HARD ROLLS
It was one of those non-descript places off Nathan Street. A dark alley - brick, stone buildings. Dim gaslights marked the entrance. A dark door --black, brown, dark green? A slit of brass marked its handle. Inside a glow from the deeply polished floor bespoke of candles, however dim, which lit the interior.
We were led down long, dark walled corridors punctuated with private eating rooms - dim light glowed from their shuttered doors. Light sounds of unrecognizable voices in unknown tongues were the only sounds heard. We entered a darkened room. An ancient, intricately carved Chinese opium bed stood directly in front of us. Down the middle of the bed a small, low rosewood table had been placed. Silk covered cushions to sit on were on each side of it. A scent of musk permeated the air. It was far too dark to detemine the placement of the walls from the glow of the candle on the table. No ordering was needed. The house had only one specialty.
Soon a waiter in dark silks appeared - a shiny metal cleaver flashed in his hand. A grinding, gritty sound and then, with a flourish, beautiful silver platters were laid in front of us. On them were hemispheres of dark grey - their interiors flashed of amethyst and crystal.
They served geodes for dinner.