‘where shall we sit?’ asks sampaafulhu as we enter DONS chinese restaurant at nasandhura. this evening, she’s in a tasteful wine-red dress with pale brown dots. the maitre d’, a tall asian man in all-black, leads us to a table by the large windows at the back of the restaurant. excellent service so far.

i take a seat, the chair is comfy, and the plates on the table have finely decorated rims. i say this to samfa.

‘where ARE those two? this is ridiculous!’ samfa groans, ignoring me. it’s nearing her bedtime, 8pm, and she gets more irritable as the hour draws close.

‘look at the view,’ i say, trying to distract her. outside, lights shiver on the black water and in the distance the airport glows, its wave-like facade making it seem like a dweller of the deep. samfa glances out briefly then checks her phone.

a server hands us the menus. they’ve put money into the design and the material, the luxuriantly rough grey covers enclose beautifully photographed food.

i tell the server to bring me some watermelon juice.

‘we’ll wait, our friends are on the way,’ says samfa to the server who nods and disappears. it’s a quarter to eight and we agreed to meet at seven thirty.

luckily, nadheemadhi and abdurrahman arrive before sampaafulhu calls it quits.

‘wow, look at you both in red,’ says abdu. ‘was that intentional?’

‘have you ordered?’ asks nadheemadhi.

‘we were waiting for you,’ says samfa.

‘alhe, we gave you fifteen minutes to decide and order, i texted husenfulhu,’ says nadhee, taking her seat.

samfa looks at me disapprovingly.

‘i had no idea,’ i tell her. ‘i mean i sent both of them the menu with my suggestions.’

‘didn’t i tell you what i liked?’ grins nadheemadhi.

‘mm…’ i begin but abdu calls for a server.

the maitre d’ turns up.

‘shall i put it in the chiller?’ he asks about a package abdu’s brought over.

‘fridge, don’t freeze,’ abdu instructs and the maitre d’ smiles, annoyed.

then we scour the menu again and settle on the cucumber, the black wasabi fungus, the rose infused poached chicken, the braised beef.

a server comes to our table.

‘should we also get the duck?’ samfa asks abdu.

‘yes, why not?’

‘large or small?’ asks samfa. ‘i feel like -‘

‘large will be enough for four people,’ interrupts the server.

‘alright,’ says samfa. ‘but, i don’t know. it’s fifty dollars.’

‘oh, let’s order it,’ i say.

‘easy for you to say,’ says nadheemadhi. ‘it’s more money than you’ve made this month.’

‘you don’t understand, i’m trying to launch a -,’ i start to explain.

‘he’s been trying. for years,’ says samfa.

i ignore the women and turn to my glass of water. it’s dimpled and irridescent, like the shimmery shell of a beetle. remarkable what you can do with glass. i take a sip.

the server brings us a pot of tea and four very elegant teacups.

‘who ordered tea?’ i ask.

‘i did,’ says nadheemadhi. ‘who drinks orange juice at a chinese restaurant?’

‘it’s watermelon,’ i correct her. ‘these cups. they’ve even got a red stamp of authenticity on the bottom.’

‘oh please,’ says nadhee. ‘you can get these from fathaha sumbuli.’

‘no you can’t,’ i say. ‘they are originals.’

‘are you an expert?’ she asks.

‘and they’re so light,’ i go on. and they are. or at least mine is. a fancy saucer with an engraved silver ribbon along the edge and intricate designs on the body.

‘i agree,’ says abdu. then the server brings the cucumbers. i try to grab one and nadhee goes HEY!

‘oh sorry,’ i say, jerking my hand back.

she snaps a pic with her iphone.

‘when at dons, act like a don,’ says abdu. ‘that’s the lesson here. whoops!’

he’s dropped a chopstick but a server appears almost magically with another pair.

‘the service is insane,’ says abdu and i nod.

soon, everything arrives. everything but the duck.

‘mmm, mmm. the chicken is wonderful,’ says samfa. i take my first bite.

‘tastes like hiananese chicken,’ says nadheemadhi.

‘it’s more flavourful,’ i add and nadhee agrees.

the cucumber is sour, garlicky, a stunning side with a lovely crisp texture. but the true star is the black fungus – i’m loving the heat and pungence of wasabi in this dish.

‘i don’t care for the beef, it’s too bland,’ says samfa.

‘the chinese can be subtle with their flavours, i quite like it,’ i say.

‘the chinese can be,’ mocks nadhee. ‘it’s always the chinese with you now, ever since that trip.’

‘funny,’ i say.

the server brings the duck. it’s massive, much too much for the four of us – it can easily feed eight.

‘we’ve been fleeced,’ says nadhee irritably.

‘a HUGE disappointment,’ says samfa, chewing on a piece of duck.

‘really?’ says abdu. ‘how come?’

he fishes a piece from the pot with his chopsticks and takes a bite.

‘it’s much too tough,’ he says and samfa nods firmly.

‘you’d expect it to melt in your mouth,’ nadhee sighs her disappointment.

‘ah, come on, it’s good,’ i say. ‘has a nice ginger taste.’

‘but not worth the price,’ says nadheemadhi. ‘we had much better duck at the chinese restaurant [near customs, now closed].’

‘fine, fine,’ i say. ‘so, what’s the verdict?’

‘a soft six from me,’ says abdu.

‘i might actually say six point five,’ says nadhee.

‘yeah, me too,’ says samfa.

‘come on, it’s at least a seven,’ i tell them. ‘at the very least.’

‘no, no. it’s a six but we’re being generous,’ says nadhee. ‘besides, you’re compromised, sinophile.’

‘hey!’ i cry.

‘it means a lover of china,’ explains abdu.

then the servers bring out a cake with red flowers. it says happy b’day in red with our names. so THAT’S what abdu asked to fridge, not freeze.

‘ah, you didn’t have to,’ i tell them, a little teary and overwhelmed. it isn’t every day you get your friends to celebrate your descent into madn- i mean middleage, similar in my case.

but the cake is hard to cut.

‘they FROZE it, the idiots,’ cries abdu in dismay.

on the way back, samfa and i pass by equics, the huge grocery store decked in green, on the side of the hotel. i ask samfa if she’d return to DONS.

‘we’ll see,’ she says.

will we?