The only illegal act my father ever committed was taking the train from Hong Kong to China. He stayed there overnight. When he came back I tried to sniff the purported fragrance from his clothes. Not a trace could be detected. Years later when I went to Guangzhou I specifically asked to be taken to such a place, where at the show window the merchandise was lined up in a row, their bodies shiny (already cooked I suppose), hung by the necks, oil dripping down the little singed tails. They put the slices in a clay pot with daikon radishes and carrots, sizzling hot. Red meat, chewy, but it didn’t taste like chicken.
“Dog…” I said to my friend, “It’s not what it’s trumped up to be.”
He shrugged, “People are into wild vegetables these days.”
Photo from uncorneredmarket.com
