The Flying Squirrel

This evening I was taken out to dinner at the Flying Squirrel, a bar/restaurant near Chinatown. This would have been a great treat, except I’m a vegetarian so all I could eat were avocado maki rolls, deep fried pumpkin slices, and noodles. Oh, and beer. Jug upon jug of beer.

It’s Wednesday today so the thought of pounding pint after pint of lager doesn’t appeal that much. I know I have to get up tomorrow and run. I know I have to get up tomorrow and be charming and witty to my daughter. I know I have to get up and go to work and avoid throwing up in a wastepaper basket. So I tried not to pickle my liver in Asahi.

The Flying Squirrel is a small bar, with only four or five tables. It’s nicely dark in there, and there’s a lot of choice of things to eat. If you eat meat. Or blowfish, if you’re a brave sort of person.

Not that the pumpkin slices were at all bad, of course.

However, I hadn’t expected the Flying Squirrel to be a Japanese restaurant. Most Japanese restaurants have Japanese names (well, in Singapore – it’s quite possible that there’s a successful chain of Flying Squirrels in Tokyo). Calling a bar the Flying Squirrel hints at lots of real ale, and either steak pies or ironically cellophane wrapped sandwiches for hipsters to eat. It’s not that I was being sold the wrong bill of goods, it was just a bit of a surprise.

Still, the staff were fine, if a little too eager to top up our beer glasses. And this was good recovery from the afternoon’s coffee (coffee so strong that I felt my inner ear curl up and die when I took my first mouthful).

I don’t think my wife was too impressed at me when I blundered home this evening. Baby was washed and put to bed, her mother close to extinction on the sofa. I was handy once for rocking my child back to sleep, but otherwise a busted flush. Hopefully the Flying Squirrel won’t attack me tomorrow.

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