“Your face is putting me off my food” I wasn’t a big fan of Chinatown. There were too many bright lights, the air reeked of twice-used cooking oil, and the streets were jam-packed seven nights a week. I could never get comfortable with the jumbled pace: the slow-moving tourists who stopped to inspect Chairman Mao lighters and bins of exotic herbs every few steps, thrown in with the bustling young couriers and local businessman who always seemed to be barreling straight towards me. It put me on edge, even more so than usual. I cursed Bruno for picking a restaurant on Grant Avenue, right in the middle of the tourist stretch. Pushing through the meandering crowd, I completely missed the Red Drum on the first pass. Unlike most of the restaurants in Chinatown – where multi-colored signs, set menu specials and attractive young hostesses lured people in – the Red Drum was refreshingly discreet. The only clue to its location was an engraved copper plaque tacked to a wooden door.
