A few weeks ago I decided to go to a tiny restaurant that I’ve never been to. I’ve been past it many times, but I have never been inside. So, I decided to head there one day after work, eat some food and do some writing. This is what I wrote:
Sitting in a restaurant I imagine fits the description of all ‘Chinese Restaurants’ that graced the main streets of small towns in Saskatchewan. Plastic cloths on less than a dozen tables. Faded Christmas decorations adorn the support beams and door jamb. The walls are a yellow that, for some reason, reminds me of a grandma’s summer kitchen from the forties. The menu is slightly unfamiliar – wonton soup along side pork and melon fried rice. The chairs look as though they were rescued from an older, dirtier Chinese restaurant – metal frames with faded red plastic seats and backs. My server is in the kitchen chatting with the cook. I don’t know what they’re saying since I don’t understand any Chinese dialects. They sound angry – I’m sure they’re not. German sounds like that to me, too. Clipped and curt and a little angry. I read my book and drink ice water from a big plastic cup. I’m sure there are more germs in a plastic cup than a glass one. But I have yet to be poisoned in a restaurant, so I don’t worry about it. The soup I ordered arrives in a big bowl with a ladle and the server gives me a smaller bowl and one of those wide, shallow spoons that you can only find in Asian restaurants and markets. It’s good – the broth is refreshing, not salty. The meatballs are extremely tasty. The noodles are invisible. They’re so thin and clear, they surprise me when I pull them out on the ladle. I spend, maybe, forty-five minutes eating and reading and not worrying about the cleanliness of the kitchen. It’s one of those places I like – homey and little rough around the edges – the food was good, plentiful and cheap. I’ll probably go back again.
I just might use that Chinese restaurant in something