Never underestimate the power of shirtlessness in a mostly shirted situation. I was reminded of this while waiting for Chinese food; just me, the staff and three other men, all of whom were a little drunk, and should have gone home by now, and wondered what the wife would say and so on. But we all have tops on. And at this stage I am in my own mind the coolest person there, since I am (slightly) younger than the other men, on my own and scowling at an out-of-date tabloid instead of being jocular. But all these dreams are shattered when a man around 30 comes in, topless. His wiry torso is covered with incomplete tattoos, and he has a self-trimmed mohawk and a 2-litre bottle of cider in a blue plastic bag. This is his Chinese takeaway now, no doubt about it.
Man: [pushing aside an offered menu] “Pork balls.”
Woman: “Honk Kong Style or sweet and sour?”
Man: [strictly on message] “Pork balls.”
Woman: “Any rice?”
Man: [loyal to his mantra] “Pork balls.”
He sits down close to me and I reread the out-of-date TV listings and wonder what will happen. The other men stop talking about their wives and soon, perhaps thanks to the raw minimalism of his order, shirtless man’s food arrives before ours does and he sets about the carton straightaway.
Man:[holding up a plastic fork with disdain] “Got chopsticks?”
Woman: “No.”
Man: [repetition having served him well before] “Got chopsticks?”
Woman: [no stranger to this game] “No.”
Man: [as though they might have a drawer of silverware for special occasions] “Got a better fork?”
Woman: “No.”
He seems to accept this, takes up his pork and cider and walks out. Me and the other men go back to waiting, our place in the Chinese food chain now established beyond dispute.Illustration by Johnny Ryan
