The Shangri-La by Mark Simon, Oolong tea

 The Shangri-La was busy for a Tuesday night. It was a hole-in-the-wall on Mott Street, shoe-horned between half a dozen other look-alike restaurants in the heart of Chinatown. The soup dumplings were the main attraction though they recently introduced lettuce wraps for the yoga pants crowd that sauntered in after class.

 

The murals on the wall featured traditional depictions of Chinese culture: farmers in coolie hats tending to bamboo fields, long, undulating dragons, misty mountains, and ancient temples with curved, sweeping roofs. By the entrance, a gold porcelain cat with a mechanical paw endlessly waved hello or goodbye, depending on when you looked at it.

 

A well-dressed couple in their mid-30s was having dinner at a table between the Great Wall and the Forbidden City. The man had on a perfectly tailored charcoal blue suit with brown loafers and no socks. The woman wore a white linen pantsuit with a small gold cross necklace that she fidgeted with. The restaurant didn’t get many Upper East Side types, so they stood out from the regulars. Partly because of the way they were dressed, but mostly because their conversation was growing louder and more contentious.

 

“I’m not sure what there is to discuss, Ana. You want out. End of discussion,” the man said.

“I didn’t say I wanted out, Julian, I said I needed a change.”

“A distinction without a difference.”

Their waitress, unable to bribe another waitress to switch tables, waited for a ceasefire in the conversation.

 

“Can I get you two anything else?”

“Yeah, you know any good divorce attorneys?” the man said.

The waitress forced a smile, “No, sorry.”

“In that case, I’ll take another Stoli on the rocks.”

As the waitress hurried away, the woman tried to redirect the conversation.

“My spiritual advisor, Shaman Duren, said that my energy is misaligned.”

“You know what’s misaligned? Paying $300 an hour for some nut job to wave crystals over

you.”

 

“Gwyneth Paltrow is one of his clients.”

 

“Can’t you go to a therapist like everyone else?”

 

“Why do you want me to be someone I’m not?”

“What’s that, faithful?” he yelled.

The room fell silent. Chopsticks froze midair. Teapots stopped pouring. Even the goldfish in the aquarium near the register turned to look. Everyone’s attention was now on the well-dressed couple sitting in the corner between the Forbidden City and the Great Wall. Julian glanced up and saw a man glaring at him from the next table. 

 

“Is there something I can help you with?’ Julian said.

 

The man started to say something, thought better of it, then stared down at his lap.

“Seriously? You’re going to start a fight with a guy in a Chinese restaurant?” the woman said.

“What difference does it make what kind of restaurant it is? Would you prefer some place more upscale?”

 

“You’re such an asshole.”

The woman at table six had pulled out her smartphone and was recording the couple, hoping the situation would escalate. The video she posted of the woman demolishing the Pride Month display at Target got over 300 views. It was her firm belief that one person’s mental breakdown was another person’s viral sensation.

 

Everyone (except for the woman at table six) shared a desperate desire to be somewhere, anywhere other than the Shangri-La. They were innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire of someone else’s drama. Being trapped inside during the pandemic was horrible, but at least they didn’t have to deal with this.

 

A couple who had been waiting for a table changed their minds and left. The porcelain cat bid them farewell. The woman at table six was praying that something would happen soon. Her battery was running low.

 

Her phone would die just before the first dumpling was thrown.

 

About the author

Mark Simon is a retired advertising executive who lives in Michigan. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)