Dear Tim

I've been working in Newhaven's Chinese Take Away for over three months now.  The money's limited but helpful; the free food is a bonus; but the real reason I do the job is to witness first hand the revolution in logical theory that takes place every Friday night.

The most regular type is the accusation of homosexuality.  Typical in its extraordinariness was the fellow who came in just after Christmas.  He had greasy black hair, the leathery skin of a labourer, was poorly dressed and was struggling to reach 5'5".  He had also let the local hops get the better of him.  He may have been drunk and short but he started promisingly enough.  He had no trouble ordering a Special Fried Rice.  One fellow came in so drunk and toothless I doubted we were communicating in the same language.  After three attempts to decipher his request I gave up and put it down as chicken curry and chips.  He'd probably only come to ask for change for the phone.  But at least he paid up.

It was on receiving his order that my fellow ran into all sorts of difficulties.  He wanted a spoon.  Plastic spoons are five pence a pop and I informed of this as I bent down for the spoon box.  "5p for a tea spoon?", he exclaimed with an unwarranted credulity.

"No, it's a full sized spoon", I replied flatly used to every calibre of whinge in regard to price.  "I want a metal tea spoon.", he informed me with a gathering head of earnestness.  "I am afraid we don't have any metal tea spoons", I lied flatly.

"Yes you f***ing do", he responded with impeccable accuracy.

"I'm afraid we really don't.  The Chinese use chopsticks not teaspoons." I surprised myself with the effortlessness of lying; he had never occurred to me before how the business world could create entire parallel dimensions of fictional reality from the most insignificant of disputes.  "Go and look in the f***ing kitchen", he demanded, unperturbed by my explanation.  "I'm very sorry", I continued seamlessly, "I look in the kitchen often and I have yet to see a metal teaspoon."

Up until now he had been doing very well in our argument; refusing to be deflected from his essential point.  However I felt he was never far away from falling in to the trap that short men with intense drinking habits often set for themselves when engaging in a dialectic exercise.

"You're a queer.  D'YA HEAR ME?  YOU'RE A F***ING QUEER'.

When I first returned to England defenders of the family had been concerned that the presence of Dale Winton on morning television might reduce the numbers of heterosexual men in this country.  Apparently they had nothing to fear: a cupboard well stocked with metal teaspoons and available to passing members of the public would be enough to save any potential pervert from his evil ways.  Too many plastic spoons, that had been my problem; and no amount of procreating could save me from my fall.

I would have asked him to elaborate as I felt I had missed his point, but unfortunately he had noticed that our door was in serious need of being stormed out of, and he duly obliged.  However he was good enough to inform a couple taking a stroll passed the shop of his suspicions regarding my sexual orientation.

Another fellow, with a spider tattoo on his ear lobe curiously enough, came to the same conclusion.  His reasoning had a similar enough theme for me to wonder about my own assumptions regarding logical progression.  Fortunately I wasn't required to refuse him a metal teaspoon; merely inform him of our inability to provide him with class A narcotics, as we limited ourselves to the supply of Chinese food.  He also had urgent desire to communicate his discovery of my sexual orientation to others, telling two lads who had been peacefully waiting for a packet of chips each.  Interestingly this inspired them to start complaining about the vinegar.

Another common breed who regularly challenge my view of reality are the observers of racial type.  Usually this is limited in its extent.  They enter the take away intently wanting their sweet and sour chicken balls and special fried rice, look up, and find me smiling down on them.

"You're not Chinese", they exclaim genuinely concerned that they are being robbed of their Oriental experience.

"No, I'm not', I always reply, worried that I might sound sarcastic, "but the chefs Chinese.  "The chefs Chinese is he?", they ask just a fraction too late.

"Yes he is", I assure them.

"Well, I'll have sweet and sour chicken balls and special fried rice."

However conversations needn't always be like this.  One middle aged lady rushed through the door exclaiming, "You're not particularly Chinese !"

"I'm not particularly Chinese.", I replied helpfully.  She just stood and looked at me with an intense expectation which I could only respond to with a wan smile.

"That's all I came into say.", she finally added as it became apparent that I wasn't going to help her out any more than I had done.

"Thank you very much." I said reeling I had to conclude the conversation somehow.  At which point she left with as much of a flurry as she had on entering.

I saw her a couple of weeks later the week before Chinese New Year.  The shop was a lot fuller, but she entered with the same flurry announcing her arrival.

"Is it Chinese New Year!", she exclaimed to the world in general.

I took it upon myself to answer as I had had previous experience and the other customers were too busy being aghast to concern themselves with the Chinese dating system.  "No, not until next week." "Oh s**t !", she interjected, "my son-in-law said it was, but I wouldn't listen, and I've got all dressed up for tonight." At which point she flipped round, slipping her overcoat down from her shoulders, showing me the back of a silk shirt with a dragon embroiled on.  I barely had time to say 'that's nice', before she had flipped her coat back on to her shoulders and was vigorously thrusting out her lapel.  It took me a second or two for me to register the bright red object which was attached to her lapel and was the purpose of her vigorous thrusting.

"It's the year of the Ox, you know: but I couldn't get an ox, so I've used a packet of Oxo cubes instead.  What do you think." All the while she was thrusting it in each customer's face.  I declined a comment.

 

The last main category of revolutionary is the whinger.  Usually the whinge is about the price, or about the time it takes to cook.  I have no sympathy with either complaint and make no effort to hide it.  On price I tell people point blank that if they don't like it they can go someone else. I know full well they won't get better value because we have a list of rival price lists in the back.  Only one person has ever taken me up on this.  Complaints about the time it takes to cook I meet with a quick explanation as to the laws of nature needing to be obeyed, and then ignore them.

There are customers who are more experimental in their whinging.  One fellow comes in once a fortnight Saturday evening 6pm regular as clockwork.  He's always drunk, and always asks for BBQ spare ribs.  He always waits for me to write down the order, and always, bloody always, asks me if the spare ribs are any goods.  "Yes", I always say.  To which he always adds, "Because the last time I came in I had these and they were awful.  Can you tell the chef to do them better this time."

By last week my patience was wearing thin.  "Look", I said firmly, "the chef is going to do them the same this week as he always does them.  If you don't like the way he does them I advise that you order something else or go someone else."

"No, no mate, I'll have the ribs."

Most customers actually compliment the food, although I have had to deal with one serious complaint.  A woman phoned up one Saturday evening.

"Good evening, Jade Garden." I proclaimed in my usual cheery manner.

'I bought a meal at your take away, last Thursday.", she informed me, "I spent over £30; it was for me and some friends.  We don't get together very often, and when do see each other it's a real treat." She paused. I paused; wondering whether there might be point to all this, but not liking to jump the gun.  "The evening was ruined.", she finally added.

"I'm sorry to hear that.", I said,

"We all got food poisoning from the Chinese take away I bought from you", she told me.

"That's awful", I replied insincerely, "I'm truly very sorry." I thought the 'truly' was a nice ironic touch.

"We had all been looking forward to that [the 'that', I quickly assumed, didn't refer to the food poisoning] for a long time, and it was ruined because we were all ill."

"I don't know what to say, I'm really very sorry." She paused after I had said this. I knew she was looking for something more tangible than my apology; she knew I knew: she was the one paying the phone bill, so I continued to wait.

"I want my money back", she finally said and was the phrase she had been looking for all along, "none of us ate anything else all day, and the only thing any of us ate was that Chinese meal."

The ice was finally broken, and it was time for me to test the waters: "Do you have any idea which dish caused the damage"

"What do you mean ?"

"Well you were all ill, did you all try every dish?"

"Hold on." I held on as she held an impromptu discussion.  When she returned to the phone she announced, "The prawns", with an air of finality.

"Are you sure it was the prawns ?"

"Yes"

"There was no other dish that all of you had?"

"No"

"The rice perhaps ?" I continued.

"No, the only thing we all ate was the sweet and sour king prawn balls"

"You see that's our most popular dish, and no-one else has rung up to complain about food poisoning." Only the first element in that statement was an inspiration, the second was definitely true.

"I know lots of people who have suffered from food poisoning after eating at your take away.", she replied desperately.

"But none have complained to us.", I explained not bothering to ask why she had took the risk herself if she knew so many victims.,

"Will you give me my money back", she persisted.

"Did you keep any of the prawns for analysis ?" I knew what the answer would be.

"No, we ate them." I detected a slight hint of irritation entering her voice.  It was time for me to stop playing.

"Certainly there is enough evidence for me to assume that we were to blame, and on the basis of this assumption I can extend my sincerest apologies, however I don't think you have presented me with enough material to establish any kind of liability, and recompense may be misunderstood as a admission of liability which may expose us to unwarranted claims.  Much as I regret it I really do not have the scope to make this kind of implicit admission.  Once again I am sincerely sorry that you have suffered."

"So are you going to give me my money back ?"

"No."

We had reached an impasse.  There was a dramatic pause.

"I want my money back." Her irritation was evident; she clearly hadn't expected a degree level lawyer.

"Do you want to speak to the manager ?' I was improvising now.

"Why not"

I called over Mrs Li, recently over from Malaysia and struggling with the English language.  Katherine came in later and explained what the conversation had been about.  No-one got any money back.

 

Yours

Nick