Light faded from the western sky and the faintest glimmer of yellow speckled the clouds. Evening was fast approaching and I sat at the dining room table reading a copy of Harry Potter--a solid preparation for academic debate on constitutional democracy in societies marked by ethnic conflict.
The slightest beginning of hunger began etching the hour. Earlier, that very morning, I had canvassed the neighborhood, in search of a perfect place to have dinner. Just four blocks from the "Palace by the Sea" was a small Chinese restaurant.
The No. 1. Chinese Restaurant, located two blocks south of Tubman Blvd. makes a bold claim--to possess the best Chinese food in the world. Now, one normally questions such a statement, but do not fret, if one wants the best Chinese food in the world, I guess one travels to Liberia, West Africa.
"You ready to get a bite to eat," exclaimed Stephan, from the corner of the room. Quickly, I looked up and glanced at my watch. Six Forty-Five. "Sure, I'm hungry, where would you like to eat," I responded. "Didn't you say that there is a Chinese restaurant about two blocks from here?" "Yeah, let me get my bag and we can leave."
Moments later, we were marching down the street, in search of truth and knowledge--does Africa really have the best Chinese food in the world?
In a short fifteen minute walk, we had arrived at a small compound, marked clearly as the No. 1 Chinese Restaurant. The hostess showed us a booth and left quickly to gather a set of menus. She returned quickly and sat down beside me--pointing clearly to dishes marked "Dinner". Yes, I thought. I guess they leave no room for interpretation here. I gazed at the menu and settled for the cabbage and bean noodle--not really fully appreciating what that involved.
A short hour and a half later, we were served dinner. We ate what was undoubtedly the most average Chinese food anyone has ever encounter. As I sat, chewing my bean noodle and cabbage, I glanced around. A young man who must be working for an international organization had stepped into the restaurant and sat down. Once again, the hostess sat down beside him and was explaining the menu. "Thorough," I thought. "They must really care about customer service in Liberia," I mused.
Soon after, we finished our meals and headed back to the Palace by the Sea. "Where did you boys eat tonight," asked Beth, the operator of the compound. "At a Chinese restaurant not far from here," I responded. "Ohhhh, I have an interesting story, about that place to tell you," she continued. Now, it should be known that there are never a stories that end well that begins with "I have an interesting story to tell you!"
Beth elaborated, "A few months ago, the local paper ran a story about the Chinese restaurant being a front for prostitution. It appears that the ladies who work there have other jobs--in other words, they don't just serve food, the serve other...long pause...they serve other things." "Ahhhh, that explains a lot," I said. "It was kind of odd that they were all wearing low cut blouses, high heals, an extreme amount of makeup, and would practically sit in your lap while you were ordering," I continued. ...another long pause... "So, in that case, is the food safe?," I remarked.
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