the point. If anything, it was sort of understated 'tongue in the third cheek'. 殭屍先生 ('keung si sin sang').

Which I saw for the first time at the 華聲戲院 (China Sound Theatre) on Jackson Street.
Now, sadly, an emporium where you can purchase bank of hell notes and paper mock-ups for your dearly departed. Not quite the same attraction for a wandering kwailo.

It was no longer a first run movie house when I went there, and mostly during its final years it showed Japanese soft-focus titty flicks. An interesting category in its own right, but not very instructional. Even dubbed in Mandarin.

[And probably the reason my Mandarin abilities are crappy.]

The vampire (殭屍 'keung si') in the title is a hopping corpse. Master Kau (九叔 'kau suk) has been tasked with transporting someone's deceased relative which has turned into an undead vitality-consuming entity to a final resting place in his ancestral village. He has two incompetent helpers, and hilarity ensues. Taoist magic, kungfu, hopping and flying cadavers, romance.

The ingénue (Moon Lee 李賽鳳 'lei choi fung') has a face capable of looking pouty, but one remembers her best from subsequent flicks in which she's one tough cookie. She's been described as "cute as a bug", and has many fans primarily because of that. Well, ingénue is perhaps the wrong term; in Mr. Vampire she's a bit drippy.

I had to look her up on the internet, because I couldn't remember her. Ricky Hui (許冠英 'huei kun ying') and Lam Ching-ying (林正英) were stuck in my head. Yes, I've seen her in other films; but she wasn't as memorable as, for instance, Cherie Chung (鍾楚紅 'jung cho hong') in 'An Autumn's Tale (秋天的童話 ' chau tin dik tung waa').



The small food counter next door (茗香糕粉小食 'ming heung gou fan siu sik') has excellent potstickers and dumplings if you go at the right time. Delicious dim sum. I've been there more often than the theatre. Siu mai with a touch of chili oil; mmmmmmm.



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SOMETHING I NEVER LEARNED

Most of my days off this time were spent drawing/painting Chinatown on the computer. No, not a lot of results. But the picture below rather pleases me. Several muted pastels, lines and rectangles. Distance.

The Teochew Community Center

The social club shown here is just below Kearny on Clay. Near Portsmouth Square, and the new Sam Wo restaurant, which is further up, and scarcely a block away from the pyramid.

潮汕話

I know frighteningly little about the Teochew language, basically only that it is one of the southernmost Min-Nan tongues, and so more related to Hokkien and Chuangchow, far less to standard Cantonese. Most people in Chinatown, of whatever origin, speak or at least understand Cantonese.

To put it differently, think of the relationship between English, Dutch, German, Frisian, and Danish. Some similarities, related, many "cognates", no real mutual intelligibility.

I've heard it often. But never understood more than a word or two.

Mandarin is as far from these languages as Icelandic from Dutch and German.


I suspect that there is a statue of Lord Kwan inside, facing the door.
He's a patron of business enterprises throughout the south.
And note that his temple is half a block away.
Close to the Financial District.
Which is appropriate.



I really enjoy mapping out the grey zones in the pavement.
Can't explain why. Something about ziggizags.




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PATTERNS OF BLOBS

Sometime today, fairly early, I plan to head to Chinatown, which is seven blocks away across the hill. Vegetables and dim sum. Plus a long slow amble with a pipe. No milk tea, because one cannot enjoy that indoors there anymore. And it is essential that a comforting cup of hot Hong Kong Milk Tea (港式奶茶 'gong sik naai chaa') be on a table, so that the hands can fuss with it. While observing audibly and visually the other customers. Regulars and new faces.

Grant Avenue (都板街 'du paan gaai'; metropolitan plank street)

The milk tea, you will understand, is only part of the whole.
The observation is a fundamental element.
A pipe caps it off.

A similar dynamic holds for dim sum or plate rice. And again, it is pointless without the noise of other customers, a semi-anonymous hubbub to which one contributes one's own minor notes.


The drawing above, based on a recent photograph, is basically a pattern of blobs. And lines, and semi-regular rectangular patterns. Using both the black and white "colours" of MS Paint. Diagonals, verticals, spare on horizontals.

Above the Bank Of America at Grant and Sacramento is Gold Mountain Monastery (金山聖寺 'gam saan seng ji'), from which one could usually hear the chanting of sutras. The last several times I've been nearby, there was silence.

Much of the neighborhood is quieter than it used to be.

Savinelli Deluxe from Iwan Ries

With fewer people about, the contemplative man lights up his pipe, wanders a while, and speculates about the eventual reopening in a year or longer. How strange for the children in this neighborhood to grow up with so little sound, and with such empty streets and alleys!

And how ironic that the Willy "woo woo" Wong playground (黃顯護遊樂場 'wong hin-wu yau-lok cheung') further up Sacramento Street (沙加緬度街) is being entirely rebuilt for a demographic that won't see it in its new guise for a very long time.

Playgrounds especially should be noisy.

TOBACCO INDEX


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AWAY FROM IT ALL AT GRANT AND SACRAMENTO

There used to be crowds of people on the sidewalks of the Financial District, so much so that you were in danger of being bumped or knocked over by very important individuals rushing off to lunch or meet other important personages. From my point of view it's better now. There's hardly anyone about. Their working from home benefits me. I seriously hate crowds.

Except in Chinatown. Chinese people are better at thronging, more fluid.

So far less of an unpredictable sidewalk or crosswalk hazard.

Sacramento between Grant and Kearny

From my bank on Montgomery Street to the park behind the Transamerica Pyramid is a short amble, and I was planning to have a pipe there, enjoying the quiet. Except that the gate was locked. So I headed up Sacramento to Chinatown, even though I didn't need to shop. The store owned by a friend, which relocated half a block uphill from his old location last year, is closed. The tailors also, as are the print shop, the kitchenwares place, and the restaurants on the corners. I do not know how these people are going to re-open when all this is over.

I honestly don't much care if the Financial District goes to blazes, it's mostly law offices, banks, and suburban assholes. But I want Chinatown to recover.

There are good people there.

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FILLING COMMERCIAL STREET

On the way back from Marin three years ago, in Autumn, I realized that it had been too long since I prepared a casserole with typical Canto cured meats. And I remembered a business that has been in operation in Chinatown since Noah landed the ark. Which was in 1856.
Mow Lee. They cure meat. Chicken, duck, pork. Solid products.


茂利
腊味雜貨
774 Commercial Street,
San Francisco, CA 94108

Lap cheung, Chinese bacon, and interesting cuts of meat. Good winter food, traditional around New Year, as well as at the beginning of Fall. These things add flavour and substance to stews, clay pot dishes, and slow steamed dishes for over rice.

Commercial Street 襟美慎街

Meats cured in soy sauce, rice wine, sugar, star anise, and Prague powder. The easiest intro to such products is 蒸臘肉飯 ('jing laap yiuk faan'); steamed pork belly meat. Rinse the pork belly and steam for about twenty minutes with a little sliced ginger, then add it to the rice during the final fifteen minutes or so to lend fragrance. Simple. Good.

Cured pork belly is available at nearly every general grocery store along Stockton Street, as is its sister product Chinese Sausage. But why not buy a locally produced home-town version? Choose the strip that looks shiny and plump, nicely streaked. If you can, sniff it.
When buying Chinese sausage (臘腸 'laap cheung'), be aware that many brands nowadays use artificial casings, which are better stripped off prior to cooking, much like the casings on many Western sausages.

Vegetables can be also jazzed up with cured pork belly or laap cheung, or any of the other meats, especially duck thigh. Preserved chicken really should be steamed a little bit longer in my experience.



Mow Lee (the green shop front) is around the corner from the Eastern Bakery (東亞餅家 'tung ngaa bing kaa'), which is on Grant Avenue. Also a good place to shop. Famous for their mooncakes (now is the season!), pineapple buns, and the best coffee crunch cake.
Plus a full array of the usual Chinese filled biscuits.



Yes, this is an unabashed plug for two of the business which I really want to survive into the post-pandemic future. I rely on such places, and they do good stuff.




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SENSING THE OTHER

Went over the hill to Chinatown for no reason yesterday, just to wander around. It's so quiet now. Of course it didn't used to be like that. My barber is closed, Doctor Tsang's dispensary too. On Waverly a few restaurants have outdoor seating, six feet apart. And they were relatively busy. In the past I would have gone to a particular one at least twice a month. The food is good, it's very clean, nice. The woman who works there understands my Cantonese, and is friendly-distant. Doesn't ask prying questions. I like her, and I like the fact that she accepts me on my own terms, recognizing that while I am not socially sparkling, I do have civilized qualities.
As I said, good food. And Hong Kong milk tea.
A bottle of Sriracha on every table.

Looking uphill from Clay and Grant.

This time I didn't go. It's not the same. I want to sit inside, dawdle over my beverage, fill my pipe while waiting for the food, and head out afterwards to light up. It would seem strange to have a smoke on Waverly now, with no clear division between "dining room" and the outside smoking environment. It seems "wrong', somehow.

Hurriedly downing a meal outdoors, while too far away to casually listen to other people, and too socially "distanted" to even observe the interactions between folks eating together, seems a recipe for disappointment. It decontextualizes the restaurant experience. It's not just about food. But I have no one to eat with, so it would necessarily become only about food.

Animals eat by themselves in the outdoors.
Humans need a pretense of society.



Besides, there is no point in choosing to be by oneself if it isn't really a choice.




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ROSS ALLEY

A good place to wander with a pipe, in the time before Covid, was just around the corner from the San Sun Restaurant on the corner of Ross Alley and Washington Street, where the old San Wah Kue used to be. Where, back in the past, one could smoke a pipe indoors, provided it was a mild blend, not a top-heavy Latakia mixture or a sickening aromatic.
Stealthy flakes. Those were good.

Especially if one was discreet, and sat near the open door to Ross Alley.

Rainy days especially.

San Wah Kue (新華僑餐廳 'san waa kiu chaan-teng') was famous for apple pie, ox tail, pork chops, rib-eye, tongue, and fried chicken. And especially an orange pie, for which people resettled in the Avenues would make trips to the old neighborhood.

There is another restaurant in that location now, San Sun (三陽咖啡餐屋 'saam-yeung ka-fei chaan-ok'), which is also a nice place to eat. Either their bitter melon and pork over rice (涼瓜豬肉飯 ('leung gwaa chü yiuk faan'), or the rice stick noodles in broth with grilled pork: 燒猪肉河粉 ('siu chü yiuk ho fan').With a glass of Vietnamese coffee (越南咖啡 'yuet naam ga fei').

Smoking is of course no longer allowed (even though many Cantonese and Viet-Chinese men smoke like chimneys), and even in their previous location they did not stock the 555 State Express straights in the yellow tin which many Vietnamese Chinese noodle places carried.

At the far end of Ross Alley (舊呂宋巷 'gau leui-song hong') was Alan Gin's barber shop. Alan Gin, you possibly remember, was known locally as the Chinese Elvis, but as a piano player that nickname was of course not quite apposite. He also had roles in a few locally produced films that have sunk out of sight. Good man. Interesting. He passed away two decades ago.
His barber shop has had various occupants since then.

Both of the herbalists I patronized are within a block walking distance, many of the restaurants and bakeries I like are within three blocks. So for a private man who wants to smoke his pipe without angry Berkeley earth-mom types yelling at him for poisoning their precious lungs and killing children, it is the perfect place. Anonymity and peace.

There are one room walk-ups above the printing place and the Christian mission, occupied by small families and elderly single people; the folks who work hard and will eventually escape, or their aged aunties, uncles, and grandparents, who wouldn't feel comfortable elsewhere in the city, away from the shops and services they depend on.
It's a community.

It's quiet there now. The normal bustle of daily life has stilled, the tourists cannot come. But the neighborhood is surviving, and carrying on living. Occasionally when I'm shopping there I visit the alleyways again. From upstairs I hear voices, sometimes a violin, and news programmes on televisions.

Two of the restaurants I used to go to have put tables outside, but I have not gone to either one so far. One is located on Washington Street, the other on Waverly. The idea of eating on the public pavement does not appeal.
They'll survive (I hope), and eventually I'll go back.
When normal life returns.

There have been no opportunities for late night walks there.
But I'm hopeful that next summer there will be.
Toward a brighter tomorrow.

TOBACCO INDEX


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