While happily downing a rice bowl of ginger and grilled pork in a crowded food court in Kwun Tong, I heard someone clear his throat. A tall gentleman with a handlebar mustache, umbrella, looking like a stand in for John Cleese from Faulty Towers was standing at my table. He looked overwhelmed. He asked if he could sit.
I said sure, be my guest.
He just stood there.
I said no problem, have a seat.
He looked slightly annoyed and said, "I'm sorry, I don't understand your English. Is it okay for me to sit?"
He said it with an American accent. It is understandable why there could be confusion. I have a Midwestern accent which nobody ever hears in AMERICA. He had thin sliced and in his blank frightened ironically mustached head predetermined that I did not speak English. I did the only reasonable thing you could do.
I pretended not to speak English.
I pointed to the chair like Slingblade and he sat down. He had ordered a burger and fries. We exchanged looks and I did the awkward smiling and nodding thing, looking at his burger, looking back at him, then smiling and nodding again. I made sure to stretch it out so the whole experience was ETERNAL.
He looked back nervously, quickly downed his burger and left.
Maybe I was a dick. It wouldn't hurt to cut him some slack. I should have told him to try the Chinese sausage.
I hate Chinese sausage.
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