THE ROARING OF WASPS

Having left for Chinatown late in the day, I ended up not having rice porridge and a fried bread stick as I had originally intended, but went for an old favourite: Salt fish and chicken bits fried rice (鹹魚雞粒炒飯 '.haam yü gai naap chaau faan'). Which you will readily grasp is not a common social eating plate. Leastways, I cannot imagine a tableful of Caucasians agreeing that what would go splendidly with the sweet and sour pork and general Joe's chicken would be a big plate of salt fish chicken fried rice.

"Hey guys, ask them to put in extra salt fish!"

Goes great with dollops of sambal. In case you didn't know. Maybe if you tell them it's macrobiotic and meaningful, naturally sourced, and a percentage of the profit goes to recycling, then yes. Could one actually do quinoa with salt fish and chicken?
Would one want to? Brown rice?

It is immensely comforting. The Dutchman within was happy.

My apartment mate might like it, maybe even the bookseller. These are the only two people with whom I eat socially nowadays. I'm not sure how either of them are on salted fish, but they are open minded. One of them is of Cantonese derivation, the other has an Italian background. Both of them are food people. So neither of them qualify as wasp.

When we first walked past the karaoke joint almost no one was there, after the burger joint there were four Wasps inside singing Albino spirituals. The Japanese version of 'take me home country roads' is much better than John Denver's Ozark clog dancing rendition.
To the best of my knowledge there is no Canto-pop version. Nor should there be.


Two Cantonese gentlemen, entirely unbecomered by the shrill caterwauling, were pensively engaged in a chess game at the bar. Which was probably the best way of maintaining their sanity while those people were singing.

It's heading into Chinese New Year. I expect business will boom for the next two weeks, and the owner may be insane from the singing after this is all over. I extend my commiserative thoughts and prayers (which are white folks spirituality) in advance.

There had been only a few rats in Spofford Alley earlier when I walked by with my pipe.
The cold is keeping them in. And the singing.



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