said the team leader. ‘This young fellow's polished off a hundred eggs at one sitting, then topped it off with a whole hen. Three pounds of fritters won't make a dent in his appetite, isn't that so, Luo Tong?’ ‘We'll see,’ my father said, keeping his head down. ‘I'm not one to brag.’ ‘Good!’ Big Belly said excitedly. ‘Bring out the fritters, girls, straight out of the oil.’ ‘Not so fast, Wu,’ said the assistant manager. ‘You'll have to pay up front.’ ‘Talk to them, said Wu, pointing at the team leader, ‘since they're going to have to come up with the money sooner or later.’ ‘Says who, Big Brother? We can afford to pay for six pounds of fritters, three each, but there's that saying: “Eating a pile of shit is no big deal, except for the taste.” How can you be so sure we're going to lose?’ Wu wiggled his thumb in the team leader's face: ‘All right, maybe I've been a little rude and have offended you. How's this: we'll each take out enough for six pounds of fritters and lay it on the counter. The winner can pick his share and walk out, the loser can walk out but leave his share behind. Does that sound fair?’ The team leader thought it over for a moment: ‘Yes, it's fair. But our villagers are pretty gruff people who don't mince their words, so don't make a scene.’ Wu fished out some greasy notes and laid them on the counter. The team leader did the same. Then a waitress covered the stacks with upside-down bowls to keep them from flying away. ‘Can we start, ladies and gentlemen?’ Wu asked. The assistant manager turned to the waitresses. ‘Go on, bring out the fritters for Master Wu and this fellow, three pounds apiece, and let the yardarm stick up a bit.’ ‘You scoundrels always shortchange your diners,’ laughed Wu, ‘but for a contest you want the yardarm to stick up a bit. I want you all to know that anyone who comes here either to throw down or to accept a challenge is no pushover. As the saying goes: “You don't swallow a sickle unless you've got a curved stomach.” If it's an eating contest, what difference does it make if the yardarm is up or down. Isn't that right, young fellow?’ My father ignored him. While Wu was holding forth, waitresses carried out a pair of enamel trays piled high with oil fritters and laid them on the table. Obviously fresh, they were big and fluffy, fragrant and steaming hot. ‘Can I start?’ my father asked the team leader politely. Before the team leader could give the OK, Wu had picked up one of the fritters and bitten off half. With bulging cheeks and moist eyes, he stared at the tray, his hunger clearly raging. My father sat down. ‘If you'll excuse me,’ he said to the team leader and the villagers, ‘then I'll start.’ With an apologetic look at the spectators, he began to eat at an easy, steady pace, taking ten bites to finish a foot-long fritter and chewing slowly before swallowing. Not Wu, who was not so much eating the things as stuffing them down a hole. The piles shrank. By the time five remained on Wu's tray and eight on my father's, each swallow took longer and caused greater distress. That they were suffering was obvious. Then there were only two left on Wu's tray, and the pace had slowed to a crawl. There were also two left on my father's tray. The end game had arrived. They ate their last fritters at the same time, after which Big Belly Wu stood up. But he sat right back down, weighed down by his body. The contest had ended in a draw. Suddenly my father said: ‘I can eat one more.’ The assistant manager turned to a waitress: ‘Hurry,’ he said excitedly, ‘this fellow says he can eat one more.’ The waitress fished one out of the oil with her chopsticks, looking jubilant. ‘Are you all right, Luo Tong?’ the team leader asked. ‘If not, just stop. We don't care about the little bit those fritters cost.’ Without a word, my father took the fritter from the waitress, tore it into little balls and put them into his mouth, one at a time. ‘I want another one, too,’ Big Belly called out. When the waitress handed it to him, he put it up to his mouth,