A couple months ago, an email popped in my inbox with the following subject line: "Summer. Kowloon. Rum. Pork." It was from my friend Bailey, who was inviting us to have dinner with her at Kowloon, Route 1's palatial tribute to the kind of Chinese food people aren't supposed to like anymore: greasy crab rangoons, thick-skinned egg rolls, spareribs the color of nail polish, and General Tso's chicken drenched in salty-sweet, glowing orange goo.