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got another refusal. That was the last of his Victoria Street favorites. It was nearly lunchtime, so I called the Belvedere. I was at the airport, I told the receptionist, and did they have an air-conditioned double room for one night?
    â€œAll our rooms—we got eight hundred plus—they are all air-conditioned,” she said.
    â€œThat’s very nice,” I said, and made the reservation. “If Hing asks,” I told Gopi, leaving him holding the can as usual—but who except the meekest man would hold it?—“tell him I’m down with the flu.”
    Since it was going to be lunch at the Tanglin, then off to the Belvedere, I thought I’d better change my duds.
    Â 
    â€œWhy the black suit?” Gunstone asked.
    â€œMy others are at the cleaners,” I said, still rolling “I’ve just come from a funeral” around on my tongue. He would have asked who died, or perhaps have been spooked by the announcement. I had the fluent liar’s sense of proportion and foresight. Gunstone was calmed.
    Lunch was the Friday special, my favorite, seafood buffet. I followed Gunstone, taking the same things he did, in the same amounts, and I soon realized that I was heaping my plate with oysters and prawns, which I liked less than the crab and lobster Gunstone took in two small helpings. I put some oysters back and got a frown from the Malay chef.
    At the table I said, “I hope I haven’t boobed, Mr. Gunstone, but I’ve fixed you up at the Belvedere this afternoon.”
    He stabbed a prawn and peeled off the shell and dunked the naked finger of pink meat into a saucer of chili paste. “Don’t believe we’ve ever been to the Belvedere before, have we, Jack?”
    â€œThe other places were full,” I said.
    â€œQuite all right,” he said. “But I ate at the Belvedere last week. It wasn’t much good, you know.”
    â€œOh, I know what you mean, Mr. Gunstone,” I said. “That food is perfectly hideous.”
    â€œExactly,” said Gunstone. “How’s your salmon?”
    I had not started to eat. I took a forkful, smeared it in mayonnaise, and ate it. “Delicious,” I said.
    â€œMine’s awful,” he said, and he pushed his salmon to the side of his plate.
    â€œNow that you mention it,” I said, “it
does
taste rather—”
    â€œDesiccated,” said Gunstone.
    â€œExactly,” I said. I pushed my salmon over to the side and covered it with a lettuce leaf. I was sorry; I liked salmon the way it tasted out of a can.
    â€œLobster’s pretty dreadful, too,” said Gunstone a moment later.
    I was just emptying a large claw. It was excellent, and I ate the whole claw before saying, “Right again, Mr. Gunstone. Tastes like they fished it out of the Muar River.”
    â€œWe’ll shunt that over, shall we?” said Gunstone. He moved a lobster tail next to the discarded salmon.
    I did the same, then as quickly as I could ate all my crab salad before he could say it was bad. I gnawed a hard roll and started on the oysters.
    â€œThe prawns are a success,” he said.
    â€œThe oysters are—” I didn’t want to finish the sentence, but Gunstone was no help “—sort of limp.”
    â€œThey’re cockles, actually,” said Gunstone. “And they’re a damned insult. Steward!” A Malay waiter came over. “Take this away.”
    Demanding that food be sent back to the kitchen is a special skill. It is done with
panache
by people who use that word. I admired people who did it, but could not imitate them.
    â€œYours,
Tuan?
” asked the waiter.
    â€œYes, take it away,” I said sadly.
    â€œWant more,
Tuan?
” the waiter asked Gunstone.
    â€œIf I wanted more would I be asking you to remove that plate?” Gunstone said.
    The waiter slid my lunch away. I buttered a hard roll and ate it, making crumbs shower down the