Confessions of a Bullying Dog-Eater
This horrifying incident occurred in 1978, when I -- then something of a lefty -- was on a tour of the People’s Republic of China, gathering background for my novel Peking Duck, published a year later by Simon & Schuster.
I was at a banquet, sampling a number of Chinese dishes, all in similar dark Szechuan sauces, when I asked my interpreter the identity of the morsel I was gobbling.
“Is dog,” he said, in a matter-of-fact manner. Didn’t we eat dog all the time? Well, I didn’t and started to spit it out. But here’s the ugly part. I actually finished chewing and swallowed. I was curious. What was dog like? (Hard to tell, really. The Szechuan peppers were too strong.)
So there you have it -- the confessions of a bullying dog-eater. I hope you don’t think too badly of me, but I had to do it. Like the Father of Our Country, I cannot tell a lie -- at least not these.
And now what?
I bet you think I’m making fun of the Washington Post for publishing on their front page deliberately distracting reactionary swill that has less than nothing to do with how Mitt Romney would actually perform as president of the United States -- a straight out smear, really.
Well, maybe. But I have another, yet deeper intention. I wish to congratulate them.