Penitent Penguins of the Falkland Islands

There comes a time in every man’s life when, despite one’s better instincts, one embarks upon an adventure one had, for good reason, avoided over the course of a lifetime. Truly this is such an instance, as I trust will soon become apparent.

Perhaps it was in June 1847, if recollection serves, that whilst conducting my researches anent quite a different issue, I chanced upon a dusty tome in the British Museum bearing the very title of the essay now before you. I daren’t be sidetracked, said I to myself (dutifully attempting to remain unheard by my nearest neighbors in the reading room in question), and yet I grasped the volume with quivering hands and barely began to read its contents; my lips were buttoned so as to avoid further glances of annoyance from my neighbors.

The frontispiece bore the date 9 December 1763 as well as a melodic line with lyrics suggesting some manner of penitential hymn apparently addressed to the Virgin. Though I dreaded perusing yet another theological tract, its aviary connotations continued to pique my curiosity even after I had re-shelved the volume out of sight.

As you may well imagine, I slept only fitfully that night, though I briefly dreamt of a procession, the likes of which I dare not describe whilst maintaining my balance of mind. But I also knew, right there and then, that I must hold that book in my hands once again, though it be my last act in this life.

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As Fate had it, it was snowing bitterly the next morning (thus one suspects it cannot have been the June of 1847); yet my determination remained firm and I set out upon what was soon to become my life’s new mission (but I daresay I am getting ahead of myself in this tale). I trudged my usual route, one whose features were being covered by the falling snow that day.

Up ahead, lingering at the window of the tobacconist’s shop, I espied Wilfrid Dirfliw, an old acquaintance from our Oxford University days. As usual he was smoking his pipe (and spitting madly upon the walk, as was his custom). His mangy old bloodhound, Pippin, was straining against the leash in a vain effort to access the hindquarters of a loose bitch running by, as one faintly recalls. “Hallo, Doctor,” called out Wilfrid, glancing expectantly in my direction.. For my part, I was exceedingly hesitant to blurt out my momentary preoccupations, and I returned his salutations in as civilized a manner as I could.

“Chilly, eh?” I must have mumbled dismissively, hoping for the best. How startled I was when he replied, with what I took to be a derisive laugh, “Right you are, Doctor. Only a bloody school of Penguins would be happy cavorting about in this weather.” I pretended amusement, whilst fainting from within my own soul, and proceeded onwards as the snow grew deeper. (I heard Wilfrid expectorate behind me and was determined not to take personal offence.) Pippin barked pitifully, or should I perhaps say howled painfully, into the strong wind, as I recall. What might this portend, I wondered? (No, June is definitely out of the question here.)

You cannot imagine my relief when I finally regained entry into my reading room, beyond the somnolent guards. I retraced all my steps of the previous evening, and at length felt my way to the open shelf where the spine of my aforementioned tome fortunately protruded just enough to beckon to my hands. And I began to read of matters both arcane and unimaginable.

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NYC Chinatown Days of Yore

3/29/08

“Baby Elephant” strikes me as an elegant phrase with which to inaugurate my return to an illustrious writing career that had become sidetracked by other pressing matters many months ago. On second thought, the phrase “Pressed Duck” might provide a more appropriate beginning, and lo, images of Pell and Canal Streets in the Chinatown district of New York City readily come to mind.

Dare I admit in print, as I have often done privately, that quite a bit of my New York State Regents Scholarship of 1955-1959 went towards dining in George Goon’s atmospheric Canton Restaurant on 6 Mott Street? I can still savor the aroma of lobster with shrimp sauce, as well as the shrimp with lobster sauce, amongst other delicacies I enjoyed there during my undergraduate days of totally free education at CCNY, an education that appears to have been chiefly gastronomic, to judge by what I remember best from my college career of so long ago.

In hindsight it seems that the aforementioned elephant might well have blocked the doors of creativity had I let it do so. Nearby there lay a small arcade featuring a fortune-telling captive rooster. Feeling compassion towards this unfortunate soul, I inserted my quarter as instructed, thereby feeding our rooster a measly food pellet, in an act that also pulled a lever that released a small card bearing my daily fortune. I clearly had a fortune to be told, unlike that poor creature trapped in its cage till the end of its days. Ah, existentialism!

Walking a bit further along Mott Street, I often noticed a gift shop with an overhead sign that said “Yick On Lung.” Today, while in the throes of pneumonia, I clearly see that sign again, down across the years. For further solace, I can backtrack and turn the corner onto Pell Street, where there was a mysterious door to my right bearing the message: “Stop! If you haven’t a friend in the world, enter!” What was inside, and is it still there today?

Is my old acquaintance P.D. still squatting outside in the cold, nearby on Canal Street, as I once saw him after he was evicted from our tenement? He had initiated me into the secrets of boiling white rice in a large cauldron: the rice was ready to serve after the steam surrounded the lid and drifted towards the center. The remaining hot water was good for the stomach and could also be used in the preparation of a thick peasant soup variously known as “dzhuk” or “congee.” P. sliced tasty bits of Chinese sausage into the pot, and we had a nice dinner. As I recall, he was hoping we could pool our resources and open a casino together, with “bad girls” as temptresses, and with me in the role of fluent English-speaking manager. And then he was gone.

During the Chinese New Year celebrations, there were always paper dragons and colorful lanterns in the store windows of Chinatown, and with luck I could witness a lovely procession going down the street. For ethnic contrast a few blocks away, one could also partake of the Festival of Saint Gennaro in the Italian neighborhood.

And I walked onwards into other cities and into different times.