Paper lanterns drip crimson tassels one on each side of the restaurant's entrance. A hand drawn specials list is loosely presticked to Doyu's* front window, while an inviting neon-red Open flashes brightly above a small metal gate. Colourful oriental creations hang from hooks on the plaster ceiling above a scratched but clean floor. The air is wet and wisps of steam seem to twist in time to the soft stereo music. I sit at a table facing into the restaurant, joining a pair of ornamental geese, a half used bottle of soy sauce and a plastic lantern, its wick floating in a luminous pink solution. My fingers brush across the table’s surface, rough against my hand. A young waitress approaches. She is wearing a synthetic green top rimmed with crispy gold and a pair of faded Levis jeans; her hair is smoothed off her face into a tight bun. She runs a damp cloth over the fine layer of dust coating my table. The faint smell of cleaning detergent lingers. An aged Chinese m
Writing from out of the mind of a somewhat serious, somewhat fun 20-something