Tuesday, March 11, 2014


An early dinner recently became an immensely frustrating experience. No, both the food and the service were more than up to standard, the cutlery and glassware were quite clean and shiny, as was the entire restaurant. And the food was unexceptionally excellent. It is by no means due to anything that the restaurant had a handle on that I was frustrated.
Well, maybe one thing that they can be blamed for.
Their waitress. Her clothes.

And at this point I might as well admit that I am at times a giant hamsaplo.

[The term 'hamsaplo' is explicated here: Aunt Mildred.]

The Vietnamese coffee was perfect, and the bitter melon and chicken over rice was entirely up to snuff. They add a little more fermented black bean to the saucing than other places, but the vegetable was pleasingly crunchy and startling in its intensity. It was a splendid foil, in fact, for the hotsauce of which I plooped a liberal measure on my plate.
Food and drink-wise, it was a completely satisfying experience.
There weren't many other customers there at the time.
One member of the staff remembered me.
And was happy to see me again.
She's learning English.
Which is hard.

[Vietnamese coffee: cà phê sữa đá (咖啡奶冰 'ka-fei naai-bing'). Bittermelon and Chicken over Rice: 涼瓜雞球飯 ('leung gwa gai kau fan'). Bitter melon: 苦瓜 ('fu gwa'), 凉瓜 ('leung gwa'); momocordica charantia. Fermented black beans: 豆豉 ('dau si'); a dry condimental substance remoistend and mashed, it accounts for a dark speckled sauce with a savoury taste in a number of preparations. Hotsauce: Tương Ớt Sriracha (是拉差香甜辣椒醬 'silaja heung-tim laat-chiu jeung'), which is manufactured by Huy Fong Foods Corporation (滙豐食品公司 'wui fung sik-pan gung-si') in the wilds of Southern California (南加州 'naam ga jau'; 野蠻南域 'ye maan naam wik').]

I always like it when Chinese people finally learn English, because my Cantonese is not entirely fluent (understatement) and it just makes it so much easier to communicate when there's a fallback position. English is the default fallback, even if both of us also speak Mandarin.
Cantonese people speaking Mandarin sound nearly as bad as white people (such as myself) using that tongue, and my ability with, lets say, Teochew, Hakka, and Hokkien is virtually non-existent.
Not even mentioning Shanghainese.

[Cantonese: 廣東話 ('gwong jau wa'), 粵語 ('yuet yü'). Mandarin: 官話 ('gwun wa'), 北京話 ('baak keng wa'), 普通話 ('po tong wa'), 國語 ('gwok yü'). Teochew: (潮州話 'chew jau wa'). Hakka: (客家話 'hak gaa wa'). Hokkien: (福建話 'fuk kin wa'), 福州話 ('fuk jau wa'), 廈門話 ('haa mun wa'). Shanghainese: 上海話 ('seung hoi wa').]

Many years ago I was able to converse at a kindergarten level in Hokkien, but every time I opened my mouth, people would look at me funny. Finally someone said "you know, I have an auntie who lives in the hills who still talks like that".
Apparently his auntie was an idiot.

[Idiot: su ku. His auntie is an idiot: "I e lao gu si kung ngaa bo e".]


Anyhow, what frustrated me while eating was not the English-learner, who is a very pleasant middle-aged woman and mother of at least two young adults, but the waitress.
Who is considerably younger, and bi-lingual.

I kept wondering where her nipples were.

An attractive young lady, with a lovely smile and lively eyes. Soft-looking hands. Clearly intelligent. And extremely nice though meaty thighs -- they had good proportion, and her legs tapered curvily, and I've always liked what dark semi-opaque panty hose do to the view -- as well as lovely knees (see previously mentioned dark hose).

Circumstantial evidence suggests that she is flat-chested. Or reasonably so. And there's nothing wrong with that, it really works for some people.
Very well, in fact.

Further circumstantial evidence indicated that whatever brassiere she employed had a certain amount of padding, for both support and comfort.
As well as a safeguard against chafing.
Which is also important.

[Nipple: 奶頭 ('naai tau'), 姩頭 ('nin tau').]

If I had had my proportional dividers and a drafting compass on me (and the triangles and French-curves), I probably could have determined the exact location of the nipples, based on distances and degrees, but it still would have been no more than an educated guess. And in all probability she might have objected to the process. There's even a distinct probability that the considerable charm she normally displayed would be replaced by something approaching screaming fury and indignation.
Women are funny that way.

It remained an intellectual problem, but investigating the matter, which is not any of my business, would have encountered obstructions.

I used to be a draughtsman; some things stay with you.

Very nearly started figuring it out with the mound of steamed rice.

I'll definitely go there again, but the next time I might sit facing the other direction.

No, I shan't ask her out. One should never date the waitresses at restaurants that one likes going to. Or even think of it. Such things must inevitably lead to lessened dining options for oneself, and potentially cause further problems for the young ladies in the excercise.
Besides, I don't know anything about her.
Not enough to go by.

She's nice.

And that will have to remain all that I know.

Dining by myself makes me keenly aware of the fact that I have not had a relationship for several years. There is much that I miss about that.
Conversation, holding hands, a smile, and sparkling eyes.
Many things, in fact.

None of which require proportional dividers.

I guess the excess of hotsauce is to compensate.

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