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Cantonese-American relic that hasn't aged gracefully.

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Well past the half century mark, this Cantonese-American relic hasn't aged gracefully, its half operative bulb-lit sign the only evidence of its former glory. Inside, the fluorescent-lit drop ceiling, stacks of unwashed dishes on a rear table, and the faint but pervasive odor of sour mop water combine to make it seem like the loneliest, most desolate place in the world. There is something appealing about the fat, greasy, peanut buttery egg rolls, but otherwise be prepared to digest huge portions of gloppy, sloppily prepared Ameri-Chinese classics along with generous helpings of ineffable and overpowering sadness. My best recommendation would be for the suicidal-but-not-fully-committed to consider the doughy, undercooked pot stickers, the watery ginger-spiced bok choi hearts, and the arid pressed almond duck for a final meal. The dolor is somehow compounded by the earnest, sweet service and the relative popularity of Usmania's zabiha halal Chinese spot down the block.

Mike Sula

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Price: $
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