pastry, pronto. Noi shook his long, curly hair and informed her that
they were out of Zapple Strudel, but would they care for some
Blitzwurst? His wife had just made them. Hugo and I felt like
something more indigenous, so we decided to share a plate of Get
You Fried Rice, and some Hot and Spacey Soup. It was a delicious
meal, and by the end of it we were so stoned that none of us could
speak well enough to comment on it. We would have sat there for
hours, but Noi’s new sign was attracting so many new customers that
we had to give up our table.
“I need a drink,” I managed to mumble in a great, breathy effort.
My mouth was so numb, I might as well have eaten novocaine. The
three of them nodded in unison, and we make our way to a line of
pubs further down the beach. A particularly comfortable-looking
place grabbed our attention, and we walked in. Pillows were
everywhere—on the floor, on the soft-looking sofas, on the barstools,
on the walls—even on the ceiling. It had the appearance of some kind
of tropical insane asylum. We declared it perfect, and ordered some
more whisky. The name of the pub was displayed on the big hand-
painted sign, in the same type of lettering as Noi’s place. It read:
DEE TOK’S STUMBLE-INN
PUB—SNACK BAR—DATING SERVICE
Dee Tok was an ancient-looking Thai hippie who sported long,
straight, salt and pepper hair and a mess of tattoos all over his arms
and back. He would have appeared frightening if it wasn’t for the fact
that he was always sporting a cherubic smile that looked incongruous
against his weatherbeaten face. Frantically running around, pouring
and serving drinks and cracking jokes that no one seemed to
understand, Dee was a treat to watch.
When two guys entered the pub and sat down on the floor next
to us, Dee greeted them as old friends and asked them if they would
be needing dates for the evening. They both vigorously declined,
saying that some girls were going to meet them there later, but they
thanked him very much. Dee brought them a small bottle of Mekong
and two cokes. “On the house,” he said. The two guys were wearing
white socks and expensive basketball shoes—a dead giveaway,
despite their tie-dyed camouflage t-shirts with foreign script on
them.
“Hi there, you guys from the States?” I said, leaning over to
BIG AMERICAN BREAKFAST
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