Clatter, clatter of hoofs that were urged.
“How wise were the old men of the village,” murmured Meng Hu. “They said that an animal would save my neck some day. A rooster. What a toothsome fowl am I. Ho Ho. Ho.”
He laughed as his horse took the open road.
CHOP-STICKS
What is better than roast duck with sweet ginger dressing? Is anything—anything—in the world and all, superior? Two roast ducks—as Ching Chung said—are more to be desired? Ah, of a certainty. Two. Two roast ducks, with hong keong dressing, and ling gow, and jung yee, and tou ya, and yu chien (the very fine tea that grows only in three gardens of Ku Miao), and—but really that’s enough for any dinner. More might mean misery.
Those were the dishes that Cheng Chang prepared with matchless perfection. Those were the dishes that Ching Chung ate with the utmost gusto. Cheng Chang, the very fine cook, and Ching Chung, the extremely appreciative master. They were old bachelors, those two worthies. Little Cheng Chang and large Ching Chung were foot-free, funny, and forty. Cheng Chang came within an inch of being a dwarf. He was only a mere trifle taller than his own willow-wood ladle. Why, he was nearly as short as Wu Ta Lang, who, as you’ll remember, when standing under his cherry tree could not reach the limb, and when on the limb could not touch earth.
Beyond a doubt, Cheng Chang was little—but . . . how he could cook. He was ugly—but . . . how he could cook. He tied his queue with a leather string—but . . . how he could cook. He taught his own grandmother how to roast eggs—and that’s something few men could do.