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I grinned at him and then gestured for Clair to follow. Hog disappeared into his restaurant and I stepped inside. Clair moved in past me, and I pulled the door shut, rolling the gate down again.
Hog’s place was fastidiously clean. The sitting area was cramped and small, but swept and polished. The booths were kept immaculate, the vinyl oiled and kept in pristine condition, the carpet deep cleaned at least once every year. The walls had the same old paintings in cliché Chinese styles, probably to make the visiting tourists happy, but they were brightly colored and vivid. Part of me thought he got them repainted every few months, but that would be extravagant, even for Hog.
He stomped through the dining area toward the back and I followed. Clair came close, giving me these weird, confused looks, and I just shook my head and grinned at her. I took her hand and held it, just to make sure she didn’t lose her nerve, as Hog took us into his kitchen.
It was a mess of activity. Men and women, some I recognized and some I didn’t, worked at the various stations chopping vegetables, prepping meats, putting together sauces. Each station was impeccable, and Hog glared around at everyone as he stomped through. I could have sworn every person in there stood a little straighter and chopped a little faster as Hog moved through his domain, the stainless steel gleaming, the knives bright and sharp.
He led us into the very back of the kitchen and behind a small half-wall. There, hanging in neat rows, their skin perfectly browned, their necks turned to the side like they’d been hanged for treason, were beautiful Peking ducks.
Hog gestured at them. “Here,” he said. “Your damn ducks.”
I grinned at the beautiful, delicious little birdies and stepped toward them. “How many?” I asked.
“Just two,” he snapped. “And you know it.”
“Two whole ducks,” I said, my voice a whisper, a feeling of giddy excitement in my stomach. “Hog, I could kiss you.”
“Save it for the girl,” he said dryly. “Here, I’ll package them. Don’t ever say old Hog’s a sore loser.”
I stepped aside and returned to Clair as Hog went to work taking the two ducks down and packaging them up in in a white waxed box and a large paper bag.
“Why is he giving you ducks?” Clair asked, her voice a whisper.
“I beat him in cards,” I said. “He ran out of money, so I let him wager ducks.”
“Wow,” she said and laughed. “Really?”
“Really. These ducks are like a hundred bucks each.”
Her eyes went wide. “Seriously?”
“They’re the best in the city by far. Hog’s a no-joke chef, he has a Michelin Star.”
“Wow,” she said, looking around with newfound appreciation. “I honestly had no clue.”
“He keeps a low profile these days, but we’re in a mutual card game. He’s not a bad player, just had some poor luck that night.”
She laughed a little, shaking her head. “Lucky for me then.”
“You think you’re getting some of my ducks?”
“I better,” she said. “Or else I’m running away again.”
I laughed and put my arm over her shoulder. “All right, little Clair. You stick with me and I’ll ply you with delicious duck, as much as you want.”
“Deal,” she said.
Hog finished dressing and packing the birds. He carried them over trussed up and rolled in white wax paper and tucked into a big brown paper bag.
“Thanks, Hog,” I said, accepting the bag.
“You know how to cook them?” he asked. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to ruin these.”
“I won’t,” I said. “Promise. I’ll find a good tutorial on YouTube.”
He sighed and rubbed his face then shook his head. “Do whatever you want. Your ducks now.”
I laughed at him and grinned at Clair. She rolled her eyes like I was the most embarrassing thing in the world.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go have a drink and seal this deal.”
“Fine, fine,” Hog said, grumbling. “Always the drinking with you. This is how I ended up losing money in the first place.”
He led us back through the kitchen and out into the main dining room. I sat down on a stool in front of the bar with Clair right next to me, our thighs touching briefly before she looked at me, bit her lip in this incredibly distracting way, and turned her body.
Hog got behind the bar, found three shot glasses, and filled them with his best whiskey. I held my glass up.
“To Hog and his delicious duck,” I said.
“To my bad luck,” Hog said.
We clinked glasses and drank. The whiskey felt good and smooth in my mouth and warm in my belly. Hog poured another round, though Clair declined hers. He leaned back against the far counter and held his glass, staring into it pensively. I picked mine up and sipped it a little, savoring the taste.
