Dining out (maybe)

Tonight (allegedly) I went with friends to a restaurant at a secret location somewhere in Hong Kong. To get to it you wander down a dark alleyway, up a grimy staircase into a tenement building, and then knock on a door. Where we're going, we don't need signs.

Unfortunately, because one of us is a guy of Chinese extraction, wearing a blue shirt and therefore looking just like a local cop, so it took five minutes of us entreatying them to let us in before they even admitted there was any food being served.

Once inside, we found a small room with three tables, a few chairs and a fridge full of beers waiting for us. There was a little television on the wall playing a non-stop Dolph Lundgren extravaganza, so in between mouthfuls of noodles (or whatever food we were purely hypothetically eating in a restaurant that might or might not exist) we got to see a tall Scandinavian hack people up with a knife. Which was sort of appropriate, given the (completely potential) toughness of some of the (conceptually possible) meat we may (perhaps) have been eating. Well, not me, seeing as I'm a vegetarian.

Of course, after a few beers on an empty stomach I could have been anywhere, so I left it to soberer minds to sort out the bill while I watched Lundgren smash people up in a film he wrote set in a Russian concert hall. I think. It wasn't the sort of film you watched for the plot. Then we scampered away down the (perhaps totally non-existent) staircase, home to the MTR.

Well, home via the MTR. I don't live in the station. Or do I?