I'd love to cook something here but this place is such an unholy mess.
Every time I come here I get sick and I know why. The kitchen is a cesspool, the living room worse and the only oasis is the room I stay in. The grandmother makes the food and does a cursory job of seeing that the place is clean.
Food stays out overnight uncovered. It's not a big problem when it's cold like it is now, but she does the same during the summer . . . the parade of ants is testimony to the happiness of the bacteria.
I swear, every time I come here I get diarhhoea, sweating, you name it. They're always sick with something, these people.
Yet, my god, a COLD! Doctor, doctor doctor! Twelve useless medicines! Powders, salves, unguents!
It's fucking crazy.
So I'm hoping tonight's yakisoba was cooked into oblivion because although it was quite good I already feel my stomach just warming up for the real party . . . just hope that automatic toilet-seat warmer is in good shape.
I surely ain't here for the food.