The Lotus Garden with its bright hanging lanterns and spicy native odors suggested a Chinese festival gay with curious, high-pitched music. One thought of red-lipped, sloe-eyed girls munching golden limes, queer eastern games of chance, and yellow youths with black silk hair. The delicately-molded Orientalism of the Lotus Garden was enhanced by the decorative presence of its owner. Herbert Yet Sim Nom, complacent blend of Mott Street and Times Square, moved quietly through the restaurant, diffusing his suave diplomacy among the makers, servers, and consumers of Chinese and American dishes all hours of the day and night.
Yet Sim Nom knew full well the languorous allure that dripped from every lantern, curtain, and incense-breathing idol in the place. He had planned it all, and his greatest pleasure was in watching the senses of the Americans reel dizzily under the triple assault of Chinese music, lights, and cookery. He knew that the young men and women who drifted in and out of the Lotus Garden pictured China as a dazzling expanse of golden dragons and fascinating symbols designed by Herbert Yet Sim Nom.
He enjoyed watching the diners. Those with mingled expressions of bewilderment and admiration did not please him. They were yokels. Those whose faces were grim, disapproving masks brought a faint glimmer of amusement into Yet Sim Norn's brown eyes. His delight was appreciative patrons whose easy familiarity with the menu card proclaimed them veterans of many Chinese cafés. He disliked most the person who ate, drank, and smoked, all without realizing that the Lotus Garden was as beautiful as the visions of a dreaming China maid.
