Bonjour Peoples, I do hope you are hale and bursting with vigour. Heres my story, I choose to start itnow.
If you're adverse to toilet stories I'd stop reading.
As youre no doubt unaware because I have written about this before in my blog and well, peeps seldom read my blog, I had another Chinese food moment. Now there is absolutely no standardisation in the food industry for spice levels. Here I am at the incredibly incorrectly named Chinese resto called the Dumpling Palace which fucking defies every possible definition of palace. Another pet hate I may add, if you call your resto a palace I want to see a goddam fucking palace when I rock up. I want to be eating in a spacious dining hall with water features, frescoes and chandeliers of Brobdingnagian proportions. I want to be waited and fussed over by stupidly dressed staff with a fucking stuffed peacock for a hat. As it stands, the resto is a Spartan eating room with the barest essentials required for the consumption of food. This should have been my first clue.
Anyway I digress. The menu has pork dumplings in Peking sauce, next to this icons of two chillies. Two fucking chillies. Ok, the menu has a legend, four chillies is considered the apex of spicy-hot, so coming to the reasonable conclusion that two chillies will be half the strength of what I would consider to be fucking crazy hot, I thought it was a safe bet. Now I love hot food and am no greenhorn when it comes to spice, so I says, delightful Ill have the pork dumplings, I thinks to myself, they only have two chillies, fine for a work lunch, taste with a bit pepper. I receive my order and proceed to consume it with the ethusiastic relish uniquely reserved for the hungry. FUCKING TWO CHILLIES MY FUCKING ASS!
After the initial shock had subsided, when once again I was able to vocalise coherently and had wiped away the stinging sweat from eyes, I was tempted to get the waiter over and return the dish for something less abrasive. However, I did not do this, I did not want to appear feeble in front of my colleagues so I just toughed it out. I blamed my profuse sweating on the sweltering heat outside (it was 35 C (96 F for my mates across the deep) and my lack of involvement in conversation on the gusto I feined while eating that fucking plate of larva.
Id be happy to say it ended there, but no. I couldn't hide the tears, choking coughs and runny nose. I ended up getting the chills and things got surreal, fucking Salvador Dali surreal. Things were shiny, I was entering some sort of chilli induced psychotic episode. Getting out of my seat I was relieved to find I was ambulatory, I went to the mens to try and mop up my sweat, dry off my shirt and find where I had left my reality in hopes of returning soon. Clue number two, the brown Jackson Pollocks festering in each stall, well fucking hello! No salubrious location to unload the hot faecal magma turning my quivering colon into a furnace of unpleasantness. The afternoon was hell, my digestive system traumatised, my ass sphincter vandalised.
Moral of the story, if someone says they're taking you to a palace for lunch insist on it. Dont trust Chinese restaurants and their chilli ratings and check the bathrooms before eating, the appearance of appalling human waste will be your litmus test for the quality and trustworthiness of food.
If you're adverse to toilet stories I'd stop reading.
As youre no doubt unaware because I have written about this before in my blog and well, peeps seldom read my blog, I had another Chinese food moment. Now there is absolutely no standardisation in the food industry for spice levels. Here I am at the incredibly incorrectly named Chinese resto called the Dumpling Palace which fucking defies every possible definition of palace. Another pet hate I may add, if you call your resto a palace I want to see a goddam fucking palace when I rock up. I want to be eating in a spacious dining hall with water features, frescoes and chandeliers of Brobdingnagian proportions. I want to be waited and fussed over by stupidly dressed staff with a fucking stuffed peacock for a hat. As it stands, the resto is a Spartan eating room with the barest essentials required for the consumption of food. This should have been my first clue.
Anyway I digress. The menu has pork dumplings in Peking sauce, next to this icons of two chillies. Two fucking chillies. Ok, the menu has a legend, four chillies is considered the apex of spicy-hot, so coming to the reasonable conclusion that two chillies will be half the strength of what I would consider to be fucking crazy hot, I thought it was a safe bet. Now I love hot food and am no greenhorn when it comes to spice, so I says, delightful Ill have the pork dumplings, I thinks to myself, they only have two chillies, fine for a work lunch, taste with a bit pepper. I receive my order and proceed to consume it with the ethusiastic relish uniquely reserved for the hungry. FUCKING TWO CHILLIES MY FUCKING ASS!
After the initial shock had subsided, when once again I was able to vocalise coherently and had wiped away the stinging sweat from eyes, I was tempted to get the waiter over and return the dish for something less abrasive. However, I did not do this, I did not want to appear feeble in front of my colleagues so I just toughed it out. I blamed my profuse sweating on the sweltering heat outside (it was 35 C (96 F for my mates across the deep) and my lack of involvement in conversation on the gusto I feined while eating that fucking plate of larva.
Id be happy to say it ended there, but no. I couldn't hide the tears, choking coughs and runny nose. I ended up getting the chills and things got surreal, fucking Salvador Dali surreal. Things were shiny, I was entering some sort of chilli induced psychotic episode. Getting out of my seat I was relieved to find I was ambulatory, I went to the mens to try and mop up my sweat, dry off my shirt and find where I had left my reality in hopes of returning soon. Clue number two, the brown Jackson Pollocks festering in each stall, well fucking hello! No salubrious location to unload the hot faecal magma turning my quivering colon into a furnace of unpleasantness. The afternoon was hell, my digestive system traumatised, my ass sphincter vandalised.
Moral of the story, if someone says they're taking you to a palace for lunch insist on it. Dont trust Chinese restaurants and their chilli ratings and check the bathrooms before eating, the appearance of appalling human waste will be your litmus test for the quality and trustworthiness of food.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
or whichever address resembles this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l5I2vEcVC_I