Everyone is familiar with the Chinese craving I think. At least, everyone in the first world. It’s like 6 in the afternoon and nothing in the fridge particularly peaks your interest. You’re not in the mood to dress up and eat fancy but at the same time, a vegetarian friend of yours showed you ‘Supersize me’ the other day and you can’t really look a big-mac in the eye right now. Then it dawns on you like a choir from the angels; you should get some Chinese food. This is exactly the situation that myself and a friend of mine, we’ll call him Matt, found ourselves in. I was staying at his place in Boston for the week and we were crashing hard on a Sunday night. We decided to bundle up a little and make our way down Nan Ling, 179 Massachusetts Ave. don’t go looking for it now, it’s closed down because apparently, there is a god.
The visit was like an LSD trip. Matt and I got to the place and we were standing outside talking about what to get. While we were discussing, three hooded Chinese men with that gangster limp thing going on, walked into the restaurant with drinks in their hand. They brushed past us and into the restaurant. Matt and I went back to talking, only to be stopped when we heard the waitress and the gang member people yelling at waitress in Chinese at an unbelievable volume. She started yelling back at them over the counter, but the head gangster lost his patience and emptied his drink on her head! She then reached down under the counter and pulled out the biggest fucking knife I’ve ever seen and the gangsters once again brushed past us as they ran the hell away!
I turned to Matt, who was apparently unfazed, and told him we should just go home and have noodles but he was having none of it. He went in and got our orders, despite the fact that Crocodile Dundee’s knife sat on the counter the entire time! When we got back to his apartment, we opened the up the various bowls and were greeted by a weird mess of giant portions of off coloured food. We were a little sceptical but dug in anyway. The rice was okay. The chicken was okay. But the sweat and sour sauce was the grossest thing I’ve ever eaten. It tasted like maple syrup and tears and I stopped eating immediately. Matt however, refused to waste the food and ate the rest of both of our portions.
Later that night, Matt and I were laughing, talking and riffing on the American electoral system. Suddenly, Matt’s eyes widened to the size of satellites and his stomach made a sound like a whale on fire. He then proceeded to spend the rest of the night locked in the toilet violently puking and shitting, but for some reason insisting that “everything is okay! I don’t need an ambulance—BLERUGH.”