“So, it is a kind of party, then?”
“Of a sort, though the meal is the most important part.”
We stepped out and found a cab within a few minutes. I pressed him further.
“Will we be the only Occidentals?”
“I would imagine so.”
“And the purpose of the event is to celebrate the New Year and the fact that Ho has been released from custody?”
“Correct.”
“I don’t believe that is the whole story. I admit Ho might celebrate these things, but he has other reasons, I’m certain.”
“Very good, lad. I see you are developing your deductive skills. What other reasons might he have?”
I hadn’t expected the question to be thrown back at me so quickly. “Well, he’s been in jail, which must include some sort of loss of face among the community. He might have a banquet as a show of strength that he has not been inconvenienced.”
“Good. Go on.”
“He deals in secrets and information. While he was away, it might have gone elsewhere. This meal could be an attempt to bring it back again.”
“And?”
I had run dry. I thought for a minute or two. Nothing came to mind.
“Consider Mr. K’ing.”
“What would such a meal mean to K’ing?” I asked. “Is Ho trying to say ‘We have the same friends and are one’ or ‘These are the supporters I can take away from you, if I wish’?”
“Surely you know the answer to that question. Think more subtly.”
I pushed my imagination as far as it could go. If I were Ho, what would I do with K’ing breathing down my neck? “Both,” I finally answered.
“Very good, lad. Now you are thinking like an Oriental.”
“Will K’ing be there, do you think?”
“He will be issued an invitation, surely. It is not only given to friends but to all respected members of the Chinese community, even those with dubious reputations.”
“Shall Bok Fu Ying be there?”
“Ho treats her as a favored niece, but she is busy preparing for the New Year’s festivities. She has been asked to perform. She will not be in attendance.”
My mind flitted between two thoughts just then. The first was wondering what sort of performance she would give, while the second was trying to imagine Ho as a doting uncle and not succeeding. Bellicose, perhaps; ungracious, certainly; but not doting.
We arrived in the narrow lane but found it transformed. The broken stone arches overhead were unchanged, but the debris had been swept away and the walls around the entrance given a coat of whitewash. We stepped through the door and found the tunnel lit by two naphtha lamps, and as we progressed down the steps, we found another lamp halfway down. At the bottom there was a red carpet about five feet wide, extending the entire length of the tunnel, with lamps on each side every ten feet or so. There would be no bumping into things in the dark for the distinguished guests, not to mention opportunities for further assassinations.
“Ho is sparing no expense,” I said.
“Far be it from him to leave anything out,” Barker agreed.
The main dining room had been transformed. Red paper lanterns hung from the ceiling and the walls had large letters cut from gilt paper, which I assumed offered luck and prosperity in the coming year. A long table ran down the center of the room, laden with bowls full of every kind of edible thing imaginable. Each bowl appeared to 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.