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CHOP-STICKS
What is better than roast duck with sweet ginger dressing? Is anything—anything—in the world and all, superior? Two roast ducks—as Ching Chung said—are more to be desired? Ah, of a certainty. Two. Two roast ducks, with hong keong dressing, and ling gow, and jung yee, and tou ya, and yu chien (the very fine tea that grows only in three gardens of Ku Miao), and—but really that's enough for any dinner. More might mean misery.
Those were the dishes that Cheng Chang prepared with matchless perfection. Those were the dishes that Ching Chung ate with the utmost gusto. Cheng Chang, the very fine cook, and Ching Chung, the extremely appreciative master. They were old bachelors, those two worthies. Little Cheng Chang and large Ching Chung were foot-free, funny, and forty. Cheng Chang came within an inch of being a dwarf. He was only a mere trifle taller than his own willow-wood ladle. Why, he was nearly as short as Wu Ta Lang, who, as you'll remember, when standing under his cherry tree could not reach the limb, and when on the limb could not touch earth.
Beyond a doubt, Cheng Chang was little—but . . . how he could cook. He was ugly—but . . . how he could cook. He tied his queue with a leather string—but . . . how he could cook. He taught his own grandmother how to roast eggs—and that's something few men could do.
Ching Chung was the master. He was a tremendous person. He was nearly as large as Ho Lan, the giant, who, one day when stretching, burned his hand on the hot red sun. Surely no one could ask for more proof that Ching Chung was quite large. And how the man could eat. He worked hard, from crow of cock till the owl said "Time for bed." And how he could eat. Four roast ducks at a sitting . . . how he could eat. But his voice was so powerful that it often shook the pots from Cheng Chang's stove. Then there was nothing to eat.
Ching Chung frequently complimeted Cheng Chang upon his so glorious cookery. He would say to Cheng Chang: "Cheng Chang, this roast duck is simply tou ming. If I were king and you my cook, I would make you Governor of Kwang Ting, where the best ducks grow." And Cheng Chang would say: "To the Gracious Master I offer my no-account thanks. I sorrow that my terrible cooking is not better." Or, again, Ching Chung would say: "Cheng Chang, this exquisite roast duck has infused me with new strength. One more morsel, or maybe two, and I could conquer the world." And Cheng Chang would reply, "It is nothing, Honorable Master."
Strengthened and made bold by Cheng Chang's roast duck and perhaps by a sip of the stuff called sam shu (which is fire and madness in a bottle), Ching Chung one day went a-courting. Before a body could say "Chang wang li chao" (about the same as "Jack Robinson"), the beauteous lady, Li Kuan, was pledged to be Ching Chung's bride. Whereat, the happy groom to be, who had always proclaimed that a bachelor's life was the only life, promptly changed the burden of his song and declared that all old bachelors should be boiled in rancid bean oil and used as candles to lighten the darkness. And, no doubt, he was very right.
Said master to cook: "Cheng Chang, why don't you follow the excellent example that I have set and take unto yourself a bride? There's Pang Tzu, a buxom lady, and wealthy. Why not marry Pang Tzu?" So Cheng Chang answered, "Very well then, Honorable Master; I'll do as you advise." And he did.
With Ching Chung married and Cheng Chang wed, both of the old bachelors were husbands, and their lives were changed, utterly. For marriage is a most peculiar thing. It promotes the fortunes of some men. Other men go from bad to worse. The wedding bell has two tongues. One tongue speaks good; the other, evil.
Consider the case of Ching Chung. His wife had no wealth whatsoever. But her fifth cousin was a general in the royal army. The general came to visit, riding a handsome donkey, and wearing his two swords. He tasted the roast duck (cooked, mind you, by Cheng Chang), upon Ching Chung's table, and instantly took a great liking for Ching Chung. He thought his host a most hospitable and excellent man. Nor was he wrong. (But Cheng Chang had cooked the duck.) It was no time till Ching Chung received a commission in the royal and brave army. He became a general. Before one could say "Chang wang li chao," he won a great victory. . . . And, the king having died meanwhile, Ching Chung was placed upon the throne. There he was—upon the throne—a king. And hail to King Ching Chung.
On the other hand, consider Cheng Chang, the cook. Poor Cheng Chang. He was afraid of his wife. Horribly afraid. His wife had but to whisper "Chang," and Chang trembled like jelly, spilled on the king's highroad. His wife had but to say "Cheng Chang," and Cheng Chang fell upon the floor. It often happened that his wife said "Chang," just as the poor man seasoned a duck on the stove. Then Cheng Chang would tremble, and drop in too much salt or garlic or ginger, and the dinner would be ruined. Frequently Cheng Chang had to throw away a dozen ducks, before he dished up one that was really excellent. Of course, his own purse had to pay for the loss. Almost before one could say "Chang wang li chao," the timid Cheng Chang was a pauper. A lucky thing for him that his wages were raised as soon as Ching Chung became King.
How remarkable are the tricks played by fate. She gives the wheel of life a turn. What was top becomes bottom. Strangely enough, what was bottom—becomes top. The once mighty eat humble pie. The once lowly sit upon gilt chairs, drinking yu chien from cups of egg-shell porcelain, and eating birds' nests. Cheng Chang was at the bottom. And fate gave the wheel a whirl.
The wife of Cheng Chang went to visit her three brothers, who conducted a large go-down in Ning Poo. The art of cookery, so nearly lost to Cheng Chang, once more thrilled in his finger tips. A pinch of this. A mite of that. A dash of something else. Cheng Chang cooked as he had never cooked before. The roast duck that he served up for King Ching Chung was—was—was—. There are many words in the language of men, but not one of them can describe the duck that Cheng Chang presented his King and master, Ching Chung. Sublime, delicious, perfect—those words are weak and unable. Away with them. The duck must remain undescribed. But, oh, what a duck it was. King Ching Chung ate half of it. Perhaps he ate a trifle more than half. He kept his gaze upon the platter. He said neither "Good," nor "Bad."
Cheng Chang lingered near by to receive the praise that he felt was due. But the praise was slow in forthcoming. The wondering cook began to fear that he had dropped in too much chiao fen. Horrors. Horrors twice. Suppose he had? He deserved to be killed.
King Ching Chung laid his knife aside. He placed his fork in company. He raised his eyes and gazed at Cheng Chang. For a full minute he gazed. He questioned, "Cheng Chang, did you cook this duck?' Poor Cheng Chang. Down he went, kneeling three times. Each time he knelt, his head rapped the floor thrice. "Yes, most gracious and forgiving Majesty, I cooked the duck. I, Cheng Chang, alone am guilty. Oh, have mercy." He could almost feel the headsman's sword,
Steadily for another minute the monarch stared. Then he spoke. "You did, did you? Well, all I can say is this. The man who cooked this duck should be King. And, by the teeth of the bobtailed dragon who brings famine, I am going to make him King. I shall abdicate and appoint him to rule in my stead. Arise, King Cheng Chang, ruler of the universe—and the best cook that ever roasted a duck."
So soon as Cheng Chang's wife heard of her smaller half's good fortune she hurried back to the palace. With her she fetched the three brothers, feeling sure that King Cheng Chang would appoint them to high places. If he wouldn't, she would. She had things planned to the last detail. One brother was to be keeper of the royal and full treasury. What a clever idea. He had the largest pockets. Another brother was to be Governor of Kwang Ting. The third was to be made Commander-in-chief of the royal and never-run army.
At breakfast, the eldest brother mentioned his desire. "Oh," said King Cheng Chang, "I can't make you keeper of the treasury. I've already put in a man who has no hands." "Well, what appointment have you saved for me?" "For you? Let's see. You can be Ambassador to Ho Chung Kuo." (A far-off country—America, in fact.) "Indeed?" screamed the Queen's brother in terrible rage. He took his knife from his mouth and lunged at the King. . . . Only a remarkable quickness of foot saved King Cheng Chang.
His Majesty, very properly, was much displeased at such unseemly behavior. Who wouldn't be? "I shall have your eldest brother beheaded," he told the Queen. "Indeed?" said the Queen. "Then I shall beat you." So that ended that. He was little and she was large. There was no beheading.
At dinner the Queen's second brother remarked in a casual tone: "It's an exquisite day, isn't it? I hope it will be this pleasant when I am inaugurated Governor of Kwang Ting." "You? Governor? I have appointed Ching Chung to be Governor of Kwang Ting. You can be constable at. . . . " "Indeed?" screamed the would-be governor in an ungovernable rage. He seized his fork and rushed at the King. Fortunately a mat slipped from beneath his feet. His fork tore a deep furrow in the floor. The monarch escaped injury.
Nevertheless, King Cheng Chang was highly indignant. Surely that was his kingly right. He said to the Queen, "I shall have your brother be. . . . " The Queen intertupted, "If you do, I shall beat you." She rather had him there. The King crawled under his throne. The subject was closed, and the headsman's sword was unstained.
Supper had barely begun when the Queen's youngest brother, a huge brawny yokel, remarked that he had already purchased his uniform and would take over the army tomorrow. The King was taken back. "You command the army? Huh. I shall make you Minister to Yin Yung." (A place twenty thousand li distant at the ships sail.) "Indeed?" roared the Queen's brawny youngest brother. Clutching his soup spoon he leaned across the table and struck at King Cheng Chang, "Swish," with all his might.
Thanks to him who made the table, he made it of generous width. The Queen's _-_illustration_-_page_62.png)
The King crawled under his throne.
youngest brother could not quite reach across it. His murderous spoon merely parted the King's beard. It was a most atrocious deed, meriting extreme punishment, but it caused no actual pain. Its main effect was upon the King's dignity. But this time His Royal Mightiness said nothing of the headsman. He imagined that his wife would most likely raise objections. No. The King said nothing of punishment. Instead, he rewarded the Queen's youngest brother, appointed him director of the Imperial Gunpowder Factory, with a bed in the factory. . . . And gave him six pounds of smoking tobacco.
The three attempts upon his life worked havoc with Cheng Chang's nerves. When eating breakfast, he could never look at a knife without shuddering. Seated at dinner, each time he touched a fork cold chills raced down his marrow. At supper, he could scarcely eat because of the spoon. Each glance at the spoon wrought from His Majesty a groan of dread.
So King Cheng Chang did a most wise thing. He abolished knives and forks and spoons. He ate his rice and duck with the aid of two harmless, delicate, little sticks. There was nothing about the sticks to inspire uneasiness. They were incapable of hurt.
The little sticks used by King Cheng Chang were called Chop-Sticks. Chop means good.
Naturally enough, all the people in Cheng Chang's kingdom soon were using chop-sticks. They wished to do as the King did. People are like that. Chop-sticks became, first, fashionable, then, universal. Every one used them.
Wherefore, today King Cheng Chang is remembered not for his roast duck—which was heavenly, and gained him the throne—but for his chop-sticks—which are wood, mere wood.