The Death of Chinoiserie, by Which I Mean Something Kind of Different

I used to live half a block from here.

My kooky [for “kooky,” read: “batshit annoying”] roommate and I used to order from Bamboo House, oh, nightly? And they would arrive before we hung up the phone. I didn’t know it had produced its last water-chestnut-laden crapmash, so to you, Bamboo House, I say R.I.P. Couple that with the closure of my years-local favorite Chinese place in Brooklyn (whose sexy cash register ladies have been memorialized forever in a red LP by a friend), and, well, fuck me.

In other restaurant news (which I now see has been a neglected category on this blog), hoorahs to X, whose T-shirts are apparently the best thing going on with a new restaurant. (“If Hanson has to shut down the restaurant and turn it into a t-shirt shop, he'll still come out ahead.”) Get me an “I [splat] BBQ” T-shirt, stat.