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eaten a fritter for a very long time.’ ‘All right,’ Wu said, ‘fritters it is.’ The crowd noisily made its way over to the restaurant. Wu took my father's hand and led him in, to all appearances a friendly gesture between old friends. Truth be known, he was afraid that Father would back out. A shout of ‘Big Belly Wu's back!’ from a waitress greeted them as they entered. ‘What's on today's contest menu, Big Belly?’ ‘Who are you to call me Big Belly?’ Wu complained. ‘You should be calling me Grandpa.’ ‘Hah! And you can call me Aunty!’ The other employees rushed over to watch as soon as they heard that Big Belly Wu was putting on another eating contest. The few diners looked on wide-eyed. The assistant manager walked up, wiping his hands on his apron: ‘Wu, what'll it be this time?’ After a quick glance at my father, Wu said: ‘Fritters. We'll start with three pounds apiece. How's that, young fellow?’ ‘Fine with me,’ my father muttered. ‘I'll match you pound for pound.’ ‘That's pretty big talk from a pipsqueak like you,’ retorted Wu. ‘I've hung round this station for more than a decade and defeated at least a hundred challengers.’ ‘Well, you've met your match today,’ said the team leader. ‘This young fellow's polished off a hundred eggs at one sitting, then topped it off with a whole hen. Three pounds of fritters won't make a dent in his appetite, isn't that so, Luo Tong?’ ‘We'll see,’ my father said, keeping his head down. ‘I'm not one to brag.’ ‘Good!’ Big Belly said excitedly. ‘Bring out the fritters, girls, straight out of the oil.’ ‘Not so fast, Wu,’ said the assistant manager. ‘You'll have to pay up front.’ ‘Talk to them, said Wu, pointing at the team leader, ‘since they're going to have to come up with the money sooner or later.’ ‘Says who, Big Brother? We can afford to pay for six pounds of fritters, three each, but there's that saying: “Eating a pile of shit is no big deal, except for the taste.” How can you be so sure we're going to lose?’ Wu wiggled his thumb in the team leader's face: ‘All right, maybe I've been a little rude and have offended you. How's this: we'll each take out enough for six pounds of fritters and lay it on the counter. The winner can pick his share and walk out, the loser can walk out but leave his share behind. Does that sound fair?’ The team leader thought it over for a moment: ‘Yes, it's fair. But our villagers are pretty gruff people who don't mince their words, so don't make a scene.’ Wu fished out some greasy notes and laid them on the counter. The team leader did the same. Then a waitress covered the stacks with upside-down bowls to keep them from flying away. ‘Can we start, ladies and gentlemen?’ Wu asked. The assistant manager turned to the waitresses. ‘Go on, bring out the fritters for Master Wu and this fellow, three pounds apiece, and let the yardarm stick up a bit.’ ‘You scoundrels always shortchange your diners,’ laughed Wu, ‘but for a contest you want the yardarm to stick up a bit. I want you all to know that anyone who comes here either to throw down or to accept a challenge is no pushover. As the saying goes: “You don't swallow a sickle unless you've got a curved stomach.” If it's an eating contest, what difference does it make if the yardarm is up or down. Isn't that right, young fellow?’ My father ignored him. While Wu was holding forth, waitresses carried out a pair of enamel trays piled high with oil fritters and laid them on the table. Obviously fresh, they were big and fluffy, fragrant and steaming hot. ‘Can I start?’ my father asked the team leader politely. Before the team leader could give the OK, Wu had picked up one of the fritters and bitten off half. With bulging cheeks and moist eyes, he stared at the tray, his hunger clearly raging. My father sat down. ‘If you'll excuse me,’ he said to the team leader and the villagers, ‘then I'll start.’ With an apologetic look at the spectators, he began to eat at an easy, steady pace, taking ten bites to finish a foot-long fritter and chewing slowly before swallowing. Not Wu, who was not so much eating the things as stuffing them down a hole. The piles shrank. By the time five remained on Wu's tray and eight on my father's, each swallow took longer and caused greater distress. That they were suffering was obvious. Then there were only two left on Wu's tray, and the pace had slowed to a