THE WRITER’S LIFE
Far be it from me to post a restaurant review, because I never have. I’ve dined at the odd fictional place I made up because I don’t get out much, so what good would it do to post an opinion on a real place? It’d probably get as many more visitors to a Chinese takeaway as I might expect sales of a book if a restaurant were to review one of mine.
SlashFilm article, on Asian cultures and characters
In the interests of reporting all which needn’t trouble the world outside my own, and in supporting local business, this week I visited a China just up the road.
It’s rare that I get out, let alone as far as the Asian continent. I went to France once on a family holiday, and happened to be in Chicago on a business trip when the world’s political axis was tipped on 9/11. I don’t fear the wider world any more than I do the planet in my head, which still makes travelling a challenge.
At the most recent surveilance of the horizons in my mind’s world, it was a narrow perspective. Rather than gazing and wondering outward, I was looking in; kind of like having a telescope round the wrong way.
The limited stocks of food I had wouldn’t go to waste, but my miscomprehension of why I eat told me I didn’t fancy what I had to hand: Such a first world problem. As I contemplated what to think about cooking and eating, the paradigm was shifted by a neighbour.
The kind of guy who’d offer you unsolicited advice at a pub fruit machine, my friend is harmless if humoured, and a social tenant like me with a past. Nevertheless, when I had no instant coffee which he’d forgotten to buy in the morning, he asked me if I’d make him one of my nice filter ones (which I did).
Like me, my neighbour doesn’t get out much. So I decided to save both me and him further bother by going out to buy him some instant coffee. Then I wondered why I was out on my own in the dark. To solve problems, I guessed: Those of others, which might alleviate my own. As fresh as the coffee I’d just bought from Tesco Metro, the air drew my attention to my local Chinese takeaway.
I’ve lived here for two years, but I’ve never troubled the local cuisine. I’m happier instead to buy food to look at (and sometimes not cook) from the supermarket. So I crossed the road.
I wasn’t particularly hungry and neither did I want to eat, but both were down to my own inaction. I forced myself to eat by buying a takeaway, from a place not unlike many whose windows I’d gaze through longingly when I was homeless.
For all of twenty minutes, I was back on the streets again, but now looking out on a world in which I had a home to return to. It brought back memories, so I reverted to type and ordered what I always used to: sweet and sour king prawn balls, with rice vermicelli, Singapore style. The walk home was less eventful than the paranoid mind imagines, and nothing happened.
The words “Fresh” rest uneasily in my mind with Chinese takeaway, but my king prawns were somehow new in their batter, the sauce not like that I remember from artificiality, and the noodles disguising nothing but the sweetness of fresh chillis from that other continent, just outside my door.
It’s a place called “Lovely”, it’s right on my doorstep and it helped me find my way, by way of Chinese takeaway. It also served well as a day-after snack, where the measure is now less of a hangover cure and more about preserving food inside the body.
Once upon a time, I shared many meals from China and around the world with others, without actually going there. This week, I fed myself with a breath of outside air. I don’t go out much, and it’s no wonder when I’m let loose for a few minutes and all this happens. It’s a reminder of why I’m not allowed to roam free-range and why I just write about it. Anyone passing through and who can’t be arsed to cook, should call into a lovely place not a million miles from me.
I guess I just used this post to write.