Before I went to Boston two weeks ago, I had the best Chinese food of my life. This is quite a claim, I know, but I stand by it. It’s especially true because the previous best is gone forever; it was a dirty-ass hole in the wall place on Ludlow Street, four doors away from my old LES apartment. I’ll be damned if it didn’t violate every health code in the book, but the General Tso’s could make you weep (and make you puke and/or nearly shit yourself, which it did for me several times, yet still I kept coming back for more). It has since been replaced by a boutique that I’m sure sells many things of little value for a lot of money. Fucking gentrification.

I don’t get fancy when I order Chinese, instead preferring to stick to the basics like General Tso’s, sweet and sour chicken, chicken or beef and broccoli, egg rolls, fried rice, wonton soup, etc. And this place was just a menu that was slipped under the door to my apartment building, so I didn’t expect anything mind-blowing. I went with the sweet and sour chicken and some pork fried rice and it was incredible. For a cheap Chinese place (the order, with tip, was not more than $20 or so), the chicken was actual white meat, cooked thoroughly, with no gray questionable pieces that made you think “chicken or thumb?”, fresh pineapple and veggies, and just the right tang to the sauce; and the rice was full of flavor, yet surprisingly light. Also, the entire order was about 3.5 pounds, and constituted two dinners for me.

[This last fact counts for a lot. Those who know me know that I have great difficulty not clearing my plate. In food, as with most other things in life, I almost physically can't stop unless whatever it is before me is gone, whether it's fried rice, Bud Light or my own semen (so much so that when I ejaculated I get a "whooosh!" sound, like blowing air through a straw). And in the case of food, it's not even because I'm hungry - give me a two pound plate of Mexican food and I will clear it and be full, but I will give the same treatment and be equally satisfied with a five ounce, 270 calorie Lean Cuisine entree. I'm just so, so fascinating.]

Off to Boston I went and I thought about that Chinese food often, determined to order it again when I got back to LA. Such an occasion presented itself last night, and so I went to the menu drawer to figure out what to get. One problem: no menu for this place in the menu drawer. While I couldn’t recall the name of the place, I remember what the menu looked like – a pretty glossy one that was folded into thirds.

While I was surprised the menu wasn’t in the menu drawer, I wasn’t too concerned. After all, it had to be around somewhere. See, I live in a one-bedroom place that I’ve subletted, fully furnished, from a woman who moved out of the country for a few months. I basically showed up at this place with my clothes, toiletries and a couple of personal items (computer, books, guitars, etc), but for the most part, since I’m living in this woman’s home, I haven’t really touched anything. It’s not like living in a museum – indeed, I’m not too shy to crack a beer while laying on the couch – but there are many cabinets and drawers and closets that I haven’t even opened, so the “Jason space” in my place is very limited. Therefore, if the menu wasn’t in the menu drawer, it couldn’t be too hard to find.

So I looked. And then I looked some more. And then I looked some more. And nothing.

Panic set in. I loved this Chinese food immediately, so there’s no way I could have thrown out this menu. And I don’t have a cleaning lady, so she didn’t accidentally throw it out. And again, I’m living in a one-bedroom apartment, most of which I don’t get into, so where the hell could this menu be? I tried to remember the name, but I had nothing. Was there a “King” in it? Or a “Ling?” Or am I thinking of “Chin?” Maybe the word “Village” was in there, too. I had no idea.

The night quickly devolved into an orgy of desperation, as I tore apart my previously pristine apartment looking for that menu. It eventually went beyond hunger and into that murky realm of stubbornness, anger and madness – I was looking forward to that goddamned Chinese food place becoming a weekly staple of my life for weeks to come. And if I couldn’t find the menu, it would all be over.

Alas, no luck. After checking everywhere, turning drawers and closets and cupboards inside out, nothing. I went on to menupages to look as well, but there were too many Chinese places, even in the Brentwood, Westwood and Century City/BH areas. That night I went to bed dejected, and said a little prayer to Saint Anthony, once again employing a plea to religion in only the most dire situations (i.e. “Please God, let me find this Chinese food menu”, “Please God, let her not be pregnant – You told me I was sterile!”, “Please God, let that just be a one-time thing – sure he was a good dresser and his bed was comfortable, but his homemade breakfast the next day was terrible!”). It was a sad night.

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The next day, I woke up and turned to the night table next to me to check my blackberry. Then I picked up the iPhone and checked my gmail. Last, I turned to my side to reach down to grab my glasses from the floor (I always fall asleep reading at night, and eventually just drop the book and my glasses on the floor next to me before turning off the light). I couldn’t feel them right away, so I fished around some more and found them somewhat under the bed. I also felt that they were sitting on something glossy and flat. I pulled up the glasses and put them on, rolled over and grabbed what was under the bed and there it was: the menu to the Chinese food place, California Wok.

Whether it was fate, St. Anthony, God or whoever, I can assure one thing: I am going to eat my weight in Chinese food tonight. Then I will have to straighten up the apartment.