My left ear is lower than my right. I can no longer harass my
mother for this, she's passed—however, with age came glasses. I have to
constantly adjust my eyeglasses to accommodate this lower-ear thing (which, by
the way, was always hidden under my long hair before I needed to station
anything on my face to see!). The adjustments finally caused one of the pieces that
is supposed to rest on my nose to break. I called my own and every other
optometrist in Oakhurst, hoping for a quick repair, only to hear “The Frame
Doctor” in Fresno would be my nearest remedy.
Imagine that: I get to go to Fresno. I don’t like going to Fresno;
I don’t even like spelling it. But there I am, driving to Fresno as if it
really isn’t a big deal. Of course, I turn right instead of left, finally
calling The Frame Doctor (Steve) who, after a “Wow, how’d you get way down
there?,” gives me accurate directions, ending in, “I’m behind the Valero
Station.” Now I hear and see the robot waving his arms yelling, “Danger, Danger,
Will Raggio!”
About a block away, I’m looking around the neighborhood and
getting a bit nostalgic; it reminds me of the place I grew up, the south
Bronx. I pull into a strip mall and park in front of the “doc’s.” As I get
out, my Subaru asks, “You’re not leaving me here, are you?” Okay, so maybe it
didn’t really say that, but I sure had issues leaving it parked there, hitting
the “lock” on my keychain button several times, I feel confident it’s secure
and walk into The Frame Doctor. Steve greets me with, “We don’t take checks” (I
guess I looked like check writer). I reply, “What’s a check?” and smile. Steve doesn’t.
He tells me it will be an hour and $40. We’re talking about the device that
helps me see, so what am I going to say? “$40 for that small piece of
plastic?!”
I’ve already driven 40 miles one way. I nod and look about the
mall for a place to eat. There is a Chinese restaurant around the corner
from Doc’s. I enter the darkened foyer and, after my eyes adjust, see a
man at his wok, furiously banging and waving his arms, very dramatic
indeed. A woman comes from the back and says, “What you want?” I respond on the beat, “Baby I got it …” . The face before me is rock.
So I look at the menu and I order beef chow mein, fried shrimp, and a Coke. She
asks, “Large or small?” I’m parched, (mostly from fear) and I say, after
clearing my throat, “Large.”
The cook, who is now not more than 15 feet away, listens to the woman,
who addresses him in Chinese, and turns to examine me, nodding in what I
believe is approval, and goes back to conducting his wok. I think it might
be the “no bean sprouts, no vegetables” part of the order that makes him
turn. The woman reaches down, takes out a Styrofoam cup the size of a
medium-sized vase. The straw is dwarfed by this massive container. I’m
biting down on my bottom lip not to smile or show any sign of weakness. I scoop
it up and take a seat facing the open door, and then realize I have to fill it.
Having done that, I turn to return to my seat; looking out the front door, I
see a raven the size of a small dog in the lot, eating broken glass. This is
one bad neighborhood!
I sit and continue watching as this raven starts to walk right
towards the open door. He’s not in the best of shape—a junkyard raven, no
doubt. Just as he or she gets to the door, the cook explodes in a tirade
of Chinese and runs at him, swinging his wok spoon wildly. I’m not seeing this,
I’m gonna wake up, my glasses intact—in fact, they never broke and it’s time
for coffee!
One swing and the raven jumps back and returns to his broken
glass, the cook muttering in Chinese (and I can tell he’s not muttering sweet
nothings), then goes back to banging and scraping on the wok. All the
while, people are coming in to pick up orders, nearly nonstop.
The woman finally brings my food over already in a plastic bag. I
tell her I’ll eat it here; she shrugs and leaves me with my meal. At this
point, I’m past being cautious or paranoid. The meal is reasonable, the Coke is
excessive, and the drama is entertaining as hell, but I’m thinking about what’s
inside the plastic bag. I cautiously remove two fold-over containers, place
them side by side, and open them. The chow mein is filled past the brim
and threatening to fall over the sides of the container. I pick it up just to
confirm what I’m seeing—it has got to be two pounds of noodles and it’s generously
mixed with pieces of beef. The fried shrimp is battered—thickly battered—and both
look incredible.
Both dishes taste past delicious! The cook looks back at me and I
give him a thumbs up. He returns almost a smile and nods, as if to say,
“Duh!” I can’t even begin to scratch the surface on either dish. I’m too
embarrassed to leave it, so I pack it up (after taking pictures). Who the hell
takes pictures of Chinese food, I’m thinking, and I walk back around the corner,
where I deposit some of the best Chinese food I’ve had in years in a garbage bin!
Subaru is intact and so are my glasses … True story, almost.
P.S. Steve did a great job!
