When my friend, Tina, returned from Hong Kong, she brought me a gold drawstring bag and a tin full of candies. The bag is small, made from fabric worthy of a royal robe, but the tin is uninteresting and void of color. The candies are small and hard and wrapped in a waxy paper that smells of oranges, old shoes and urine. I unwrap one and bring it to my nose, unable to do mored than speculate about its appeal. I wonder if the Chinese reserve the candies as punishment for petulant children, or maybe they place them in the mouths of deceased relatives, an offensive offering designed to ward off evil spirits.
Tucked inside the tin is a piece of brittle yellow paper. Lilies and what looks like figs and mangoes trail delicately down the sides of the page and scroll along the bottom in red ink, then blend into brush strokes of Chinese script and one line of English that reads, Mr. Chan Tea Room.
BETWEEN BITES, THEIR VOICES RISE, AS THEY EXCHANGE HIGH NASAL COMPLAINTS ABOUT THE FISHMONGER WHO CHARGES TOO MUCH FOR WHOLE FISH AND INSECT CRABS.
