The Fortune Cookie |
In a rare cultural outing — especially for us Angelenos — my friend Orly and I decided to see a one-man show the other night in Hollywood. We arrived early, meandered along Sunset Boulevard, and grabbed a quick bite when I noticed the still-standing Rock ‘n Roll Thai — a place I hadn’t been to in decades.
Nothing had changed. The red neon sign in the window still glowed against the dark interior and was somehow inviting. We strolled down memory lane while ordering from the same old oversized, plastic-covered menus.
The food was barely edible — proof that longevity in Los Angeles can be more about vibe than taste.
Not having the heart to tell the sweet, bleached-blonde, rockabilly waitress just how terrible the soup was, we graciously accepted the obligatory fortune cookies along with the bill. It was too dark in the restaurant to read them.
[SIDEBAR] Having heard horror stories about fortune cookies being made in dingy cellars by child labor, I’d stopped cracking them open just to read some generic prediction — besides, both the cookies and the messages are usually stale anyway.
Orly left hers on the table. For reasons unknown, I opened mine. Rather than leave it behind, I crumpled the........