Hola y buenas tardes. I am not Chinese, but I am a Chicano, which is close enough for me to proclaim a gentleman for all ethnicities. Chopsticks serves the greatest recipes this side of the Yangtze River. The eats are worthy of a factory that produces the platinum standard of 69 Michelin Stars. There are no demos going on here, with overrated Emerson (sic) Lagasse peddling pots and pans that could not withstand an acne-pocked tween creating a masterpiece from a packet of Takis/Skittles/Essentia water of the Maruchan experience. The service, as the millennial foolios have always practiced..."Dis iz an absolute game-changa, bruhs!" First of all, their is no game. Secondly, it has not been sanctioned by the UFC. Next, there is nothing to change, except Millennium Morgan needing for her Luvs needing to be relieved of a diaper brimming with the caca of their own mouths. And lastly, that saying is as old as the roach in Uncle Stevie's 1994 Dodge Neon ashtray. And finally, the decor of Chopsticks is much more creatively original than Panda Express's Asian motif of endangered bears and orange chicken that seems it was pooped out of Gorton's famous species of dinosaur-shaped fish sticks. Holla, scholla! All hail, Chopsticks, with a swift kick to the jewels of P.F. Thongs!