A tale of two chickens
Last Saturday, I spent the morning hooping it up with my friend Manabu Kawahira. Manabu is my best friend here, a 27-year-old, 5-foot-2 Japanese teacher with a buzz cut. He comes from Okinawa and worships Wu Tang Clan, a New York punk-rap group, and Jason Williams, the hot-dogging point guard for the Sacramento Kings. In his own words, Manabu is here because “I must grow up – mentally, physically, teaching Japanese, speaking English.” He went to college in Osaka to become a “public man,” but failed the examination and is now pursuing plan B: Japanese professor.
More importantly, though, he’s desperate to learn how to hoop it up, and I’m desperate to teach him. So, we worked on jump shot mechanics, dribble drills, passing games, drop steps, Pac-Man defensive shuffles and low-post moves. In these drills, Manabu was me and I was Mr. Hilling and Mr. Heather and Mr. Einan and Mr. Thompson, the great coaches I was lucky enough to grow up with as my hoop dreams flourished.
We finished hooping too late to get to the prison slopline, so we ventured out to the surrounding village, in search of lunch. And we came upon a place that looked perfect: no door, dirt floor, flies swarming, jumbo rice cooker and three tables. At one table sat a group of college students, always a good sign; at another table sat three generations of the restaurant owner’s family, another good sign; and the other table was empty. We entered.
“Do you speak English?” I asked. Puzzled stares around the restaurant. Then the waitress started spouting Chinese to Manabu. And Manabu spoke back the only Chinese phrase he knows: “So sorry, I don’t speak Chinese. I am Japanese.” So, she brought us a menu, totally incomprehensible to us. I decided it would be good to have chicken, eggplant and cabbage.
Eggplant and cabbage were easy. I pointed to the ground, made a motion to indicate a plant coming up from the ground, made a hand signal for “2,” then pointed at a purple shade in a painting on the wall, and then a green shade. Chicken was a bit more difficult. After a few failed attempts, I put my hands under my armpits, started flapping my wings, and squawked. Ten minutes later, a bowl of fried eggplant, a plate of steaming cabbage and a mound of chicken cubes arrived. Exquisite. An hour later, after devouring every last crumb of all three dishes, plus bowl after bowl of rice, and washing it down with a beer, we paid the bill: 14 yuan, about a buck fifty.
The next Saturday – yesterday – I again started the day by hooping with Manabu. He went around the world, draining jumpshot after jumpshot, then went side to side in dribble drills, then we practiced chest-passes as we shuffled the length of the court. Next, we worked on the low-post game. Manabu is the Okinawan Bill Russell.
Again, we hooped too long to make the prison slopline, and so off we went into the village, in search of lunch. This week, we went upscale – sliding glass doors, tile floors, wood tables, only a few flies and, again, a table of college kids, a table of three generations of the restaurant owner’s family, and an empty table for us.
“Does anyone speak English?” I asked. Puzzled stares all around. The waitress then started spouting Chinese at Manabu. “So sorry, I don’t speak Chinese. I am Japanese.” And she brought the menu, still incomprehensible. This time, I had a Chinese-English dictionary. I pointed at the word for “eggplant.” And the owner went back to the kitchen and then re-emerged with a perfectly symmetrical lavender eggplant. I gave him the thumb’s up. Then, I pointed at the Chinese word for chicken. Again, the owner disappeared. Soon, he reappeared at our table, his right hand grasping the neck of a live chicken, covered in sandy brown feathers. The chicken squawked and flapped its wings furiously. The owner pointed at the chicken, inquisitively. I gave the thumb’s up.
Ten minutes later, a bowl of fried eggplant, a plate of steaming cabbage, and a wok full of chicken chunks stir-fried in red peppers arrived at our table. We grubbed for the next hour, swilled a brew to wash it down and paid the bill: 28 yuan this time, about three-fifty. Fresh meat ain’t cheap.
