The Pause by John Larkin

Author:John Larkin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Australia
Published: 2015-09-25T04:00:00+00:00

‘Douche, look at that,’ says Kate, pointing at the far wall. I look over at the lobster tank as the unfortunate invertebrate (or whatever they are) try to clamber over each other with their spindly legs to get at something that appeals to their pea-size brains. If I were a lobster and I saw the waiter heading my way with his scoop, I’d try to make myself look really thin (not easy, I suppose, with an exoskeleton) or else use my spidery legs to point at the big fat one skulking in the corner. Or maybe I’d teach myself how to tap-dance. No one is going to throw a tap-dancing lobster into a boiling pot, surely. It’d just be too cute.

‘Do you reckon they’re bred in captivity?’ asks Kate, interrupting my thoughts on tap-dancing lobsters. ‘Or are they wild?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘These are free-range lobsters. It’s the law now. They’re bred on a farm outside Dubbo where they can come and go as they please and get into territorial disputes with the crabs on the neighbouring ranch.’

‘Really?’

In deference to Dad’s meat-and-potato palate, we opt mostly for gweilo food. I bite into the nuclear-hot spring roll, relishing the sound of the crispy deep-fried pastry shattering between my teeth, and the explosion of flavour of what’s inside. My favourite dish is siu mai (pork dumplings). I’m a bit of a greenie at heart and rapidly heading towards vegetarianism, but I’m forced to suspend my principles when the waitress lifts the lid of the bamboo basket and reveals its mouth-watering contents. This is Lisa’s favourite, too, so I insist on two servings and gobble Lisa’s share as well, without telling anyone why I have momentarily turned into Homer Simpson.

A little while later, the waitress reveals her chicken feet to us (the chicken’s – not hers), which is a Chinese delicacy. Kate is intrigued. She doesn’t want to eat them, she wants to know what happened to the rest of the chicken, or if these chicken feet are in fact grown in a lab or something, kind of like mould or a pancreas.

Not being one to let an opportunity pass, I inform her that they only use free-range chickens, which are bred on a farm near the lobsters, and when they have removed the chickens’ legs for market, the chickens are given little off-road wheelchairs in which they can manoeuvre about the farm and team up with the lobsters to drive off the warmongering crabs.

Kate looks at me and then over to Mum, who is biting her lip so much that she’s practically drawing blood. ‘You’re such an idiot!’ Free-range lobsters she buys, but wheelchair-bound chickens is apparently a step too far. Still, I suppose it’s what you might expect from someone who names her pet guinea pig Pooey McFartpants.

‘Okay,’ says Dad when he’s devoured several spring rolls and a couple of char sil bau. ‘Down to business.’

I look at Dad, wondering if he’s about to announce that he and mum are splitting up,

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