zwanzig-20

27/3/2011

After camping in study town for quite a long stretch, I decided to break out of my “jail cell” and get on with a walking trip with my buddy in the 5 streets area.

We took a public bus to the area, and the bus route was right in the middle of the district. We got off, unsure which direction to start walking from. To make things better (or worse), there were black plagues of stone placed about 15m away from each other, showing the different postal codes and the rank of protection authorized by the district government (general protection for normal houses, very special protection for residences of key historical figures), and we had fun walking down the street, trying to get the postal codes in order. I must say being a postman in the past isn’t the best job around. The codes were arranged in such a way it was hard to get the running order. Even if you did, it was gone whenever there was a turn. After getting horribly lost in the area, we decided to stop for lunch in a small “district” called 安乐村 for a bite. We stumbled across a small eatery and experienced a very different kind of customer service.

When we walked in, the place felt as though it had closed for a nap. The television was on, and the boss and his assistant seemed like in the middle of their lunch (which looked rather nice, with a number of side vegetables) and the boss proceeded to let us take our order. The eatery felt like a eating area of a house kitchen and the pace was rather relaxed and easygoing, unlike in Singapore restaurants where everything is about “chop chop”, “fast fast” and “hurry up”. He took his own time to prepare the food, letting the food take its own time to cook, and then served it to us, no trouble at all. I think that should be the way we should be cooking; we cook for the taste and heat, and not as a necessity to fill the stomach. Nevertheless, I managed to finish what looked like a giant bowl of noodles, and I think that was another good meal in a long while.

Talk about swinging to the other side,

After lunch, we proceeded to the Italian food street. The Italian food street had cobbled line roads and eateries along the way, and it was streamed with tourists. Seeing a desert shop, we went in, eager to try the cakes. The waitress at the counter showed us to the counter with different deserts on display. Before we could decide fully on what we wanted, she was already staring at us, with her pen poised on the paper, eager to catch my order. I was taken aback by her impatience. Upon placing our order (1 cheesecake slice to be shared), she asked us whether we would be eating it in the shop or outside. Seeing the look on her face, I quickly decided to take it outside and dragged my buddy out of the shop. Even when I paused to take a photo of the interior, I felt as though we were being chased out by the waitress for bringing in a little business. The worst was when we stepped out on the street; my buddy overheard someone saying to another, “That desert shop? Don’t go in.”

Maybe that explains the poor business the shop has. Even if their cakes are good, I would not come back, given a choice. I don’t feel welcome inside it, like a stranger.