At the head of the table our hostess, beaming ear to ear, lowered her dark eyes towards the pig, which lay facing her, its teeth snarling.
“You’ve forgotten the apple!” she shrieked, slapping the table with her hand. “I told you about the apple.”
A servant winced and walked back through the swinging doors. A moment later she reappeared with a shiny green apple. But in the heated confusion caused by
Hong Kong’s language soup, the waitress stood with the apple in her mouth and the carving knife and fork held up beside her face.
This place is a madhouse. I wish you were here.