18 September, 2006 (Monday) Toronto, Canada
It's 11pm on a Monday night and wonder of wonders I'm not carrying heavy plates across a busy restaurant. Instead I'm here at home, enjoying some down time. (It does happen now and then.) In the world outside Winter is coming. I can feel it already - there's more of a chill in the air. Tonight it is raining. Drizzling. The air feels cleaner for it.
Anyway, at this moment I'm somewhat removed from the rain - I'm slurping my way through a styrofoam bowl of beef congee (a chinese rice porridge). I didn't feel like cooking tonight, despite having shopped yesterday, so I asked my housemate Benita (she's full of answers, from international relations to the best place to buy snow peas) for take-out recommendations. Unfortunately, by the time I got out the door most of the places were closed. I ended up at the infamous Kom Jug Yuen (think about it... pronounced Kum), looking through their take-out menu.
Kom Jug is located on Spadina, just across from where I live. The place is open late most nights, 4am over the weekend. I hear it can attract quite the crowd. It's a ramshackle little place, with a counter bearing peeling stickers and faded yellow walls decorated with cardboard posters advertising menu items "Spring Roll special $1.00##". There's a big couldron resting on a flickering gas stove in the main room, puffing clouds of steam.
As I sat and waited for my take-out I was entertained by the proprietor (at least I assume hs is), a little chinese man with a black visor who was chopping away at a duck that had moments before decorated his front window. A steady stream of local denizens passed in and out while I waited; a handful of young chinese folk who quickly ordered and left, a few weather beaten caucasians with matted beards, and one or two other randoms.
When I paid for my dinner the old man cautioned me on my bag carrying technique - too much swing spills porridge. We started to chat and after complimenting me on my fine choice of meal, inquired as to my heritage. I gave him the simple run-down and he cackled cheerfully, explaining ethnic preferences when ordering Chinese take-out: White guys like noodles and Black guys like big hunks of fried meats. He concluded by introducing himself as Ping, as in "Ping Pong". Seemed like a nice old guy. For my part, I laughed dutifully before bidding him a good night. It was still raining outside.
Anyway, at this moment I'm somewhat removed from the rain - I'm slurping my way through a styrofoam bowl of beef congee (a chinese rice porridge). I didn't feel like cooking tonight, despite having shopped yesterday, so I asked my housemate Benita (she's full of answers, from international relations to the best place to buy snow peas) for take-out recommendations. Unfortunately, by the time I got out the door most of the places were closed. I ended up at the infamous Kom Jug Yuen (think about it... pronounced Kum), looking through their take-out menu.
Kom Jug is located on Spadina, just across from where I live. The place is open late most nights, 4am over the weekend. I hear it can attract quite the crowd. It's a ramshackle little place, with a counter bearing peeling stickers and faded yellow walls decorated with cardboard posters advertising menu items "Spring Roll special $1.00##". There's a big couldron resting on a flickering gas stove in the main room, puffing clouds of steam.
As I sat and waited for my take-out I was entertained by the proprietor (at least I assume hs is), a little chinese man with a black visor who was chopping away at a duck that had moments before decorated his front window. A steady stream of local denizens passed in and out while I waited; a handful of young chinese folk who quickly ordered and left, a few weather beaten caucasians with matted beards, and one or two other randoms.
When I paid for my dinner the old man cautioned me on my bag carrying technique - too much swing spills porridge. We started to chat and after complimenting me on my fine choice of meal, inquired as to my heritage. I gave him the simple run-down and he cackled cheerfully, explaining ethnic preferences when ordering Chinese take-out: White guys like noodles and Black guys like big hunks of fried meats. He concluded by introducing himself as Ping, as in "Ping Pong". Seemed like a nice old guy. For my part, I laughed dutifully before bidding him a good night. It was still raining outside.
posted by the wastrel @ 8:38 PM
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