The Real Reason for Bottle Cages

...is to put a proper bottle in it, of course!

This is an old pic I came across. I grabbed a snapshot using the lame camera on my phone after returning home from a cold, rainy ride from an Oktoberfest celebration. You gotta have proper hydration on those late fall rides.

Worst. Chinese Food. Ever. EVER.

I teased you, my dear and loyal readers (even though I don't even have 16 loyal fans), about the worst Chinese restaurant. I'll get the critical information out of the way right now: New China Garden at the corner of SE Powell and SE 148th.

I first went to some Chinese restaurant on Division and approximately 160th. I locked up my bicycle and walked inside. Upon entry, I was smacked in the face with a heavy stench of cigarette smoke. There was also a plethora of posters for lottery games, specially designed to be alluring to people who are extremely bad with math. Nobody acknowledged my obviously mathematically-capable presence for about two minutes. As a matter of fact, I didn't see anyone for those two minutes. If the cook was dead behind the counter, I really did not want to find out because, dammit, I was hungry.

So I jumped back on the bicycle and the first place I came across was the aforementioned New China Garden. I don't know what they grow in this garden, but it is definitely not tasty Chinese food. I think this is more one of those gardens that have been forgotten, and the local cats use it as their litter box.

This place also stank of smoke, but not nearly as bad as the first place. Lottery ads were similarly projectile-vomited all over the place. Just about every available square inch of window space was covered with an ad for some stupid lottery game. But this place had a promising look to it. In most cities where I have lived, this look of greasy hole-in-the-wall pretty much guarantees excellent food. This rule does not hold true in the wilds of outer southeast Portland.

For starters, I ordered "General Chicken."

That should have been a clue to me, but hey, we all have our Engrish and Chinglish moments. Some people make a living of it. Although you'd think some proofreading might be in order for something as restaurant mission-critical as the menu. I also ordered the "Shrimp Noodle with Vegetable." I was really hoping that this did not mean I would be getting one noodle and one vegetable.

They had no clue what I requested, despite the fact that I was standing there with their menu and pointing at the items I wanted. The guy who took my order looked like he not only just got off the banana boat, but forgot to bring pick up his brain when he got off. So then a woman came out of the kitchen and asked me what I wanted. And again, I pointed at the menu and they looked at me like I was asking for the same lobotomy with which they were infected. This form of lobotomy must be contagious because I cannot imagine more than two people in such a small radius having the same brand of stupidity.

I am waxing vitriolic here and I realize it. But if you have ever craved that certain food when no other food would do, and then got utterly let down, you probably understand why I am filled with so many bad things to say. It's my own little "Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle." Except I never got to my own personal White Castle, dammit.

The chicken was burned to a nasty crisp. See that black stuff?

It's not carmelization. It's carbon. How does that happen? I didn't order blackened chicken. And how does so much get burned? Don't you think the chef would have realized that the food was burning? And it tastes much worse than it looks. Why is it, when I want a picture to show how bad something is, it comes out looking good? And when I want a picture to show how great something is, it looks like hell.

My "shrimp noodle?"

That's not sauce in which the noodles are drowning. It is water. With a hint of corn starch. And nothing else. About the only saving graces of this entire meal were that the vegetables were not overcooked and the food was so bad that I had no guilt in throwing it all away.

This expeirence has resulted in Wayne's Rules for Take-out Food.
If lottery ticket sales seem to be pivotal to the business model, the lottery ticket is probably more palatable than the food. Buy the lotto ticket and eat it. By eating it, you're just about guaranteed better flavor and much better value.

The bouquet of old cigarette smoke is not a good accompaniment for food. Much as I enjoy a Nat Sherman or a fine cigar after a good meal, I don't want to have to smell others' stale smoke. The key word here is "stale." I suspect that most people feel exactly the same way. As such, if eau de fumee is the overarching olfactory note upon entering an establishment, the food is probably going to suck. Eat the leavings in the ashtray; it has better flavor and much better value.

The staff, especially the cook and owners, should probably demonstrate extensive knowledge of the menu. We can overlook typos and minor grammatical errors. Major grammatical and translation errors are the realm of the Engrish sites. But I should not have to sing and dance to explain the menu to the cook. If the cook does not understand the menu, eat it; it has better flavor and much better value.

And finally, always, always, always look at your take-out food before leaving. Sure, they package it up in that delightfully Asian manner that guarantees you can never properly close the package again. But it was going to leak everywhere in your [pick one:backpack/car/waterproof pannier/best friend's new leather seats] anyway. It doesn't matter how hungry you are to eat that food. Imagine the compounding on your pissed-ratio when you're bitch-hungry and the awesome food you just got home turns out to be a dud. This has been a public service announcement by your friendly neighborhood Wayne.