As a kid, I watched my grandfather settle into dinner every night by sitting down at the table with a cold beer and a handful of peanuts. He was a tall and wiry man, save for his small paunch of a belly, and he had a routine: his Chinese news program, a can of Budweiser, and the peanuts, which were sometimes roasted but more often than not, boiled.
He allotted himself exactly half an hour to finish his personal appetizer. When my mother set the first cold dish onto the table, he would take his last sip of beer and shell his last nut. Sometimes I would pilfer a peanut or two from his stash—I always liked the boiled ones more than the roasted.