Chinese Stir Fright

Here in northeast Jackson, the only Chinese food available is bland, sticky, over-cooked buffet fare. Ding How, the buffet on the east side of I-55, is dark and dirty. On the west side of the highway, the Peking — once our favorite Chinese food destination — went from friendly to frantic to frightful. And while the King Buffet near Best Buy has a friendly staff, eating there still feels like participating in a massive, competitive trough-call.

Desperate for some Chinese food that hasn’t been factory-frozen, delivered by Sysco, and reheated by low-paid Mexican laborers, I started driving down Meadowbrook Road to Best Wok. Best Wok has zero ambiance. Set in a former dry cleaners, this is the kind of hole-in-the-wall that literally has holes in the walls. Today, where racks of plastic-wrapped coats used to hang, a small army of Chinese men and women tend an expanse of swirling pots and sizzling woks.

The fact that Best Wok consistently wins local “Best of” awards is, unfortunately, less a testimony to the eatery’s quality and more a function of just how badly the Chinese food scene in Jackson has devolved. The always-smiling staff charges reasonable prices for huge portions of individually-prepared entrees … but let’s face it: the meat isn’t the best, the vegetables are overcooked, and, if I had any half-decent alternative, I’d eat elsewhere.

But I don’t … so I’ve incorporated a once-weekly pilgrimage down Meadowbrook Road into my routine de cuisine. Or, at least, I had done so. I won’t again. Why?

Because the last time I went to Best Wok, there were predators waiting for me.

When you place your order, Best Wok will honor as many special preparation requests as they can … but one thing the crew at Best Wok won’t do is take credit cards. As someone who lives an unhealthy percentage of his life online, I’m very much an electronic-transaction kind of guy — the sort who thinks Coke machines, for example, should take PayPal. I just don’t carry cash.

Last week, as I pulled into the grocery store parking lot where Best Wok is located, I realized I didn’t have a buck in my billfold. “No worries,” I thought. “There’s an ATM on the far corner of the same lot.” I pulled into the drive-through, whipped out my card, punched in my PIN, and, seconds later, crisp new bills were flicking into my ready palms.

It was about this time that I noticed that, across the parking lot, two men were paying very close attention to my transaction.

This wasn’t exactly a surprise. Best Wok is not in the best location. It’s not unusual to see seedy characters in the area, from men staggering along with bottles in paper bags to young toughs cruising the boulevard. I’ve been there dozens of times, and everyone pretty much minds his own business.

Last week, though, by the time I parked in front of Best Wok, these two gentlemen had positioned themselves between me and the store. As I approached, one of the two eased directly into my path and said, “I’m not gonna hurt you. Now, I won’t lie to you. I’ve spent some time in prison. I’ve done things I’m not proud of, and I hope I don’t ever have to do ’em again. But what I need is a little change — even a dollar or two — so that I can get something to eat. How about it?”

At this point, I would like to clarify that not some “spooky whitey” who thinks everyone in possession of a little pigment is a thug. I’ve lived in Atlanta, where having extended conversations with street people is part of daily life. I’ve been asked for money before. Sometimes I give it; sometimes I don’t.

At the same time, I’m not stupid. I had money — these guys had watched me pull five twenties from the ATM — but I wasn’t about to open my wallet and hand over twenty bucks. “I’m going in to get my order,” I said. “Let me see what kind of change I have when I get back.”

“Fair enough,” he said, and stepped aside. His friend, though, followed me into the store, parked himself at the seat by the door, and waited to see for himself exactly what kind of change I would collect.

My order came to $14.99, so I did get some change: a five dollar bill and a penny. But I didn’t particularly like being followed and watched — and I no longer felt good about the energy of the situation — so I scooped up my bag, walked slowly and deliberately out the door, and headed to my car.

“Hey!”

I didn’t stop. I didn’t run. I didn’t turn around. I just kept walking. Behind me, I could hear the pair jostling around.

“Hey! Mister! Your car’s back this way. You’re going the wrong way!”

I was not going the wrong way. I took my keys out of my pocket. I thumbed the unlock button.

“Where you goin’? You made a promise, boy!”

I got in my car. I closed the door. I cranked the car. I drove away.

In the time it took me to pause at the stop light and round the corner, one of the two men had crossed the parking lot. As I headed back down Meadowbrook Road, he stood on the sidewalk, furious, glaring at me.

And so: I’ve crossed yet another Chinese eatery off my list. If Best Wok were serving really delectable chow — say, Mr. Joe’s special spicy shrimp with onions, the signature dish of the gone-but-not-forgotten original Peking Chinese Restaurant — I’d gladly risk life and limb for a quart or two. But feeling all threatened and stalked for pale garlic chicken and an overdone pork egg roll? It’s just not worth it.