I spent my Friday afternoon sitting with three Chinese seniors in a small cafe on Pell Street. The youngest one was in his late 80s; the oldest one 95.
The guys were twice my age and had known each other longer than I’ve been alive. I asked Mr. Ling (95) how long he’d lived in the neighborhood. They looked at each other with sheepish grins. Then one of the friends laughed and said: “He’s Chinatown #1”.
They ordered plates of steamed chicken feet, sautéed snow peas with thick cut bacon and Cantonese sticky rice. One of the guys brought out a pint bottle of Hennessy cognac in a brown bag and we drank straight glasses of that with the meal. Toothpicks and cigarettes after that.
Now I know what I want my life to look like when I’m in my 90s.