sharp-minded administrator, so capable that she immediately stepped over the second wife and assumed the role of mistress of the estate.
She accompanied her husband as he made the rounds to greet their extended families and then she quickly retreated to oversee the festivities while he continued through the hall from one group to another, and then out to the courtyard to greet his guests. The whole village had turned out for the festival. People sipped tea and sat patiently, waiting for the magistrate to complete his rounds. The meal would not commence until all were properly received.
Concluding the welcoming ceremony, Uncle climbed to the top step of the Ancestral Temple and looked down at the courtyard packed with diners sitting on mats, children darting about, folks circulating, greeting and congratulating each other. Council elders, dignitaries, and honored guests, more than a hundred strong, quietly rose from their tea-mats and aligned themselves in suitable rank behind him, the highest standing in the front row closest to the magistrate. People simply knew the proper thing to do; the gestures of ritual were instinctive.
Hands clasped behind his back, Uncle waited for the crowd to hush. He did not need to be announced; after all, the entire village revolved around him. Its entire population worked, had commerce with the estate, or served others who did. In one capacity or another, he was the judge, jury, sheriff, moneylender, landlord, and patron for all present, and this endowed him with a sort of compelling gravity, more so because he took pleasure in the drama of having people wait on him. In moments, the din subsided and all eyes turned to him.
“Honored guests, family, and friends, it gives me great pleasure to see you all here to celebrate this most auspicious Mid-Autumn Festival with us. We thank you for honoring our house with your company. We wish you all good health and good fortune. Let us feast.”
While the foods served to the commoners were not as glamorous as those served at the magistrate’s wedding banquet, the board was well laid with popular country dishes: roasted chickens, rice noodles brushed with scallion oil, poached fish, sweetmeat dumplings, cured hams, spring rolls, bean curd stuffed with minced pork, stir-fried vegetables, shrimp cakes, fresh herbs, pickled radishes, and dipping sauces. One of the favorite entrees was the crunchy-skin piglets, roasted and rubbed with five spices. But the most anticipated course was
bo thui,
an appetizer of cold cuts of veal served with a thick brown sauce of fermented soybean and mashed sweet rice. It was a delicacy most folks enjoyed perhaps only once a year at a major village banquet. The calf had to be slow-roasted whole over an open wood flame so that the hide turned a yellowish gold and the shoulder, when cut, revealed a thin layer of rare meat at the bone, a thick band of pink meat, and a slender well-done strip near the hide. Finely sliced, the meat’s tenderness was heightened by a single chewy, smoky strand of hide.
Within the Ancestral Temple, servants provided the same meal to fifty of the most powerful and wealthy men in the province. The men spread themselves out according to status among the five dining mats. In the adjacent room, their wives took similar positions beside the magistrate’s wife in accordance with the rank of their husbands. Diners sat in the lotus position with the rear hems of their robes draped over their laps, and ate from the communal tray using chop-sticks and small bowls.
For these guests, the magistrate had prepared an additional delicacy, the house’s stork stew, a recipe refined over four generations since his great-grandfather planted the bamboo hedge around the estate. Strong winds often dashed storks into the hedge, breaking their wings and crippling them. At first, the birds were killed as acts of mercy and eaten so as not be wasteful. Over the years, the cooks discovered that young stork meat was
She accompanied her husband as he made the rounds to greet their extended families and then she quickly retreated to oversee the festivities while he continued through the hall from one group to another, and then out to the courtyard to greet his guests. The whole village had turned out for the festival. People sipped tea and sat patiently, waiting for the magistrate to complete his rounds. The meal would not commence until all were properly received.
Concluding the welcoming ceremony, Uncle climbed to the top step of the Ancestral Temple and looked down at the courtyard packed with diners sitting on mats, children darting about, folks circulating, greeting and congratulating each other. Council elders, dignitaries, and honored guests, more than a hundred strong, quietly rose from their tea-mats and aligned themselves in suitable rank behind him, the highest standing in the front row closest to the magistrate. People simply knew the proper thing to do; the gestures of ritual were instinctive.
Hands clasped behind his back, Uncle waited for the crowd to hush. He did not need to be announced; after all, the entire village revolved around him. Its entire population worked, had commerce with the estate, or served others who did. In one capacity or another, he was the judge, jury, sheriff, moneylender, landlord, and patron for all present, and this endowed him with a sort of compelling gravity, more so because he took pleasure in the drama of having people wait on him. In moments, the din subsided and all eyes turned to him.
“Honored guests, family, and friends, it gives me great pleasure to see you all here to celebrate this most auspicious Mid-Autumn Festival with us. We thank you for honoring our house with your company. We wish you all good health and good fortune. Let us feast.”
While the foods served to the commoners were not as glamorous as those served at the magistrate’s wedding banquet, the board was well laid with popular country dishes: roasted chickens, rice noodles brushed with scallion oil, poached fish, sweetmeat dumplings, cured hams, spring rolls, bean curd stuffed with minced pork, stir-fried vegetables, shrimp cakes, fresh herbs, pickled radishes, and dipping sauces. One of the favorite entrees was the crunchy-skin piglets, roasted and rubbed with five spices. But the most anticipated course was
bo thui,
an appetizer of cold cuts of veal served with a thick brown sauce of fermented soybean and mashed sweet rice. It was a delicacy most folks enjoyed perhaps only once a year at a major village banquet. The calf had to be slow-roasted whole over an open wood flame so that the hide turned a yellowish gold and the shoulder, when cut, revealed a thin layer of rare meat at the bone, a thick band of pink meat, and a slender well-done strip near the hide. Finely sliced, the meat’s tenderness was heightened by a single chewy, smoky strand of hide.
Within the Ancestral Temple, servants provided the same meal to fifty of the most powerful and wealthy men in the province. The men spread themselves out according to status among the five dining mats. In the adjacent room, their wives took similar positions beside the magistrate’s wife in accordance with the rank of their husbands. Diners sat in the lotus position with the rear hems of their robes draped over their laps, and ate from the communal tray using chop-sticks and small bowls.
For these guests, the magistrate had prepared an additional delicacy, the house’s stork stew, a recipe refined over four generations since his great-grandfather planted the bamboo hedge around the estate. Strong winds often dashed storks into the hedge, breaking their wings and crippling them. At first, the birds were killed as acts of mercy and eaten so as not be wasteful. Over the years, the cooks discovered that young stork meat was
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