COMFORT GLOOP

What the solitary badger wishes to eat after a long day of putting up with the cigar-smoking pickle heads at the lounge is chicken congee with fried peanuts and bits of fried wonton skins. Maybe with a skewer of grilled chicken livers on the side, despite a propensity to gout.
As well as a piping hot dough stick.

But this is San Francisco.

I'm hosed.


Not only are there no street vendors selling yummy freshly prepared nom-nom-nom till way past midnight in my neighborhood, but the programmers who live all over this neck of the woods wouldn't know good food if it came up and bit them in the gand.

Minced pork also can, as well as fresh fish poached in the heat of the rice porridge, chunks of roast duck. And everything is better with century egg.

Did I mention the programmers? Stupid white dudes from the rest of the country, and Indians who are by now utterly convinced that bland American food is poison.

Sometimes you can order fried batter squiggles for your congee.

In Malaysia, sambal, krupuk, and shallot chips.



What's available right now is a mighty fine Vietnamese sandwich, some very decent Mexican food, pretentious Japanese stuff, a Thai sit-down dinner, and heavy muck in the freezer of the local liquor store.
None of which appeals to me at this moment.



There's no käsespätzle either.



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