forget he's a child, and second, forget he's your son. If you can't do that, you'll never be able to discover his value, his unique gift.’ Lao Lan turned to me: ‘Worthy Nephew, let's settle this here and now. We'll organize a meat-eating contest, if not in the next six months then some time later in the year, and if that fails then next year. Your sister is a talented meat-eater, too, isn't she? She can be a part of what will be a true sensation…’ There were tears in his eyes as he continued: ‘Worthy Nephew Xiaotong, all sorts of feelings rise up in me when I'm in the presence of a boy who knows how to eat meat. There are two meat-eating virtuosos in this world, you and the son of my third uncle, who sadly died way before his time…’
A while later, Huang Biao was ordered to set up a new stove in the kitchen, one that could accommodate a larger pot; it was to be reserved for Luo Xiaotong's exclusive use. Huang Biao was then ordered that stock be constantly boiling in the pot and the meat cooking at all times. A ready supply of meat for Luo Xiaotong was the key to United's prosperity.
Word soon got out of my daily supply of free meat, as well as of Lao Lan's plan of sponsoring a meat-eating contest. One day, three unhappy workers confronted me at the entrance to the meat-cleansing building. ‘Xiaotong,’ they said, ‘just because your father is the manager and your mother is the bookkeeper, and just because you're the director of this workshop and Lao Lan's protégé, does not mean that we have to kowtow to you! What makes you so special anyway? You can't read—a blind man can open his eyes but he still can't see—which makes filling that big belly of yours with meat your only talent.’
‘First of all, I'm not Lao Lan's protégé,’ I interrupted. ‘Next, I know enough characters to read what's important. As for my talent, I'm good at eating meat but I don't have a big belly. Tell me, would you call this a big belly? Eating lots of meat with a big belly is nothing to boast of. Eating the same quantity with a small belly is. If you don't want to kowtow to me, go tell Lao Lan. We can have a contest. If I lose, I'll step down as workshop director and leave the plant for good. I'll go out into the world or back to school. Of course, if I lose, someone else will have to enter the contest, maybe one of you.’
‘It won't do us any good to go tell Lao Lan,’ they said. ‘You may deny you're his protégé but it's obvious you two have a special relationship. Otherwise, there's no way he'd have appointed a boy without a hair on his crotch as workshop director and given him the right to eat all the meat he wants.’
‘If you want to out-eat me, I accept the challenge. There's no need to disturb Lao Lan over something so silly.’
‘That's exactly what we want,’ they said. ‘To see who's the champion meat-eater. You can count us as your drill squad. If you can't beat us, you can forget about entering a real contest. It would be humiliating, and not just for you. The plant would suffer, and that would include us. So we challenge you to a contest, at least in part as an expression of fairness.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘We can start tomorrow and, since public spirit has entered the picture, I'm going to take this very seriously. Now we must inform Lao Lan, but don't worry, I'll assume full responsibility. And we need to establish ground rules and conditions. First, of course, is quantity. If you eat a pound and I eat eight ounces, that's simple, I lose. Next, speed. If we both eat a pound but I finish in half an hour while it takes you an hour, I win. Third, post-contest. Anyone who throws up what he's eaten can't win. Style points are received only by keeping down what you've eaten. Oh, and one more thing. One round won't be enough—the contest must stretch over three days, or five, even a week or a month. In other words, all contestants have to come back day after day. Someone might be able to eat three pounds the first day but only two the next and by the third day he's lucky