Donald Trump was starving.
This was a new and deeply offensive sensation. In his world, “starving” was a word you used to describe a D-list celebrity’s career or the ratings of CNN. It wasn't something that happened to him.
He yanked open the door of the tiny refrigerator in this… hovel.
It smelled of old takeout and plastic despair. Inside sat half a head of wilted cabbage, a jar of some suspicious-looking chili sauce, and two lonely eggs.
“Unbelievable!” he roared to the empty room. “Is this how people live? It’s abuse! A crime!”
He slammed the fridge door shut and decided to take charge. He would order food. He wanted a well-done steak, a lobster tail, and an ice-cold Diet Coke. That’s what civilized people ate.
He grabbed the phone belonging to this “Liang Jian.” The fingerprint scanner worked, which was a small mercy.
But the screen was a nightmare of incomprehensible square characters. Which one of these apps was for food? Was there an app for great food? The best food?
“Voice assistant!” Trump remembered.
He cleared his throat and addressed the phone with his most commanding, presidential tone. “Order me the greatest steak in the world! The best! And deliver it here, now!”
A cute cartoon avatar popped up on the screen and replied with a stream of cheerful, utterly unintelligible Mandarin.
“I’m speaking English! The best English!” Trump yelled at the phone. “Steak! S-T-E-A-K!”
The little cartoon blinked. A line of text appeared below a picture. Searching for “Steck.” Did you mean: Steck Connections (Shenzhen) Co., Ltd…?
“Garbage! Sad!”
Trump threw the phone onto the bed in disgust. He felt his blood pressure rising. He had an urge to call room service, but then remembered the bathroom was so small you could wash your hands while sitting on the toilet.
Hunger clawed at his stomach like a wild animal.
On the verge of a full-blown presidential meltdown, his eyes fell upon a cardboard box in the corner. It had a logo he recognized—Master Kong. He’d seen their representatives during a trade summit.
He tore open the box and pulled out a brightly colored package.
On the front was a picture of a steaming bowl of noodles with a few pieces of beef floating in it.
Braised Beef Noodle.
He couldn't read the words, but he could understand the picture.
“Alright… fine…” he muttered to himself, as if making a grand concession. “Sometimes you have to eat what the common people eat. It’s called connecting with the voters, Donald. It’s smart.”
He ripped open the package. The rich, salty smell of the seasoning packet assaulted his nostrils. Following the pictures on the back, he dumped the noodle brick, the powder, and a sad little packet of dehydrated vegetables into a stained enamel mug he found in the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, the 45th President of the United States was sitting in a squeaky office chair, clumsily using a pair of disposable chopsticks to slurp a mouthful of hot, greasy noodles.
They were salty and burned his tongue. The rehydrated beef bits had the texture of cardboard.
But he ate every last bite.
As he drank the last of the broth, a strange feeling filled his chest—a mixture of deep humiliation and profound satisfaction.
He let out a loud, un-presidential burp.
“That was, without a doubt,” he announced solemnly to the empty mug, “the worst meal I have ever had in my entire life.”
“But you just wait,” he said, pointing a finger at the dark night outside the window, as if challenging the entire nation of China. “I am going to fix this. I am going to make this apartment great again! Believe me!”