Followed in quick succession a "ski-yaw-key" party, (that's a Japanese meal in American spelling) and a Chinese feast.
While on our way to the first of these, the street lights all at once went out and we were forced to grope our way down a_ narrow alley to a lantern bright Japanese courtyard hidden away at the end. Up some slithery stairs, our feet in a pucker of little brown bags to a cave where amid four sinister dark bottles supporting candies, we plucked chicken, onions, sauce, eggs and various unknown quantities out of the encircling gloom and stirred them up Mul-logan-wise over charcoal in the ancestor of all pans.
If there is one thing more.appetite stirring than trying to eat Mulligan in the depths-of.a jungle from an old tin can, it is trying to get enough rice to hold' your chopsticks together until you can escort a slippery fragment of chicken, onion or egg to your lips. Only tried and calloused friends should be present On either occasion. fea The star in our gastronomical crown, however, is our frst Chinese wedding—feast. Those whic have begun with the four cold dishes and lasted. through the various culinary climaxes of seven-precious-things pudding, duck, and mandarin fish, to say nothing of the incidental toasting of the bride and groom, trying to catch but one note of the famous Number™. One singsong
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.