I should say “what a wonderful afternoon” since the day really began at ten past one o’clock when I met Frank and his companion at Chatham Square in Chinatown under the statue of the celebrated Chinese farmer hero. We met for lunch; everyone agreed that fish was on the agenda, especially lobster. We also all agreed that the place to go was a quite well known special fish restaurant, the Fuleen Seafood Restaurant on Division Street. At one-thirty in the afternoon the place was not flooded with diners, or tourists, so we sat at the further most table in the back in perfect peace. I let Frank do all the ordering because he speaks Chinese and because he is smart about a proper menu; I trust him in a nanosecond on such matters and some others matters as well.
We were offered hot towels before any food arrived. Then we began with a dish of jellyfish and sliced pork which could be eaten with either a red pepper spice or a light vinegar sauce. The main course was the lobster, broken up in small sections, that was pan stirred in a delicate sauce. I should add that the lobster was first brought to the table alive, wiggling just a little, before its cooking in the kitchen: a gustatory delight, approached with little forks and finger holding permissible. A dish of cut asparagus was a light and healthy touch. A big dish of pork-fried rice came at the end, almost as a supernumerary finale. But we dug into it just the same. How can a Chinese meal be without rice? As the oldest gent of the three diners the waiters were especially attentive to serve every dish that had to be ladled out to me first. I do like the Chinese eating protocol.
My friends had to rush off; Frank was still working even on a Saturday afternoon, so I was left to fend for myself after the restaurant. Chinatown is my oyster for I feel very comfortable there and never fail to take advantage of what is distinctly advantageous. I bought a pound of red cherries at half the price of uptown markets: cherries are just coming into season. Then I walked through the little crooked street that connects the Bowery and Pell Street, Doyers Street, I think. You could call that area the barbers’ corner for ten or more such establishments exist in close proximity, some on street level and some underground. I started a conversation with a woman relaxing outside one shop and before you could say “Jack Rabbit” I was sitting in her barber chair getting a haircut. I needed a haircut, for sure and I knew exactly what kind of haircut I wanted. When I discovered that I could communicate this information to the lady in my broken and limited Chinese I did not hesitate. I wanted just a trim, not the usual barbaric massacre barbers love to inflict on their inattentive customers. The Chinese find me quaint and I let it go at that. Afterwards I strolled down toward Columbus Park, for the music I heard in that direction was coming from a group called the Chinese Musical Association. I bought myself a sesame bun, glutinous shell filled with a bean paste, and a container of coffee and went right back to Columbus Park, seated myself on a bench up close to the little orchestra and singers. I sat listening to the music while consuming my after-lunch dessert.
Chinese music is forever fascinating to me. It still sounds strange and foreign and unlikely. The orchestra consisted of three or more two-string instruments, called “Er Hu,” a butterfly harp, a banjo, a percussionist, and two lady singers. One of the singers sang in the typical falsetto soprano voice, hardly moving her mouth, all the sound coming through the nose. The other woman, who was more solidly built, sang what must have been the male part, in a warm full-throated way. What a way to spend a day or afternoon.