We were somewhere�around�mapo,�on the edge of the catfish, when the peppercorns began to take hold. I remember saying something like, "Maybe I should slow down...," pushing a plate of Mongolian long beans into the cluttered center of the overburdened table. And suddenly the numb rush was upon me, a long, white, buzzy tunnel. At the end of it, I could still see the women across the table talking, but I could no longer quite make out the words. On the sound system, the Stones' "Shattered"�sounded like it was being played through� the blades of a helicopter. I reached for the cool-looking pinkish drink on the table and took a deep gulp, only to remember it was a michelada made of Bud Light spiked with smoked-clam juice, chile oil, and a rim of more crushed chiles and Sichuan peppercorns. I felt like a Looney Tunes character trying to quench the fire of a jalapeño with a nice draught of Tabasco. Peeling myself off the ceiling, I came down face-to-face with a leering bright-yellow forty-foot dragon. On the wall, a cavalry of luridly painted Red Chinese generals on horseback regarded me with bemused,� pitying expressions.�
This has nothing to do with Thanksgiving. But everything to do with good food. Misison Chinese. One of my favorite places to eat in the country.
Go there. Eat there. Give Thanks.