The Orchid of Siam

We were in San Francisco producing a commercial for Curzatol, another one of those expensive drugs for a “disease” that didn’t exist before someone invented a prescription to treat it. We were the employees of an ad agency––an art director, a copy writer, a television producer and a video director. Our mission was to find a patient ambassador.

You know what a patient ambassador is. You see them every time you turn on the TV. “My name is [insert: something bland and forgettable, like Meg] and I’m living with [insert: affliction] of [insert: organ or body part].

It had been a long few months for all of us on the agency team. We’d been crossing the country, auditioning potential ambassadors nonstop—in cities large and small. In the past, it had always been a pretty easy task to find people who wanted to give us an “organ recital.” But this time, the disease gods weren’t smiling on us. In fact, they were downright spitting.

Every candidate we saw was either too healthy (a triathlete who jogged in place while we interviewed her ), too crazy (a tattoo artist whose striped facial tats channeled her ‘inner tiger’.) or too eager (“Can I also talk about my genital warts?”).

But today was the day we had finally struck paydirt. We found a lovely soccer mom with “our disease.” No visible tattoos (There was the “tramp stamp,” but we’d keep her facing the camera so, no problem.) and she was happy to talk only about the aspects of her disease that could be discussed on television, in prime time, in front of impressionable children, while watching with their grandparents, in a rural community, in a red state.

Hot damn, we’d done it! And as a team, we had earned a treat: Dinner on the agency. But not just any dinner, we wanted Thai food. And we wanted something above average, exceptional, special. Our producer, Godfrey, a can-do guy with a thing for Google maps, consulted his phone and identified just the place—only a bit of a walk from our hotel. But it would be worth it, he promised; this place was highly rated.

We set off as a group through the misty San Francisco night, following the twists and turns of the app. We climbed one steep hill after another, turned left and then veered right. Traversed a broad city square, and trudged through one dark, echoing street after another. Our calves ached. Our stomachs grumbled. But whenever we paused to catch our breath, Godfrey read the reviews from the app aloud: “The best San Francisco has to offer.” “The only place I ever recommend.” “Be sure to ask Sarai, the manager, about the nightly specials.” All 5 stars.

As we walked, we shared our love of pad Thai, papaya salad, chicken satay, mango with sticky rice. We discussed the pros and cons of asking for “spicy” versus just letting the chef set the level of heat based on his experience and our appearance. (We didn’t want to set ourselves up for the “wise guy special.” On the other hand, we didn’t want to suffer bland tourist food.) And of course, we celebrated jasmine rice: so floral, so delicate and yet ever so slightly nutty.

If all this wasn’t enough to keep us going. We had started trading tales of great Thai dinners we’d each had in cities around the world from Bangkok to Buffalo— and everywhere in between. We all had a story and we were trying to outdo each other with brags about: the most exotic ingredients, dishes made with strange reptiles, dining rooms suspended over rain forests. We all rambled on and would have gone on much longer if we hadn’t been interrupted by the flat, synth voice of Google Maps. “Your destination is up ahead on the right.”

And suddenly, there it was, the object of our desire: The Orchid of Siam. It was surrounded by a halo of magenta light tossed up by its glowing neon sign. Maybe we were just tired, but the place seemed to almost shimmer in the San Francisco mist that had descended as we walked. Nearly salivating as we anticipated our choices of appetizer, main course, side dish, and hell— even dessert, we pulled open the door and rushed inside.

But instead of the inviting fragrances of lemon grass, curry and jasmine, what hit us the was the smell of stale cigarette smoke, cheap perfume and sweaty human bodies. On the tables lay, not beautifully prepared platters of Thai cuisine, but beefy, half-naked men in skimpy towels waiting their turn for one of the private booths. The Orchid of Siam was a five star establishment, all right. It just wasn’t a restaurant. It was a massage parlor. Perhaps San Francisco’s finest, but a massage parlor, just the same.

We stormed out to the street and surrounded Godfrey like a pack of peeved poodles. We were hungry, we were angry and judging by the clang of gates being pulled down at the restaurants up and down the street, it was late. Everything was dark. Nothing looked open. Godfrey looked at his app. We glared at Godfrey. He slid his phone back in his pocket.

As we turned our backs to the “Orchid,” we tried to formulate a plan. We stared down the street and off in the distance; there was a sign. Not mystical sign, but a neon sign. And the place below it looked open.

Nobody needed to say another word, we all trudged silently towards it on autopilot. As we got closer, it started to look kind of familiar. And once we got right up to it, we could see why: It was our hotel. The exact place we had departed from nearly 90 minutes before. The Orchid of Siam was literally one block away from where we’d started. But thanks to Godfrey and his app we had spent the night turned around walking in a giant circle in the opposite direction. Three pairs of eyes turned on Godfrey with a look of pure venom.

“Guys, it wasn’t me, it was the app!”