You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

At this moment, the lobby on the first floor of the Cantonese restaurant was completely different from the quiet atmosphere in the private rooms on the second floor; it was a bustling and lively scene of everyday life.

It was lunchtime, and the hall was bustling with people, with dozens of round and square tables packed full.

An elderly woman selling dim sum from a cart shouted in Cantonese, "Shrimp dumplings, siu mai, char siu bao!"

The kitchen was filled with the clattering of iron woks and the sizzling of stir-frying. The air was filled with the rich aroma of star anise, the fat from roasted meat, and the sizzling fragrance of steaming hot pastries that wafted out when the bamboo steamer was first opened.

The language environment here is extremely chaotic.

The waiters, carrying trays, weaved through the narrow aisles like eels, shouting loudly in both Chinese and English:

"Excuse me! Boiling water is scalding my feet! Please excuse me!"

At a table in the left corner, several Chinese programmers wearing plaid shirts were having a heated discussion in standard Mandarin about the layoff rates in Silicon Valley.

On the right, by the window, two white foreigners were clumsily holding chopsticks, shouting "Amazing!" at a plate of General Tso's Chicken.

In the best spot directly opposite the roast meat stall sat a gaunt old Chinese man.

The old man looked to be in his sixties, but he was in excellent spirits. His eyes darted around the lobby, occasionally glancing at the private rooms on the second floor, and he was always acting strangely.

He was wearing a gray Tang-style vest, had a full head of silver hair, and wore an old-fashioned melon-shaped hat.

He was twirling two glossy walnuts in his hands, squinting at the oil-dripping roasted meats in the glass display case.

This is Uncle Chen, an old neighbor in Chinatown.

"Old Liang!"

Uncle Chen shouted at the shopkeeper, who was behind the counter fiddling with an abacus, in a thick Cantonese accent:

"Is today's roast goose alright? Give me the bottom half!"

"I want leg meat! Don't try to fool this old man with that dry, tough breast meat!"

Mr. Liang, the owner of the Cantonese restaurant, came running over with a greasy plastic menu in his hand, his belly protruding.

He casually placed a pot of freshly brewed Pu'er tea heavily in front of Uncle Chen and retorted in Mandarin with a Cantonese accent:

"Old Chen! Here to mooch off my free tea again today?"

"Don't worry! You're a gourmand, coming here every day. Would I dare to cheat you? Freshly roasted goose from the oven, the skin is so crispy it could break your dentures!"

"Damn! These teeth of mine are all real!"

"The tea in your shop is all broken tea leaves (cheap jasmine tea powder), I wouldn't even drink it for free and it would hurt my throat."

Uncle Chen laughed and cursed, then stuffed the walnuts into his pocket.

"Another plate of stir-fried beef noodles, and a bowl of watercress and pork rib soup. Hurry up, I'm starving."

Not long after, the waitress Xiaomei came over with a tray.

"Uncle Chen, enjoy your crispy roast goose while it's hot."

On the white porcelain plate, the neatly sliced ​​roast goose glistened.