just as I'd said earlier. From the outside, the Lan house looked less impressive than ours. But once I was in their front yard I discovered the fundamental difference between the two: ours was like a bun made from white flour wrapped round a filling of rotten cabbage leaves; theirs was a bun made of whole-grain flour wrapped round three delicacies. Theirs had a multi-grain, highly nutritious skin, dark grain with no impurities. And though ours was nice and white, it was made of trashy, chemically whitened flour that's bad for your health. Stored for years in a war-preparedness warehouse, it was wheat powder denuded of all nutritive value. Using edible buns as a metaphor for homes is a stretch, I know that, Wise Monk, so forgive me. But with my poor educational background, that's the best I can come up with. Well, I'd no sooner stepped into the yard than his two fierce wolfhounds erupted in loud, threatening barks. They were chained to splendid doghouses by nickel-plated chain collars that rattled with every move. Instinctively, I backed up against the wall to prepare to ward off an attack. Unnecessarily, as it turned out, because they thought I was beneath them, and their half-hearted barks were mere formalities. Their bowls were filled with fine food, which included bones with plenty of bright red meat on them. Wild beasts survive on raw meat—it's what keeps them mean and fearless. ‘If you feed a ferocious tiger nothing but sweet potatoes, in time it'll turn into a pig.’ Lao Lan said that, and it made the rounds in the village. He also said, ‘Dogs walk the earth eating shit, wolves travel the world eating meat.’ ‘Character qualities stubbornly resist change.’ That's something else he said, and it too made the rounds in the village.
A man in a white cap emerging from the eastern room with a food hamper nearly bumped into me. It was Lao Bai, chef at the Huaxi Dog Meat Restaurant, a talented specialist in preparing dog meat and a distant cousin of dog-breeder Huang Biao's wife. Since Bai had come out of that particular room, it was clear that a banquet was in progress and that Lao Lan would not be anywhere else. So I clenched my jaw, walked up and opened the door. The captivating smell of dog meat hung heavy in the air. A steaming copper hot pot sat in the centre of a large revolving dining table surrounded by several diners, including Lao Lan, all busily devouring the food and drink. Their faces shone—half sweat and half oil—as they plucked dripping chunks of dog meat from the hot pot and crammed them into open mouths that complained of the heat but were immediately cooled by slugs of chilled beer. Tsingtao Beer, the best, of course, served in tall glasses, bubbles rising amid the amber liquid. The first to spot me was a fat woman with a face the colour of garnet, but she said nothing—she simply stopped eating, puffed up her cheeks and stared at me.
Lao Lan turned and froze for a moment before his face creased into a broad smile. ‘What do you want, Luo Xiaotong?’ He turned to the fat woman before I could answer and said, ‘The world's most gluttonous boy is in our midst.’ Then he turned back to me. ‘Luo Xiaotong, people say you'll call anyone Dieh who offers you a good meaty meal. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then, son, sit down and dig in. I want you to know that this is a Huaxi dog-meat hot pot, enhanced with more than thirty herbs and spices, the likes of which I'm sure you've never sampled.’
‘Come here, youngster,’ said the fat woman, whose accent revealed her as a foreigner. The person next to her, obviously a subordinate, echoed her comment: ‘Come here, youngster.’
I swallowed to stop myself from drooling.
‘But that was before,’ I said. ‘Now that my own dieh is back, there's no need to call anyone else Dieh.’
‘Why did that arsehole come back anyway?’ asked Lao Lan.
‘This is where he was born and where my grandparents are buried. Why shouldn't he come back?’ It was up to me to make a case for his return.
‘Now that's a good boy, sticking up for your dieh even at your young age,’ Lao Lan said. ‘Just what a son ought to do. Luo Tong may be a coward but his son isn't.’ He nodded and sipped his beer. ‘So, what do you want?’