Mo' Money, Mo' Pro'lems (12/20/10, Later That Day)

The complex is fecund with food plants: papaya tree, star fruit tree, coffee shrubs...

And then this one bush with tiny, cream-colored flowers that smell like gardenias on the verge of rotting, like pua keni keni, like some too sweet, provocative, dying thing:





My paternal grandparents were farmers, growing mostly everything, vegetables and such, the whole hog (literally) for their own sustenance, but then table grapes to sell fo' cash money. So, after the touching moments inside the house (not really, more intuited than expressed), we go out to look at the grapevines. It's well past harvest now, so everything's dessicated, old, and gnarly (like my heart! or vagina!):





And then to the temple (Daoist??) that stands on land my grandfather donated; his name and the name of an uncle is listed on this benefactor's plaque--not that I could pick 'em out if ya held a gun to my head, and in fact, it could say "Always plug your butthole with nonporous items" for all I know...):





Do not enter through large middle door--it is reserved for the gods, VIP-only entrance, you better be orderin' bottle service and double mags of Moet, son:





One enters through either of the side doors, per my uncle:





Beware the...lions. (Apparently, these lions have powerful mythic protective elements. Aaarrrr~!)





Ghost money to be burned and, it goes without saying, converted into currency for use in the after life. I'm dead, but I'm ballin':





The dude in the middle, I fink he's important:





The back sides of the doors are kinda dope:





Dude's like, "two fangers, motherfucker!"





And now for the good part, and goddamn me for wearing jeans: the obligatory treating to a massive meal. To what? To show one's love? To welcome long-absent relatives? To show you're a baller, shot caller? (There's gotta be a beettteerr way, better way...yeah!)


Yes, when it comes to fine dining, I always look for the pillars of "Speciaity," "Exact," and "Care".



I don't know when this started happening or if I just never noticed, but the first course is a massive boat of sushi:





I take a piece of cooked squid, not because I want it, but because I don't want to look greedy, because I'm trying to not be greedy, which is like telling the sun not to shine.


Boring, blech; do not want.



And then I immediately wonder where they're judging me for being the dumbass that picks the goddamn cooked squid, like "who is this barbarian American? Why don't you just eat the tablecloth, fuckface?"

This comes out next, and it is fuckin' exciting: shrimp cooked at the table in a wok filled with sea salt. The anticipation builds:





Pescado. Pan-fried and smothered in green onion and ginger, basically what cilantro is to the Mexican and Thai, green onion and ginger is to the Chinese.





Soup's on: some kind of pumpkin-ish (kabocha, maybe?) thing, fake crab, shrimp, and pencil eraser-sized scallops. De-lish.





Pork course: crispy skin flaking away from the tender flesh; sour, pickled mustard root. Jesus...Christ on a cracker:





Sorry, y'all. I dunno what the fuck this is.





The shrimp's done at last--all flare and not that much flavor:





Slices of Chinese sausages with varying fat content on a bed of sticky (greasy, delicious) rice:





I don't know where we got this idea--the double-baked potato skin with a mayo-cheese (among other things) mixture. I'm guessing it's some corruption of the American dish, part of the whole hybridized steakhouse experience (more on this later).





Sauteed pea shoots, shiitake mushrooms...





Random...Cantonese...siumai...in regular...and...green?





And because the Chinese are renowned pastry chefs, the piece de resistance:



Et voila! A fruit plate!