Memories at Ongpin

The first time I went to Chinatown and actually strolled around was that time you asked me out for lunch. We got down at Ongpin and lead me to this almost dilapidated but nevertheless crowded restaurant I’d assume was famous for your Chinese dish of choice, Peking duck.

Now, I never had Peking duck my whole life. To be honest, thinking about eating duck makes me puke, but then again I wonder why Balut’s an all-time personal favorite. I think I’ve mentioned that to you once or twice in one of our coffee dates previously, and sooner or later you’ve managed to spot that loophole and accused me of hypocrisy, shallow this hypocrisy of mine might be. You say, “What’s the difference between duck eggs and duck meat, Christ.”

“Obviously, my favorite happens to be the egg, and yours happens to be the meat.”

“But they’re both ducks! There’s just the slightest difference of presentation,” you defended, a bit too excitedly for that matter that by the time you finished your sentence, we noticed all the Chinese people eating around us, in a clamor of Chinese chitchat, had stopped for a moment to see who was shouting in Tagalog.

I found myself laughing out loud, while you turn red like boiled ham. I didn’t mind; I wasn’t self-conscious as you are.

“Just order our Peking duck,” he told me in a whisper, still embarrassed.

“Ours? It’s all yours. I’m still having my broccoli.”

I called out our waiter, of matured age, and as he walks toward our direction, he looks at my hand holding yours, since that moment we’ve gone inside their door. I paid no heed to the way he stares at our entwined fingers. I didn’t mind anyway; I wasn’t self-conscious as you are.