#qe'

[deepspacenightshift]

Noise. Clatter. Babble. Ruckus.

The Klingon restaurant on the Promenade is a hectic confusion of talking people, Klingon singing, and spicy smells. The food is exotic, crusty, crunchy, gamy, and gummy, most of it still alive, and you practically can’t find a thing on the menu not guaranteed to make you shake and sweat with the intensity of the flavor.

And to put it mildly, the staff there is energetic.

Walking in is like being blasted with oven-heat, and you feel wrung-out and exhausted when you leave. But you tingle with second-hand excitement for hours afterward.