“CHINESE PIE”

Southland Times, Issue 23835, 5 June 1939, Page 4

“CHINESE PIE”

COLOURFUL EAST IN AUCKLAND VISIT TO PAKAPOO DENS The Chinese pie comes into the yarn, of course—though this is really a pakapoo story with a dash of fantan, several whiffs of the colourful East that is Auckland’s Chinatown, a “five mark” win in the one o’clock “A” bank . . . . and the insistent persuasiveness of Wing Bok. Events began to move somewhere about midday, when a reporter, accompanied by a guide who claimed to “know his chop suey,” set out to purchase his first pakapoo ticket from an agent who frequented a certain hostelry at a certain time. Let it be understood that pakapoo is a well-organized industry, and the daily routine of business runs as smoothly as clockwork. The reporter was told that one of the syndicates is operated by a European. The others are Chinese-owned. For a modest sixpence the amateur or inveterate gambler may try his luck any hour of the day, buying his ticket from any one of the many agencies in the city area or from the agents who canvass for customers in likely business places. ENTER—THE PIE The Chinese pie came into the story while the guide and the reporter (who, by the way, was introduced as a “fellow up from the Woop-woops seeing the town”) were waiting for the appearance of the agent. There was a general hiatus in conversion when the reporter confessed that he had never eaten a Chinese pie—so, when threepence was produced, the guide sallied forthHe returned with a brown-paper bag from which he drew a round mass of white dough, drawn to a quaint peak at the top. “Have a go at that!” he said. Others took an interest in the exhibit, and it was gathered that there were pies and pies, but for something that “stuck to the ribs” there was nothing like a Chinese pie. The reporter, however, after prodding the mass, stated that he would take it home to show the folks what Chinese cooks could do in the dumpling line. A suggestion—no doubt facetious—was made that he should take it to a taxidermist, have it stuffed and mounted and keep it as a curio. Then the guide showed the reporter something that had escaped notice before. There was a little hole in the side. “That’s where the pie breathes,” he said academically. DELIGHTFUL AROMA Now, a “breathing pie” was a new culinary angle—but sure enough there was the hole and a tiny wisp of steam issuing from it. The reporter sniffed gently. Obviously, this pie did not suffer from “halitosis.” The aroma was delightful—the product of chicken, pork, curry and filings like that. “All the same, I shall keep it as a souvenir,” said the reporter, fighting back his intense desire to devour the pie. “It may bring me luck.” And it did—first try. The pakapoo agent arrived. He was a Chinese—taciturn and businesslike. On a small commission—about a penny a ticket—he makes his daily round and a comfortable living. “Gimme luck, pie,” said the reporter, thrusting the outside “doughboy” back into the bag. One could almost have sworn that the pie breathed a gentle assent. Then the reporter and his- guide bought tickets—one each at sixpence a time. This is the easiest part of the pakapoo game. The difficult angle is to mark them in such a way that one wins anything up to £7O. Eighty cabalistic Chinese characters, in two sets of 40, form the raw material on which the “punter” works. A number of these characters is marked by the secret “bankers” \ run the gamble. The “punter” marks any ten on the ticket he buys, and if these ten are contained in those marked on the bank ticket he can win £7O. The odds are several millions to one, of course, but P. T. Barnum said the necessary words many years ago. And they’re still born every minute. The lowest number of correct marks on which a prize is paid is five. Anything below that is “out.” A nice, shiny sixpence changed hands, and the reporter marked his ten—five above and five below the white band that divides the two sets of characters. There was no system about it —just a feeling that the pie would “turn up trumps.” And then followed all the mental anguish of waiting for the bank to be drawn, VISIT TO PAKAPOO DEN The charm of this game is that as soon as the bank is drawn—and there are banks every hour of the day and most of the night—runners take copies of the master ticket to all the pakapoo agencies, in town. If one does not believe the marking at one agency, one may visit a score of others and “check in.” So file reporter and his guide were in the peaceful shelter of a pakapoo “joint” not a thousand miles from a prominent Auckland civic building at the appointed time. Here was the atmosphere of the East. This was a “regular” place. Two Chinese clerks and a debonair young Maori attempted to keep up with the rush of patrons who wanted to “mark” tickets or see what won the “any o’clock" bank—for time is really eternal at pakapoo. The place was crowded and the smoke from scores of cigarettes supplied the necessary “atmosphere”— but the wrong sort. With little dishes of Chinese ink soaked in wadding before them, and wielding their brushes furiously, the clerks “stepped on it.” While waiting, the reporter showed his ticket to a client whose name, it was discovered, was “Horsefeathers.” No doubt he had another name. “Horsefeathers,” who, like the reporter’s guide, was au fait with all the best pakapoo people, succeeded in gettting the bank copy, and said that the reporter had been fortunate enough to win a “six mark”—if not a “seven mark.” “FIVE-MARK” WIN Now, a “six mark” is worth 8/6 and a “seven mark” brings in £3 10/ — facts that nobody can afford to ignore. At his guide’s suggestion he rushed back to the hostelry where he had bought the ticket. There, sure enough, was the agent—selling more tickets. “Seven mark, eh?” said the reporter, extending the ticket. “Five mark,” said the agent after a rapid glance. “Surely must be six mark then!” said the reporter, anxiously comparing the marks on the agent’s bank copy. He indicated where the markings allegedly coincided.

“That fella next door alongside,” said the agent, showing where the mistake lay. He dug into his pocket and thumped a shilling on the bar. He was

right. The reporter had gone one too far to the left. But after all, it was a win. It isn’t everyone who doubles his money like that. At this stage another two men, known to the guide, came into the picture. They were intrigued by the story of the lucky pie and the reporter found himself “one comer in” on a “four-leg ticket”—whatever that may mean. The first prize was £250 or £270, and each man drew his quarter share if the ticket won. The reporter dug in his inside coat pocket for the money and touched something soft. MANY AGENCIES VISITED It was the Chinese pie . . . but it didn’t bring luck that time.. The ticket failed. Several more tickets were bought by the reporter and his guide and at times it was difficult to cover the town swiftly enough to keep track of their pakapoo business interests. One explored houses that were allegedly vacant, entered laundries,, rubbed shoulders wtih Chinese and Europeans, breathed, in tobacco smoke and learned to read “marks” in an astonishing fashion. But there were no results apart from “one mark” and “two mark” which drew no prizes. Later in the evening, however, the guide suggested that the programme could be varied by a visit to a more interesting place and, by a method known only to the initiated, the reporter found himself in a room where the famous game of fantan was being played. There was plenty of moneynotes and silver—on the table and the players were intent on the game. They were Chinese. Barely, a minute of watching this game and Wing Bok—that name will do—put a stop to the investigations. “How come you come? No come! You go!” said Wing Bok. “You go pakapoo up the road! J bank good bank! Maybe you winnem plize!” and, assisted by another Chinese, he steered the reporter and his friend tactfully but firmly from the room on to the street. “Just one lookee-lookee. Perhaps I play," said the reporter. “No. , Nc good! You go!” said Wing Bok firmly. He smiled. He was really a nice Chinese. Another Oriental came out of the building and handed the reporter a bag. “You leave passel, I think,” he said. He was right. It was the Chinese pie. It had been an exciting day and the reporter and his guide were tired. A telepathic thought struck their minds as they passed over Grafton Bridge . . A brown paper parcel soared over the wire-netted parapet. In the silence of the evening there was a faint rustle far below.

It was the Chinese pie, breathing its last.