I've taken to cooking Chinese style, using a wok and as many authentic ingredients and methods as I can learn. North Beach, San Francisco, is adjacent to Chinatown. In the old days of the Manchu Dynasty, it was worth the life of a Chinese to wander into North Beach, an Italian immigrant section, where he was apt to be attacked for being Chinese and out of his element. His pigtail was likely to be cut off.
So I wander over to Chinatown to pick up various goodies from time to time. I like to enter the hardware store to see what Chinese households stock up with. Then I go to the store where they sell fresh vegetables. There are many such stores, actually, but the one I like is where there's a barker out front attracting customers with a chant of which I don't understand a word, but I like the melody and get the point. "Get it while it's fresh," he seems to be saying, "you won't find it cheaper than here."
Then I go over to the Full Moon Restaurant which is more of a store, really. Inside there's a huge roasted pig, hanging from a hook. I'd like to buy two pounds, cut up, which will last me for two weeks.
The problem is that if I order two pounds, the man with the cleaver, a large Chinese knife, gives me three. If I order three, he gives me five, always pretending that he's made a little mistake, and what's another pound or two to a prosperous looking guy like me who could afford to lose a few kilos. He sells a lot of pork, this guy.
So the last time this happens, I figure, "This guy figures me for a fool." The first couple of times I'm willing to chalk up to the tourist experience, the only round-eye in a swarm of locals.
But I get tired of being an idiot, so I reason that the next time, I need to figure out a way so that I don't buy more pork than I want, otherwise it sits in the fridge and I have to throw it out.
So this evening I enter the Full Moon and the same people are behind the counter, the woman who translates and takes the money, and the two dealers, one of whom knows he can beat me every time.
My old friend looks my way. I'm next. There's a half-dozen people behind me, all Chinese, which I ain't.
"Two pounds," I say, holding up two fingers. He can read, if he can't understand.
"Two pound?" he says.
"That's right," I say, "Two pounds and not three pounds or five pounds."
The older Chinese lady behind me starts laughing and says, "That good, two pound, not three or five, ha-ha-ha."
She knew the game, obviously.
I turn, and say, "You've been here before, I see."
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