My wife and I came to this place for a quick bite on our way up to New York to celebrate our anniversary. Should say the service was exceptional, and the food was good enough (wife had chicken ranch wrap and I got omelette). My omelette was a little soggy but that's how I like it so no worries. The only problem was when the owner of the restaurant stumbled over to us halfway through our meal and called my wife a ♥♥♥♥. I told him he was being rude, to which he brandished a knife and told me he'd "cut my tits off". He reeked of alcohol and at some point started running around the restaurant blowing cocaine out of nis nose onto people's meals while screaming "WHO WANTS PARMESAN CHEESE YOU N-WORDS?". That is an exact quote. He also kept asking if anyone had seen his dog, and at some point the staff had to drag him into the back where we could all still hear him shouting that Jews were stealing his silverware. My wife couldn't stop crying so we paid our bill and left.

Your worst enemy or a good friend, no in between.

Of yellow fever’s fevered grip—yes, Akina, you’re the dream we chase,
Your breasts a map to conquest’s throne, in Mei’s shadowed, savage grace.
Suck the nectar from those Eastern swells, let them crush your white man’s chest,
For in your curves, the empire falls, and Akina reigns confessed.

Ode to Akina of Mei
In Mei Prefecture’s misty veil, where cherry blossoms bleed pink,
Akina sways like a geisha’s ghost, her almond eyes a sly wink.
From rice fields kissed by typhoon’s breath, she rose, a silken storm,
Her skin like porcelain cracked by desire, her laughter a siren’s warm.
Oh, Akina, you slant-eyed temptress, with hips that curve like forbidden scrolls,
Your fully developed adult breasts, ripe orbs of jade and gold,
Heave beneath kimono’s whisper-thin veil, twin peaks of geisha’s fire,
Swollen with the milk of ancient sins, begging for a gaijin’s pyre.
You slink through bamboo groves at dusk, your nipples hard as shuriken tips,
Teasing the wind with their dusky peaks, where cherry lips might slip.
In hot springs’ steam, you bare them bold, those heavy globes that sway and swing,
A rice-eater’s bounty, fertile and full, for hands that know the sting