I arrived at the hot pot restaurant before the dinner rush. However, this trendy establishment relied on an iPad merely to place a patron's name on the waiting list. The lanky host seemed confused when the app faltered, and crashed again and again, no matter how insistent he pressed the screen. After a phone call and a brisk walk to fetch help, the young man returned to point at the broken thing and quickly explain the situation in Chinese. More touch-screen prodding ensued, escalating to a full tablet restart. When this didn't seem to solve the problem, the two disappeared down the hall to heatedly discuss their options.
Meanwhile, a couple entered the restaurant, the young woman stepping right up to the tablet to experience a couple of rounds of the growing-fad-of-a-game "Crash da App". To avoid letting the cycle continue, I stumbled over my own foot and awkwardly brought the couple up to speed. They nodded and sat down. Instantly, three more couples and a family reunion of about 20 people all materialized in the blink of an eye. Children chased each other, 30-something-year-olds embraced smiling elders, bundled newborns were introduced, reservation times were reaffirmed, doves sprung into flight sprinkling shimmering confetti over a cheery crowd chanting, "We want food! We want food!"
--- The lanky host returned (!!!) ... with a piece of binder paper. He fumbled with a pen, scribbled words, looked at me uneasily, and asked for my name and the number of members in my party. He added two more names before the app miraculously reopened, as if there were never a problem in the first place.
I managed to snag a seat in the waiting area, and I awaited the arrival of my sister and her daughter. A stool remained available around the corner from where I sat, in a tight squeeze between wall partition and a cocktail table. A young couple ambled around the table with some effort, and I barely watched in my peripheral vision as I played a mindless game on my phone, secretly hoping to earn the envy of the toddler next to me. (Setting them goals high!) When the couple quietly remarked how crowded it was as the young woman slid slowly onto the only available seat, I silently assumed my fluffy potato body was taking up a bulky amount of room, and that girly was probably in uncomfortable shoes and clothes to do some impressin'. Scoffity-scoff-scoff.
My sister arrived just in time to have our little party of 2-and-a-baybeh seated. I glanced back at the young couple to discover that the girl had a cast on her lower leg, instantly hoisting the flag declaring me an asshole.
We assembled ourselves in a small booth beside a moving conveyor belt of food. My sister created a mountain between her torso and the moving plates of food using her baby-wrangling supply sack and accompanying car seat. Baby sat across from the conveyor belt, with a backdrop of about 40-feet-square's worth of unoffensive live sports at a brightness setting of "The Sun".
Although Baby was a good distance from grabbable edibles, she sat nearly within stretching-distance to our active electric stovetops and accompanying bubbling broths. Keeping an eye on her to make sure she didn't try to reach for my dangerous territory, I tried to focus on an awesome, quality dinner while maintaining an active conversation with one of my favorite people in the world. I watched the conveyor belt for items I wanted to cook in my broth and consume. I began to notice a pattern: three dishes of each ingredient within reach of multiple tables, then only two dishes of dessert-- one orange cake, one tiramisu. At first I tried to be considerate of other tables, glancing across at the twelve people piled into a booth modestly built for four, children hopping around, teens glued to their glowing screens, eyes glancing disinterested at dish after dish. I tested the waters, allowing one tiramisu to pass, and then another. Neither were touched. I humbly accepted the responsibility of collecting and enjoying all of the tiramisu. I built a civilization of tiramisu in my tummy, and it was divine.
Of course things easily became a little overwhelming. My sister couldn't reach the conveyor belt ('member Mt. Diapers'n'things?) so I had to continue to offer to swipe, pass, shuffle-- block the baby from hot counter-- damn that wall of tv's is bright-- ADD TO TIRAMISU EMPIRE-- you need more of this kind of noodle?-- oo! My kobe beef is ready to fish out of my broth! -- Sure, I'll have more water, thank you -- OMG Baby sauce dish is not for you! -- oh there's the bok choy, yoink! -- So how's the husband? -- No one cares that this is my 17th tiramisu right? -- Where did you find a spoon, Baby? -- Argh, couldn't they find a channel of dark colors instead of bright sunlit whateverball?! -- Yeah, dude, that sucks-- Oh yes, thank you for water. Boy, they're diligent here, aren't they? We've gotta tip 'em-- Prawns! Got 'em! Yes! Here ya go! -- Oh I never started cooking my noodles-- TIRIMISU-- NO, Baby!
... I don't remember if I felt full after that experience, but I wouldn't mind going back. Thems was good eats.
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