Hong Kong

A sleek vain superior woman of the west, wearing a slit sheath of China gown, moves, carefully coif’d, elegant, in undulant progress to the dining room of a posh Hong Kong restaurant. She cradles a toy poodle at her side and does not ask permission, but assumes her right to do anything she wants anywhere she goes.

Her rich and witful husband, on whose arm she leans ever so lightly, not for support but for the regal manner of it, says, “Choose a table near a waiter,” and they proceed, in pomp and circumstance, to dine. And sure enough, they are served at once, by captain and subalterns, by attentive minions who leave nothing to chance, there at their table laid for kings—and queens. A waiter gestures, indicating the dog, and she grandly hands him her “Poof,” and off he takes it somewhere. Seated on her velvet-cushion chair, she subsides, not especially thrilled but demure, not outwardly delighted but composed, serene in her gown, her jewels, her skin, and surveys the opulent room she is in—opalescent chandeliers, tablecloth, chopsticks, added appurtenances (knives, forks, spoons) for her sterling special appearance.

Sitting erect with prerogative, almost stiff, she says her thank-you’s when hors d’oeuvres are served, with her barest flicker of a smile, condescending to the start of her prolonged meal. Servers bring little dainty dishes—and ginger and coriander, soy sauce, other spices. And pork and veal, and more to come. And always the steaming pure white rice. How nice.

A long ensuing exotic meal, entrée after entrée, and then the piece de résistance, something exceptional to eat, accompanied by lichée nuts, curry powder, sweetmeats and concluding side-plates, and ever-present tea. The husband pays the bill. They rise. She asks for “Poof.” The table-captain arrives, with eyebrows raised: the dog was served with carrots, all buttered and braised.

Moral: In this world of little pets and people, you may not be helped but, finally, severely hampered if you are cuddled and curried and over-pampered.