Duck-boy
Born in 70s Paris, Duck-boy got his sea legs early spending his summers as cabin boy to one of the most kindly French tug-boat captains ever to say “mayday”. He recalls waking to the scent of fresh coffee and croissants intermingled with hints of kerosene, diesel fuel and raw sewage. It was in these early days that he developed the piercing palette now made legendary in Armada lore.
Sensing his parents’ discomfort with his days spent en Seine, he decided to relocate to the new world. Some would call the age of 10 too tender for such a departure, but he was precocious in his early youth, and plagued by an intestinal irregularity that threatened to permanently scar his adolescence with nicknames far worse than “duck-boy”. In short, he had to get away.
His search for acceptance and love of the sea led him eventually to San Francisco, where he came of age collecting cut hair from salons in the Italian quarter and reselling it in bulk to a Chinese exporter named Wing. They would meet under cover of the misty Frisco mornings, conduct their business, then join his family for congee.
Thirteen years of this routine left him with taste buds screaming for release from his alimentary Alcatraz, and he decided to dedicate his life to the pursuit of the perfect breakfast. Fortune smiled on the Duck at that point, when while shooting an erotic documentary for some extra cash, he ran into recovering methadone-addict Agent M and their shared passion for the morning meal gave him enough reason to head north to Vancouver.
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