contain a different ingredient. There were hundreds on that long table, it seemed, and in the very center, given pride of place, a single dish sat on a tray. A very unusual ingredient it was, too, sticks of something that looked like whale blubber.
“What exactly is that?” I asked Barker in a low voice, for the room was quickly beginning to fill with people, all men and all Chinese.
“It is shark’s fin,” he said, “a great delicacy reserved for the New Year.”
I looked at the grayish strips of flesh dubiously. “I don’t think I could eat it.”
Barker shrugged his wide shoulders. “Suit yourself. It is rather too late for the shark, I fear.”
I began to wonder if this feast might not be to my liking at all, and moved closer to the table. The first bowl confirmed my fears. It held what looked like some sort of snake. Another contained what looked like eel. The contents of one after that was more mundane, being slices of raw carrot. There were no prepared dishes, I noticed, such as one normally saw at Ho’s. Everything here appeared to be mere ingredients. There were florets of broccoli and cauliflower; bowls of boiled eggs of every size and origin; and Asian delicacies such as water chestnuts, litchi nuts, and bamboo shoots. I saw prawns and chicken, duck and pigeon, giblets of who knows what, beef, venison, pork, and the usual bowl of unidentified meat that I would avoid. As we circled the table, I saw one section was given over to spices and another to sauces of every color and aroma. I was at a loss. How was anyone expected to eat this meal?
The chairs around the tables were quickly filling, and Barker and I took seats. My stomach was telling me either I was very hungry or about to be ill, depending upon what I would put into it.
Ho stepped out of the kitchen then, resplendent in a floor-length gown of green and gold silk, though it was thrown on casually over his singlet and trousers and remained open in the front. Not everything could change, I expect. He began to pontificate in a loud voice while I wondered if it might eventually become necessary in this occupation of mine to learn Chinese. Ho spoke loudly and gestured grandly. I assumed he was greeting everyone and telling them about his unjust incarceration in a British jail. Mercifully, Ho is a man of few words and soon he clapped his hands and ended his speech. Waiters began streaming out of the kitchen, dozens of them, some obviously employed for this event only. Each carried a large bowl so hot and steaming the waiters needed towels to hold them. Fifty bowls for fifty guests, give or take. Mine was finally set down in front of me. It was full of hot water and noodles, but nothing to flavor them. Slowly light dawned. We were to make our own soup from the dozens of items before us, adding meats and vegetables, mixing flavors, each of us creating our own unique soup.
We waited until all fifty were given a bowl, and one could feel the tension growing in the room. Ho stepped up to the table, raised his arm high, and then barked a word. The room erupted into chaos. The men leapt at the long table of food and began stabbing at the bowls with their chopsticks. I seized my own and joined the fray, spearing right and left. Chicken, prawns, and broccoli went into my steaming bowl. Plover’s eggs, bamboo shoots, the fried soy cakes I liked, and a ladleful of the yellow sauce followed. I avoided the bugs and snakes, of course. A water chestnut here, a bit of Chinese cabbage there, a slice or two of leek, half a clove of garlic. I was creating a masterpiece even Ho would envy. Beside me, Barker crowned his own creation with a large slice of shark’s fin.
Just when I was about to dig into my wonderful creation, a waiter leaned over and poured oil into my bowl. I looked up in disgust. What was he doing? He had ruined everything. All my work and now I would have to start over.
Barker spoke into my ear as the waiter did the same to his bowl.
“There is a village in China with a factory that has produced earthen bowls for centuries. It is in a small valley with mountains on either side and a river bisecting the town. The factory is on one side of the river and the village on the other. When women prepared lunch every day, it grew cold before they reached their husbands across the bridge. One day, a woman accidentally spilled oil in her husband’s bowl and discovered that not only did the oil seal in the heat so it could be carried, but the food continued to cook beneath it. That is how the soup got its name, Across the Bridge Soup. We must let it sit for five minutes, which is just enough time for toasts.”
Vessels of plum wine were served. An elderly Chinaman stood and spoke, and we downed our cups. Several toasts followed and I was beginning to get light-headed. Barker gave a toast for both of us and then Ho finished for us all, after which we attacked our bowls.
From childhood, the Chinese are trained to suck noodles. One could stretch a single noodle out ten yards and any Chinese man, woman, or child worth his weight in rice could suck it down in a matter of seconds. I am a rank amateur, but was still willing to give it a try. I launched into my bowl and did not surface for several moments. It was pure ambrosia. I was a genius. Who knew I had such unplumbed depths when it came to creating meals?
Barker had his bowl wedged up under his chin and was shoveling shark meat in like a trencherman while my neighbor on the other side gnawed his way through a glutinous sow’s ear. It was a race of sorts. We were a roomful of gluttons. I was glad that there were no women present to witness such a spectacle.
Ten minutes later there were fifty very full and groaning men with empty bowls. Some of us listlessly picked among the dregs at the bottom while the team of waiters brought tea.
“I have never eaten so much in my life,” I commented. “I thought I would taste the oil, but I didn’t.”
“Yes. The nameless woman who spilt oil in her husband’s meal deserves our thanks.”
The pipes came out after that, for those who smoked. Barker, of course, lit up his Turkish meerschaum while others went for the modern convenience of the Western cigarette. Still others favored thin metal pipes with patterns in cloisonne. Ho brought out his water-can contraption and was smoking it while talking with guests. He worked his way through the room, I noticed, and spoke to practically everyone. I hadn’t thought him so outgoing. As for me, I was in a funk. There was a slight ringing in my ears and I found I had been staring at one of the large letters on the wall for several minutes, trying to decipher it.
“I need some air,” I said to Barker.
“Good idea, lad. We should take a walk around the district. They should be getting up the decorations for tomorrow.”
Just then Ho came up between us. He bowed benevolently to some of the guests nearby. Then he leaned forward and spoke in English, just loud enough for us to hear. “K’ing is up to something. He recently purchased a warehouse in the area and has had carpenters working day and night. English carpenters, who won’t reveal his plans to anyone. No one knows what he is about, but something is happening.”
“Thank you for the information. I see K’ing never arrived. What of Woo?”
“I did not issue him an invitation. He has seen fit to criticize my cooking, that Peking popinjay.”
“We are going for a walk,” Barker said.
Ho raised a warning finger. “Be careful,” he admonished. “Remember what I said about digging your own grave.”
Limehouse had become enchanted that night. Every wall was festooned with messages in gilt and streamers of red paper and firecrackers. Entranceways that no one had bothered to sweep all year were now swept and mopped. The drab and mean streets of the area had become a fairyland, like Andersen’s tale of the nightingale, provided one did not look too hard at what lay beneath. I theorized that visitors came here for the celebration each year and never saw its harsher side. Perhaps that was how the district’s exotic reputation had begun.
Limehouse was astir, but the killer was not. Apparently, he had taken off the night and that was a good thing, as far as I was concerned. Barker and I were so full, we could not have given him much of a fight.
26
The next morning being the Sabbath, I crossed the street to the Baptist Tabernacle with Barker to hear Charles Haddon Spurgeon preach. The topic of his sermon was grace, which to me is always a cheerier subject than damnation. Along with the sermon came the hymns, which included “Amazing Grace,” Barker’s favorite, perhaps because it had been written by a sea captain.
After the service was over and we had shaken the pastor’s hand, we walked back to the house that we were no longer sharing and ate a solid English lunch of beef and mash and Yorkshire pudding, like a million other people in London. It must gall Etienne to cook such fare, without the chance to toss in a bit of garlic here, a bit of truffle there, but I would back his roast beef against any Englishman’s in the country.
Barker did not dawdle over tea but went upstairs to change his Sunday morning coat into a more serviceable
