It'd been about a month since I last walked through the doors of Food Chow Kitchen. A masochistic pleasure that happens after alcohol themed evenings, long days at work or because you feel like walking up the Slope to Red Hot II. As far as chinese in the city goes: the seedier, (read: glaring florescent lights, handwritten/faded signs and various trinkets for sale) the better. The food will be made quickly, come piping hot and will be presented in abundance. It's cheap. You can count on leftovers. I walked in, the cashier grinned playfully, "Long time-" The phone interrupted. He snatched it up, "FOOD CHOW, Hi how are you? Ok, Ok, Ok, Anything else? Ok." Click. The usual drill. No name or number is asked for. He turns around and yells in Chinese to the busying cooks. Back to me, "The usual?"
"No, just honey garlic with wonton."
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As per usual, I'm regretting the choice to Food-Chow-it now. A heightened sense of pain stemming from a lost tolerance. The more you eat, the easier it gets. Then again, the more you drink, the easier it gets- but that doesn't get anyone anywhere. It is what it is. Vadim likes the sesame chicken, I tend to lean for the honey garlic and wonton soup. There isn't anything on the menu that stands out as spectacular. Stick to what you know.
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