I found down at the side of the house the remains of what must have once been a kitchen garden. Everything was choked with weeds and scutch grass, but the outlines of bed and drill were still there.
The capital which had been subscribed to this bank, at two different subscriptions, amounted to one hundred and sixty thousand pounds, of which eighty per cent only was paid up.
The fishmonger offered the poke in plastic tubs, without ceremony, just as I had always known it in Honolulu, where I grew up and where some of the best poke is sold at a liquor store, Tamura’s. Then, a few years back, poke started appearing on stray restaurant menus, sometimes identified as Hawaiian crudo or ceviche.
Those that underpay, underget.
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