The rickety elevator opens to a steep staircase leading down into the basement. The last step is tricky because it’s actually a grate that folds down over a vat of boiling oil. Workers here are stacking prawns like cordwood, but I don’t eat seafood and don’t know what prawns look like so they are green, the size of rats, and some of them are twitching. Seated, a wizened old Asian man looks at me and asks if I’m Texan, apparently because of my shaved head, but I am not. Then he looks t...
