Trails of hot vapour drift out from the old kitchen like dragons, carrying smells of frying pork, spices and whatnot, through the din of noisy customers and laughter of whores who sat on their laps or tottered between tables on stilettos. The tall mirrors on the walls reflected the jeeps and scooters as they blared their way along the wide avenue, lit up by the coloured signs that burned against the night sky. Now and again someone would feed the jukebox and sit down to hear CCR yet again.