There was a great noodle place in San Francisco's Chinatown that Joseph took me to once, but I could never remember where it was since going back. Maybe it, too, was a victim of economic blight. Anyway, I had a dream last night I met up with him again and this time we went to a little-known place that didn't look the least bit like a restaurant inside, and whose proprietor was some sort of Chinese artist who also worked on classic cars. He wore a parka and had a sharp, bespectacled eyes beneath his White head, and belied my temptation to describe him further with the trite word "wizened." There weren't any tables, but he quickly threw one together for us as he prepared our meal. Behind our seats was a wall of garage doors, and Joseph pushed the button to one, causing the decorative glassware hanging from it to drop from their precarious perches. I tried to catch them as they fell, making quite a show for other guests, but ran out of hands and missed several. One that broke open wasn't for sale but filled with a condiment.