Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 239

The New Tales of Old Shanghai
Kellett Senior School, Singh, Gayatri - 12
I
looked with wonder around at the spice market. Vibrant colours and smells seemed to come from every stall. I
gazed at the pork crackling on one stall, with it’s delicious smell. My mouth watered as we walked around the stalls,
delicious smells wafting out. Ma stopped at one with a bright red sign and gold calligraphy.
“Two of your Qīngwā tuǐI ,” she said, pulling coins from her special cotton wallet Nainai had made her. Frog legs! Ma
used to buy them for me before Ba died, when we had money to spend. I stared up happily at Ma, but she remained
expressionless. She handed me the frog legs in a plastic bag and carried on walking, occasionally stopping to talk to one
of her friends. I eyed the frog legs. Both of the legs looked tender and juicy on the inside, but crispy on the outside, just
the way I liked them. My stomach rumbled. I hadn’t had any food since breakfast. Taking a quick glance at Ma, I
sneaked one of the legs into the palm of my hand. I took a quick bite out of one of the legs, then another. Delicious! I
was about to take a third bite when a loud, piercing scream filled my ears.
“Eeeeewwwww!”
Staring at the crowd, I quickly clapped my hands over my mouth. I was mortified. Hundreds of pairs of brown eyes
stared at me, this stranger with carrot-red hair and blue eyes who had screamed. But I couldn’t help it. That girl over
there was eating frog legs! The poor thing. She obviously had thought it was chicken. Thank goodness I was to warn her.
Acting quickly, I ran and yanked the leg out from her mouth. The texture was slippery and squishy, and I winced as it
passed from my hand onto the floor. I slowly stood up, and looked expectantly at the girl. I expected her to look
relieved, even grateful, but she looked anything but that. Her face was squished up, like she was about to cry.
“Oh, no, don’t cry,” I whispered, alarmed.
“Excuse me,” she said, in accented English “but who you think you are?”
Shocked, I tried to explain.
“Your daughter was eating frog legs,” I said shakily “not chicken.”
Suddenly, I could tell by the woman's expression that this was not news to her at all. I froze, realising what she meant.
And slowly, she said the words that I had been dreading, the words that would make me look like a villain, not a hero.
Slowly and deliberately, the woman spat,
“I know.”
You’re probably wondering why I was crying so loudly. It’s no big deal, you’re probably saying. But it is. This girl, who I
have never even met before, not only ruined my dinner, the only time I’ve had frog legs since Ba died, but she
humiliated both me and my culture. This foreigner, this person who had left her country to come to mine, had
described our food as ‘Eeww’. That’s the problem with them foreigners. Just because they left their culture and country
behind doesn’t mean they can look down at ours. I’ve never been as angry before. I hate her with her ignorant views
and loud proclamations on what was delicious and what’s not.