“No chance you’ve run across any of the lads from the Royal James?” he asks.

“No, haven’t seen them at all.”

“You’re not off the Happy Return, are you?”

“No.”

“Looked like you were. Seemed I’d seen you before. All right, then, what’ll you have?”

“Give me what you’ve got.”

“Natürlich. Three of them, from the Royal, came ’round after midday to say they’d dine here later. They asked for rice with crabmeat. I have that, and some codfish soup, if you want it.”

“Go ahead and bring me some. But listen—make sure there’s enough left for them.”

“Don’t worry. I have enough for ten. They’re the kind of lads you don’t want to disappoint, if you take my meaning.”

“Well, if that’s the case, old boy, give me as much as you’d serve up for two.”

From behind, the owner looks even fatter than he does from the front. Don’t worry, my boy, if you want to pull the wool over my eyes, you’ll have to be up bright and early. You can go on till the cows come home before you’ll get me to believe in your “boys from the Royal.” I bet you a week’s wages we’ll see neither hide nor hair of your boys from the Royal. The “boys from the Royal” ruse—they use it up and down every coastline in the world, in every tavern that serves meals. I know the ruse—as though I could ever forget it!—it’s been used on me a hundred times. But go ahead anyway, my boy. Like you say, don’t worry. This evening, I’m busy telling lies to myself, so I’m happy to carry on. I believe you like Scripture. I’m going to partake, on the sly, of the sultan’s feast supposedly being prepared for the boys from the Royal.

Oh, but the rice is exceptionally good, yes, it really is! Herman, with his mouth full, has given the owner a look, and the bulldog has winked back at him. This is real rice with crabmeat! It’s impossible to eat rice like this anywhere outside of the Philippines. The owner must have been a sailor. Herman wolfs down his portion, lifts his finger in the air. The owner stops wiping the glass in his hand. Herman winks and says, “Mindanao.” The bulldog says, “Right, Vergara, at the head of the bay,” and winks back.

It’s superb to pluck the little crabs out of the rice with your fingers, to suck their shells, to lick them all over, lapping up the juices that run from every one of their joints, to open them up with both hands, freely, not giving a damn if the sauce runs into your palms, to suction out all of the green, all of the red, all of the brown they have inside, to run your tongue through the cavity and chew up all of these bits of shell, these bones, this iodine, these flavors of the sea, these juices. Ah, is it ever good! And then, to lick your fingers. Freely.