Sunday, November 19, 2017


Hello World,


Yes, Long time, No see and I do have a lot to share. However, the circumstances are such that there is a genocide about to happen and I need to stop it.

This is a scream after a visit to The Wang’s Kitchen in Nolambur, Mogappair. 

Set up in the first floor, outdoor stairs leading to the reception, dim yellow lighting enhancing the all familiar Wang’s branding themed in red, the restaurant has a curiously entertaining interiors with downward flight of stairs leading to the dining area where the tables are arranged.

That’s the end of anything and everything positive about this shithouse that might have poisoned me and other guests with possibly the worst zombie-dying microbes ever to have originated in Mars. The problem is, the restaurant is still in operation which means a section of this generation has already been zombie-fied!

Me and my brother-in-law ordered 1 chicken momo, 1 Tshing Hai chicken fried rice [It had a chilli next to it], 2 Egg Fuyong, 1 chicken spring roll and 2 Lemon Mint Coolers.

Chicken Momo:

6 pieces of twisted flour-shit filled with meat paste lay on our plate, frozen and still thawing, drops of dew on it, while some grated cabbage scraped of the kitchen floor lay accidentally on the plate, not knowing if they were part of this evil scheme that aims at eradicating mankind off this section of the multiverse. 

I have a certain amount of tolerance for odd tasting food and still I could not tolerate this seemingly quarter boiled tumour from a dying cat’s gut. My brother-in-law quit after the 2nd piece and it was just me and the momos staring each other for the final showdown. Trying to avoid food wastage I went through the regurgitating experience, hoping, the rest of the meal will serve as the antidote for this slow poison. I was wrong by a million light years in every wrong direction possible.

Tshing Hai Chicken Rice:

The bowl had a mix of rice and vermicelli, which were straight from the dumpster, along with orange coloured pieces of what I am calling chicken and my brother-in-law refusing to believe my guess. The rice had a few shreds of green beans and carrots, again, possibly from unwashed bowl. The moment the bowl landed on our table, we understood the technology, importance and significance of gas masks. We sincerely wished we were better off in a world war, on the ground, during an air raid involving nerve gas. We are absolutely sure, we would have enjoyed sweet death  more comfortably that the smell from the fried rice bowl that deactivated our olfactory capabilities for ever. It doesn’t make sense to live without a sense, especially when the causation smell came from nonsense called Tshing Hai chicken fried rice. I am sure the food tastes awesome but what Wang’s at Nolambur served was worthy of 35 counts of genocide under the influence of Mutating Momos.

The thing had rice and vermicilli or rice noodles in it and so we figured, we can cover up the death-smell and coma-inducing flavour with ketchup. We just did not foresee the operational challenge that was waiting to crash and burn on us. The waiter took a millennium to deliver the ketchup, by which time, we had committed our version of culinary Harakiri. We were already half dead from the Momos. We were just trying to get done with it as soon as possible.

Egg Fuyong:

The fluffy fried egg dish which I used to remember from the other Chinese restaurants is forever gone from my mind. I am merely holding on the index of events like a post-dead vista operating system. What we got was freakin plain omelette with a few shreds of carrots and green beans and few litres of what we would like to assume as oil from the kitchen mist. The horror struck twice when the waiter stepped up to serve it making the egg-splash-vomit into pieces, essentially increasing the frequency of capital punishment for our taste buds. They were already corpses on our tongues. We just did not know why this chaos was manifesting such a design on our lives coming to a close.

Chicken Spring Roll:

The rolls looked just fine externally and the insides were also familiar. We were confused as to why the revival mechanism would enter the game with rules which was anyways more than half done. We got into a mindset that, we still had a chance to recover from whatever was happening to us and this time we were more wrong than Trump in most of his administrative decisions. Even when imminent death was staring at us, we had to compare our thoughts with those of Trump’s. What is the point of demoralisingly degrading our thought process when it was almost confirmed we needed to die? Why was not part of our agenda but we just had to include it. No reason identified yet.

The insides of the chicken rolls, as it turned out, are left-over chicken from earlier manchurian and kung bao massacres that might have inadvertently occurred in the Kitchen of Nolambur’s Wang’s Kitchen. We puked about 17.5 times inside our own mouths and our dying taste buds had to drown in it. Saw, Hostel and the remainder of gore fests seemed like emmy-winning sitcoms. The stench from the almost rotten chicken that was recapitalised to make our chicken rolls, felt like nothing. The reason it felt like nothing was, we were half dead and we were losing our senses one by one, we now were not caring if we could receive and process anything greater than 17% of environmental stimuli we were receiving. We just kept eating hoping it will be done soon.

Lemon Mint Cooler:

This, was the final dose of uplifting enlightenment coloured green and topped with ice and plastic mint leaves. The taste felt like pepsodent toothpaste squeezed into our nostrils while 80% methanol was pumped into our throats  using a firehose. We now realised we were on our way to the section of multiverse, hoping a horned gatekeeper might be there, asking for aadhaar cards and patanjali coupons for herbal painless redemption in the new world. We sincerely hoped that life did not include any food from Wang’s Kitchen.

SOS Call:

Please do not go this place and stop every human from getting caught into the institutionalised genocide, degrading everything that chinese culture stands for and the very concept of hospitality. Wang’s Kitchen Nolambur, please stop killing humans. Shut down this branch and beter, shut down the entire chain, if you think your chain serves standardised flavours across the network. No amount of yoga and herbal crap can prevent the slow death of those who walk by your establishment at Nolambur. If we call yours a restaurant, we will be insulting the entire hospitality/restaurant industry. 

Best regards,

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