HARK, HE DECLAIMS!

The loony gentleman exposing his plumber's bits, described a few days ago, was on Kearny Street screaming at invisible people. With gesticulation. And more plumber's bits exposed.
I saw him after purchasing some fancy ciggies (Yellow Crane Pavilion: 黃鶴樓煙 'wong hok lau yin') at a place which lacks a license to sell smokes. Two packs. Quite pleased with that. Once more the tax man has been flummoxed, Brendan Behan would approve, even though they aren't Woodbines with the lovely old-timey label art. The working classes (me) have to be kept happy, otherwise they will bloodily revolt.

I had strolled past the place after having lunch at a different place than I had originally intended, because I dawdled too long before leaving the apartment, and felt certain that the fatty pork would be all gone when I got there. I'll save it for sometime next week. The place where I ended up seems to be popular among the kwailo. Which is understandable, because it's bright and clean and cheery. At one point us foreigners outnumbered the Chinese two to one. And the nearest Chinese person couldn't read Chinese so he ordered in English.

蠔油窩蛋碎牛肉飯 = oyster sauce minced beef with a raw egg over rice. I think next time I'll ask them to not include the egg, as timing is everything and the egg had no chance to even slightly unraw itself.

For a second I considered that fancy parties with a chocolate fountain -- which is vulgar and tacky, and that chocolate is probably garbage -- are just begging for people to dip their fried chicken legs from the buffet in it. Which is neither here nor there, and doesn't actually relate to lunch in any way. And absolutely nothing there is chocolate.

On a different note entirely, always pat down a man of god, any damned denomination, before allowing him into the building. Which also does not relate to lunch.


Yellow Crane Pavilion Cigarettes were the prefered smoke of famous poets Li Bai (李白 'lei paak') and Cui Hao (崔顥 'cheui hou'). As is well-attested! Unlike many habitues of the Caffè Trieste, who spouted bad verse beatnik-style at the drop of a hat, both gentlemen were known for a keen sense of rythm and rhyme, and crafted excellent lines.
They are sadly lamented since their passing.



Plumber's bits dude may or may not have the gift of poetry, in addition to a ready tongue for screamed calumny and obscenity. He will undoubtedly establish a gilded reputation among the easily excited clientele of the coffee shops in North Beach.
He is creative and theatrical.
An artist.



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