To be honest, I’m noticing a certain pattern here: I seem to care more than anything about food: courgettes, potatoes, and, now, Chinese food.

But not just any Chinese food: the best Chinese food in the entire North-West.

As I’m sure you, dear reader, are aware, the best Chinese food is always found in the shittiest street of the shittiest part of town. Honestly I walk straight out if there’s not a weird smell and some mould growing in the corner of the ceiling.

Let me paint you a word picture: a sullen street of terraced houses. The blank faces repeat themselves for eternity; and then – a neon sign. Or, it would be neon if the owners had bought anything new since the invention of the chip pan. In fact, the painted sign is so close to being chic that you can sense hipsters floating around like vultures.

Below the sign, a door that manages to be peeling despite being made of plastic. The letterbox is always stuffed full of junk mail, some of which seems to have been sent by Chopsticks itself, to the extent that it’s pretty easy to slip there in wet weather.

But if you ignore all that, and if you ignore the grime, the unhelpful cooks who always forget your Apple Tango, the sign which confusingly reads MSG is used here, and the almost illegible hand-written menu… it’s an almost spiritual experience.

The food has made me, a perpetually unconvinced agnostic, see god. And not just one God, but a whole host of celestial beings whose names were Salt and Pepper Ribs, Sui Mai, and Free Prawn Crackers with Orders over £12.

Everyone needs to believe in something – be it science, the Pope, or Mother Shipman‘s predictions. Me, I believe in the divine power of Chopsticks. God lives in the grime between those tiles.

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