"Kid's... mother... bring... the wooden basin... over!"
A thin man was onstage rehearsing in clumsy Chinese, while several elderly Asian men in the audience rocked back and forth, cackling like ducks.
"Holy shit, Chen, your language is so hard to learn. Why can't I just call Jenny by her name? Why do I have to call her the kid's mother?"
He smiled and glanced toward the side of the audience. His wife, Jenny, sat in a wicker chair, her pregnant belly already showing a slight swell. One hand rested gently on her stomach, while the other covered her mouth, her eyes curved into crescents.
"Yes, yes, that's exactly the flavor we're looking for."
Old Chen set his erhu aside, grinning so broadly he couldn't close his mouth. "Making a fool of yourself takes... oh, what that means in translation is that some nuances can only be brought out by people from different cultural backgrounds. But your Chinese really is improving very quickly."
"Fank you." Jack Napier smiled and nodded too. "Next, I'm supposed to say, I... finally caught... this wave..."
The old men burst out laughing again.
"Hahahaha..."
Bang!
The laughter stopped dead. As Gotham residents, they were all too familiar with that sound, though they weren't particularly worried. After all, however much the gangs fought among themselves, none of them would use a bunch of old men to establish their authority.
That would only make them a laughingstock.
Still, they lowered their voices considerably. It wouldn't do to let the gang members outside think they were provoking them.
"Let's stop rehearsing for now." Old Chen beckoned to Napier. "I'll teach you a bit of the dish-name routine. If you can get as far as vinegar-fried pork slices within three days, Old Liu will treat you to that dish."
"Hey,