Food is (working through excuses).

Prosperity Dumplings – 46 Eldridge Street 

   Dumplings, man.

Hit you in the gut the way you never want them too. Make you tired and want crazy shit like Italian Ice that tastes like Ice, or Evian.

The same rules apply with Prosperity Dumplings, though I wish I had a hose, instead.

This one time I remember walking down Bedford, it was muggy and nice, I had just bought a pair of powder blue Tommy Hilfiger shorts that made my ass look alright, brown belt too (reversible!); I was blasting M83 nearly buckling my knees to the kineticism that M83 usually tends to promote- and all of a sudden, I see some guy, with his kid eating a slice of raggedy-looking pizza, laughing his balls off because his father was showing him what it meant to bust open a fire hydrant and start aiming and soaking all of the passing cars. All who believed in the idea of never admitting that it was expensive to look tragically and cosmically disheveled were suddenly cradling their knapsacks like they were all hoarding to protect a bunch of baby Mary-Magdalenes. In one instance, some ConEd guy in his van got out of the truck yelling and cussing at the poor kid and his father and the dad aims his instrument of fire hydrant manipulation and blasted the fuck out of this ConEd guy, soaking him, head to toe. Truth.

So-

We were in line for a couple things: hot and sour soup, 4 orders of Pork and Chive Fried Dumplings, 4 pork buns, an order of shrimp dumplings, and a Snapple.

Alright so, we order, and this guy, this chef, this MAN- just comes at us like we were the fucking plague. ‘You do not deserve dumplings,’ we thought he had said. In reality, he had just forgotten all about our order.

And so while we’re waiting for our meals, I swear to you, it was like Dante’s Inferno just spit out all of the miserable little shits from the circles of piss and stupidity and bad, bad, style.

Firstly, this young woman comes in and eyes the sweat-shop of a kitchen- giant vats stuffed with dumplings frying away towards golden perfection. And she looks around, and she probably smells the oil, and probably hears the sizzling, and looks at this poor guy who’s trying to operate his own establishment let alone oh, I dunno, play with his hands or something meticulous, and she squints her eyes and purses her lips and just, really calmly asks, ‘is… there… like, any way, that, well, the thing is… is it… fried?’

I swear.

Secondly, as we’re still waiting for our stuff, this really indignant roar from the middle of the line just starts, yelping out for attention or bullshit or maybe a combination of both (though what’d be the point of that- they’re one in the same)– “EXCUSE ME! SIR!”

I swore.

Everybody turns and this woman is locking eyes at the cashier as if he’s vermin- and she’s just cussing and causing all sorts of mess demanding that she skips the line because all she needs is 5 dumplings for a dollar! And she’s hoisting her dollar! She’s holding it up! She’s really hungry for dumplings!

Shake my head all night, I swear.

There was another mess with the cashier/server/punching bag, just that it was looking like he had given everybody their orders except for ours. I blame my boyfriend- guy just takes seafood any day he can and just needed some shrimp.

I suppose that’s why I wanted the hose that I had mentioned before.

So, we get the dumplings. And the shrimp dumplings.

We get to the nearby park where we can sit on the cement, watch kids with light-up sandals play scooter-race, and chow down.

Okay. The food is incredible.

Just be sure you match it with a drizzle of Sriracha and/or some soy. But still. Absolutely revolting how gluttonous this food will beg your stomach to become.

Dumplings are juicy, and salty, and just reek of pork that probably sizzled and drowned in its own fat. Same with the shrimp, but by shrimp standards. Pork Buns were solid. Hot and Sour Soup was hot and sour!

Something else to add to that: 5 dumplings for a dollar. 50 for 9. Yes. Always. No happy hour. Happy Days at Prosperity Dumpling!

I do plan to go back. I want to, badly; I’m itching for the moment I got a dollar bill in me and I’m weeping for a little bit of sympathy. Now I can look at myself in the partial reflection of my phone while I’m playing Angry Birds and smirk and shake my head and say, ‘You rat bastard, you got dumplings.’ Who knows? Maybe I can be like either of those women and get it my way.

Even now, the idea of that makes me tingle. Better now because, what’s better than being able to call yourself out of your own excuses?

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thoughts.

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