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 complimented 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 interrupted, “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 to-morrow. 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.
[Illustration: The King crawled under his throne.]
Thanks to him who made the table, he made it of generous width. The
Queen’s 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.