Sunday, February 02, 2020


The search for an excellent rendition of baked Portuguese chicken rice continues! At least at a place where the waitress did not/will not try to matchmake me with a friend of hers. Who may or may not have been charming and just right for me, but I'm inclined to doubt that a middle-aged white guy without real estate and a flourishing career of some sort, a pipe smoker besides, is just right for her. On that score I'm a pessimist. On the aforementioned Hong Kong style chicken dish, I'm an optimist.

[That was four years ago. I'm still scared to go there.]

Today's version lacked the over-the-top indulgence I require.

It was good, but the curry sauce could have had coconut milk, the dish would have benefited from potato chunks and or chopped bells, and the rice base should've been egg-fried. And a strewing of cheese on top to melt under the broiler is essential.

[Baked Portuguese chicken rice: 焗葡國雞飯 ('guk pou gwok gai faan'); a portion of eggy fried rice with a mild chicken curry over it, and shredded cheese on top, baked under the broiler till bubbly. Invented in Hong Kong, loosely based on a Maccanese chicken dish. Really should also contain onion and chouriço. Great with Sriracha Sauce, or sambal blachang.]

In short, the best baked Portuguese chicken rice is perfect cold-weather food, a heart attack on a plate, and something to give my doctor and the nutritionist at Chinese Hospital nightmares.

It was okay, though. I enjoyed my lunch, and also the pipes I smoked afterwards. All of the women working there in early afternoon are people whom I know, Anna is finally back from her long trip to her home town.
At least I think that's where she went.

They do a booming lunch.

I paid and left once I knew which way the drums and dancing lion were going in their quest to get money for chasing away bad luck. Didn't want to be anywhere near the noise. They moved up the street, I went down.

An aged Virginia mixture on the edge of Portsmouth Square, smoked in two lovely bulldogs by American pipe companies, with a pause in between for HK Milk Tea and a lo po bing fresh out of the oven at the Hollywood. Chinatown on Superbowl Sunday was busy, but hardly any tourists.

Three people asked where they might be able to watch the game.
I suggested Red's Place on the corner of Jackson and Becket Street, opposite the New Lun Ting. After having tea and a pastry I passed by and looked in. Didn't see them; they might've been hiding in a corner.

Finished the second smoke at the corner of Kearney and Clay.
A fully packed bus took me back home.

It is going to be easier to find perfect Portuguese chicken rice than a girlfriend. I already know this. I am a realist.


It is still too beastly cold in SF at this time. My right knee is far worse in this weather, and frigid winds are depressing, especially when one must be outdoors. Fortunately it was sunny. My internal monologue works overtime when I'm wandering around and freezing .
"Goeie hemel, da's een groot achtereind! Arm ding! That little girl there must be boiling with energy if she's comfortable wearing shorts in this weather. Oh, they've gone out of business, sad. This is where Ten Ren used to be, what is it now? Jayzus that's an overbite, he's possibly inbred, sounds it too. Great paint job on that car, dude, eye-catching. Tee-shirt!??! She's mentioned that that man is an idiot three times, oh, that's the fourth time. Cute little old woman, facemask, those leggings are jes' not right!
No, I should not stroke her purse thoughtfully and remark on the silky feeling human dermis-like surface, she'd think I'm a pervert.
It's good that it remains inside.

Excellent tobacco.

It sings.


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