Downtown Sydney. Friday night. Christmas is approaching.
The sidewalk are alive with office party survivors; many have extreme difficulty putting one foot in front of the other.
Then there are the marching powder victims. Eyes spinning like fruit machines.
I had a sudden desire for peace and quiet; and a desperate (and unusual) need for some sweet and sour pork, old school.
I choose my Chinese eatery carefully; it looked peaceful enough; half empty but largely populated by Asians.
All good, then, until an ancient-looking musician with an old Chinese instrument began making a caterwauling noise in the doorway.
The restaurant owner/manager was unimpressed and a massive shouting/pushing match ensued.
The Mr Miyagi lookalike eventually retreated, only to inexplicably return a few minutes later, taking a seat in the eatery and resuming the altercation.
After much secondary shouting he eventually left. Ambience shattered.
When I went to pay the owner/manager refused to let me pay. Good hospitality. And the sweet and sour hit the spot.
The sidewalk are alive with office party survivors; many have extreme difficulty putting one foot in front of the other.
Then there are the marching powder victims. Eyes spinning like fruit machines.
I had a sudden desire for peace and quiet; and a desperate (and unusual) need for some sweet and sour pork, old school.
I choose my Chinese eatery carefully; it looked peaceful enough; half empty but largely populated by Asians.
All good, then, until an ancient-looking musician with an old Chinese instrument began making a caterwauling noise in the doorway.
The restaurant owner/manager was unimpressed and a massive shouting/pushing match ensued.
The Mr Miyagi lookalike eventually retreated, only to inexplicably return a few minutes later, taking a seat in the eatery and resuming the altercation.
After much secondary shouting he eventually left. Ambience shattered.
When I went to pay the owner/manager refused to let me pay. Good hospitality. And the sweet and sour hit the spot.
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