"Five more bowls!" shouted Mum, over the hiss of the pot. Mei Soh had her stool, her spoon and her plan. At ten o'clock the shutter came rattling down, and whatever was left at the bottom of the pot went into one last bowl — the sweet part, where all the fried shallots had sunk. The Scrape. Last one sitting gets it. Mei was always the last one sitting. Except that tonight, somebody was already at Table Nine.