A fleeting trace of time and place

In Osaka, before we were poisoned, I was going on about the mainland Chinese cutting the tannins of '82 Lafite with a splash of Coke. "The Chinese hardly invented that," said Max, a celebrity chef in Beijing. "The Spanish have been doing it for ages."

Here in Hong Kong, I read about the kalimotxo (red wine, coke, and vermouth) at Mesa 15, and proceeded up Hollywood Road to see whether for dinner, I might get some tapas too. Hollywood Road, to my parents, who have not lived in Hong Kong for decades,  remains the antiques street where all of the Indians sell all of the carpets. While a fair number of these storefronts still exist on the flanks, Hollywood Road continues to thematically shift toward a bar and restaurant extension of nearby Lan Kwai Fong and Soho. And so it's there, Mesa 15, across the street from the large Central Police compound that Google Maps has labeled "Former." It used to be that British officers enjoyed partying nearby, while the lower ranks went to Wan Chai.  What did Hong Kong, under Chinese rule, decide to do instead with all of these prime real estate locations? The waitress doesn't know either.

Terrence arrives and we order drinks.  I ask for a white Rioja in Cantonese - or more accurately - I say "bahk-Rioja" in response to a Cantonese question while looking at a menu that's entirely in Spanish and English. The wine comes in what I can best describe as a stemless midget water glass. There's only one place in the world I remember these from, and I had drunken there for an entire year: Pakito, the Basque bar across the street from my apartment near Bastille station in Paris. I was fond of drinking there alone after a difficult day at the restaurant. The owner would thumbs-up my order of Irouleguy d'Ansa every time. It was cheaper than a beer and always filled to the brim. There is no swirling of a glass that's full, and attempts at sniffing for aromas will be reminiscent of the first time you went bobbing for apples. But that's the point of this working man's glass. After a day of unloading deliveries and shuttling between the dining room and the dishwasher, there's no energy left for remembering, regretting, or hoping. No place for an ephemeral nose of pear chutney. All you want is a cold drink.

And so, at Mesa 15, I find it difficult to reconcile my memory associations of the glass with the carefree-summer-days memory associations of its contents. Or sitting across from a Chinese-Canadian guy who has spent more time in Costa Rica than in Asia, as he says the word "duck" in Spanish and the waitress confesses to not knowing Spanish, at a restaurant where the primary language on the menu is Spanish. And weighing that against my own non-trivial language blunders back in France, while staring out the window at the Police Compound that Google Maps has now listed as "Former," on the road that my parents know as the one where all of the Indians sell all of the carpets.

I pound the wine.

"New money." Terrence says.
"Excuse me?"
A dish has arrived. A martini glass of carbs and protein that is off the charts in artistic merit.
"The new money would try to figure out what this dish actually was and how it was made and all of that. And the old money would already know. We just eat."
I nodded, and continued to stare, and still could not decide which of the two dishes we ordered this was: duck or patatas. Or maybe it was just a generous amuse bouche.

It turned out to be either the duck or the patatas, and we ordered more things. When all of the food and wine had come, Terrence decided he needed more food, and I wanted more wine. We headed to the outdoors upstairs of Staunton's Wine Bar and were joined by a literary friend of Terrence's. I offered her a kebab.

"Thanks, but I've eaten already."
"So have we."

 I finish my Pinot, recommend her the Pinot, order a Shiraz and continue with the Shiraz until last call. The three of us go to Globe and I take a pint of Hoegaarden and sit next to two not-bad-looking Chinese girls at the bar. They spoke great English and in front of them were empty wine glasses. I invent a brainteaser on the spot involving our glassware - a knockoff of the Die Hard 3 water bucket problem.

"We're not good at math," they respond.
"How's that possible? You're Chinese!"
"That's a very communist thing to say."

Terrence laughs and says I should write a book: "How to Make Friends in Foreign Countries."

I try to tally my night's consumption, but each glass, each grape, each continent, each memory, blurs into a downhill stumble back to the corporate housing apartment I currently call home.

Terrence's friend looks concerned. When I depart, she asks him whether I'll be alright.
 "Tomorrow, he'll be pissed he forgot the kalimotxo."