The Summer and Jeff Show Takes A Field Trip: Wan Fu!
A dining review written by Summer and Jeff as soon as we got back to Jeff's apartment last night...
Our young heroes order Wan Fu to be delivered in times of need. But last night, they wanted to sit down somewhere, so a momentous decision was made. Eating inside at the original Wan Fu on east Oltorf.
Summer and Jeff entered the warehouse like building confused, wondering if the people loitering at the front door were in line. It turned out to be homeless people, as confused as we were. Summer was wearing a green and blue skirt and a green jacket, Jeff was wearing whatever he always wears. They were surrounded by ornate decoration in the massive front area. They were finally seated by a woman pleading for death. She immediately questioned Summer frantically about why she was wearing green and whether she was in uniform. The desperate hostess tried to explain that the previous customers had also been wearing green. She made a mysterious choking motion, hands around her neck, prompting Jeff to remark later on that she has probably been pleading for death every night for four years, but since no one understands her silent signals, she has to work another day. Every day. Forever.
Summer and Jeff were seated among the pseudo-authentic eastern décor, peppered with statues, a burnt out Budweiser neon, and piles of boxes. Our waiter greeted us -- “We have a problem.”
He held his chest tightly. “The soda machine doesn’t work.”
We tried to assure him that we didn't want soda anyway, but he clearly thought we were lying and promised to go work on it.
Attempting to find a vegetarian appetizer, we blindly ordered fried won-tons. They were sampled cautiously…
Summer was the first to speak up. “These wontons are the chips and salsa of the orient.”
The phrase “orientalmex" was born.
The dipping sauce accompanying the wontons resembled thick cherry kool-aid and was pronounced by Jeff to taste just like ketchup. Summer objected to the description, but time would tell...
The radio blared generic 90s music, identified by Summer as Third Eye Blind. “You know, they came out around the same time as Matchbox Twenty”. The music faded in and out and varied in volume constantly as though they had given a small child exclusive rights to the volume knob.
Our waiter was a nervous wreck. He apologized constantly, a Hugh Grant without charm. We ordered entrees and he inquired “how would you like your chicken roasted?”
Jeff was confused again. Summer asked if to imagine that he was headless chicken, and he speculated that his soul was leaking out of him.
They discussed the apocalypse. Jeff proposed war over plastic troughs of waters like the ones we were gulping. Summer eyed her water cautiously.
When our entrees arrived, there were accompanyed by many mysterious empty plates of various sizes. One was quickly ushered away, accompanying by more whining from our sleepy waiter.
“I usually serve the lady first but my hands were full. I’m so sorry.”
His eyes pleaded for death as well. This was not our beautiful house.
Summer’s pepper-slathered fried rice was enough to feed a family of Schwartzeneggers. Jeff’s seasame chicken resembled nothing so much as testicles cooked in brown sauce and covered in pencil shavings.
While shoveling broccolis and spoonfuls of pepper into her mouth. Summer notixed some abnormally large cans in the back room.
Jeff turned around to check it out and immediately turned back. "One of those is ketchup." The can was approximately the size of a fire hydrant.
We didn’t know how to leave; paying the bill made Summer wring her hands with despair and confusion. If we stayed much longer, we too would start signaling strangers to put us out our misery.
On the way home, Summer tried to remember the name of a Billy Bob Thornton movie and she said she thought the title was a four letter word.
Jeff: “Poop? Back? Owls?”
Our young heroes order Wan Fu to be delivered in times of need. But last night, they wanted to sit down somewhere, so a momentous decision was made. Eating inside at the original Wan Fu on east Oltorf.
Summer and Jeff entered the warehouse like building confused, wondering if the people loitering at the front door were in line. It turned out to be homeless people, as confused as we were. Summer was wearing a green and blue skirt and a green jacket, Jeff was wearing whatever he always wears. They were surrounded by ornate decoration in the massive front area. They were finally seated by a woman pleading for death. She immediately questioned Summer frantically about why she was wearing green and whether she was in uniform. The desperate hostess tried to explain that the previous customers had also been wearing green. She made a mysterious choking motion, hands around her neck, prompting Jeff to remark later on that she has probably been pleading for death every night for four years, but since no one understands her silent signals, she has to work another day. Every day. Forever.
Summer and Jeff were seated among the pseudo-authentic eastern décor, peppered with statues, a burnt out Budweiser neon, and piles of boxes. Our waiter greeted us -- “We have a problem.”
He held his chest tightly. “The soda machine doesn’t work.”
We tried to assure him that we didn't want soda anyway, but he clearly thought we were lying and promised to go work on it.
Attempting to find a vegetarian appetizer, we blindly ordered fried won-tons. They were sampled cautiously…
Summer was the first to speak up. “These wontons are the chips and salsa of the orient.”
The phrase “orientalmex" was born.
The dipping sauce accompanying the wontons resembled thick cherry kool-aid and was pronounced by Jeff to taste just like ketchup. Summer objected to the description, but time would tell...
The radio blared generic 90s music, identified by Summer as Third Eye Blind. “You know, they came out around the same time as Matchbox Twenty”. The music faded in and out and varied in volume constantly as though they had given a small child exclusive rights to the volume knob.
Our waiter was a nervous wreck. He apologized constantly, a Hugh Grant without charm. We ordered entrees and he inquired “how would you like your chicken roasted?”
Jeff was confused again. Summer asked if to imagine that he was headless chicken, and he speculated that his soul was leaking out of him.
They discussed the apocalypse. Jeff proposed war over plastic troughs of waters like the ones we were gulping. Summer eyed her water cautiously.
When our entrees arrived, there were accompanyed by many mysterious empty plates of various sizes. One was quickly ushered away, accompanying by more whining from our sleepy waiter.
“I usually serve the lady first but my hands were full. I’m so sorry.”
His eyes pleaded for death as well. This was not our beautiful house.
Summer’s pepper-slathered fried rice was enough to feed a family of Schwartzeneggers. Jeff’s seasame chicken resembled nothing so much as testicles cooked in brown sauce and covered in pencil shavings.
While shoveling broccolis and spoonfuls of pepper into her mouth. Summer notixed some abnormally large cans in the back room.
Jeff turned around to check it out and immediately turned back. "One of those is ketchup." The can was approximately the size of a fire hydrant.
We didn’t know how to leave; paying the bill made Summer wring her hands with despair and confusion. If we stayed much longer, we too would start signaling strangers to put us out our misery.
On the way home, Summer tried to remember the name of a Billy Bob Thornton movie and she said she thought the title was a four letter word.
Jeff: “Poop? Back? Owls?”
posted by summer anne burton at
6:57 PM
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