My Tahiti by Robert Dean Frisbie — Read

I dined in a little Chinese café, hidden among alleys, gambling and opium dens, hovels where artisans plaited bamboo baskets, tinkered with cheap jewelry, or cut and packed native tobacco. There was a Chinese chest maker across the alley from Aki Au's--the very one, I believe, who made Reretu's chest with the musical lock; a leather worker kept a shop a few doors down the alley; and Aki Au's place itself was far more than a restaurant, for he dealt in illegal narcotics and spirits, and conducted a successful lottery in a room above his shop. His place was known to only a few whites, and no tourist had ever entered it. But Aki Au served big beefsteaks for four francs each, and his coffee was beyond reproach.

Soon he brought me a fine T-bone steak with plenty of potatoes and a bowl of salad; then stood by me as I ate, doing a great deal of talking and saying very little. His singsong voice was pleasantly monotonous, sounding like the distant murmur of ripples, though meaning less, to me. But presently he was gone, leaving me satisfied with my dinner and with only a vague impression that he had spoken at all.