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Yee Hong Guey |
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| Chinatown was of course a required station in our pilgrimage back to our ancient haunts. It was a bit of a disappointment that the sign was gone from the upstairs wall, which had formerly designated the residence in exile of Sun Yat Sen. |
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| But we were even sadder to see that the Taiwan Cafe had replaced Yee Hong Guey, where we had dined a few times in 1966-7 as impoverished newlywed students. And earlier than that, it had been the venue of my freshman awakening to the necessity of chopsticks. We subsidized involuntarily the repasts of the upperclassmen who had already acquired the skill. But only once. Then we got it back, when the next crop of freshmen came along. |
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| We’d also appreciated the terpsichorean display of the proprietor’s younger son, who would stack all the dishes from a table in an inverted cone on his left hand, spill a bit of tea on the table, swab it vigorously, toss the teapot on top, and saunter off, never dropping a single plate. |
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