At lunchtime Maggie stopped at a Chongqing-style Sichuan restaurant, and ordered savory, chewy strips of eel fillet cooked with pungent shreds of pepper and soft whole braised garlic cloves. As soon as she tasted it she knew she would not be able to stop eating it, and so she continued to pluck up the succulent bits until she had eaten most of what was on the plate. While she ate, she let her mind go. She thought about what had been wrong in her life, what had been right. Matt had been right. She still felt that way, even now, after Gao Lan. So he had slipped. She also knew he must have suffered for it. Nothing burdened Matt more than a confession unmade. Poor soul. She suddenly wished that he had told her while he was alive so she could have forgiven him. She would have forgiven him, just as she forgave him now. Their love had been greater than one mistake.

She remembered the day a month or two before he died when they were both getting ready to leave again on their trips. Usually they looked forward to their travel. On this day, though, she woke up knowing that she did not want to be away from him. She did not feel the customary pull to her freedom, to their separation, to a quiet, private house or a hotel room. She wished they could both stay home.

There were no presentiments. She had not the remotest inkling of the fate that would take him a few weeks later. She only knew at that moment that she loved him differently, that she did not want him to leave. She thought about this as she ate the bag of candy corn he'd left for her on the bureau.

That night she knocked on Sam's red gate precisely at six and over the wall heard the now-familiar phit-phit phit-phit of his cloth shoes as he crossed the court to open it. She saw the anxious sheen of sweat on his cheekbones. of his cloth shoes as he crossed the court to open it. She saw the anxious sheen of sweat on his cheekbones.

"Big night," she said softly. His apron was already marked, and sweat was gathering on his T-shirt underneath. She wanted to hug him, just a quick squeeze of sustenance, but she stood her ground and let her support show in her eyes. It would not be right to step across that line and put her arms around him. Nothing should upset his equilibrium tonight. Besides, she was doing a story on him. And she still had that last, all-important paragraph left to write, the one about tonight.

"We're on schedule, at least."

"I'm glad." They walked around the screen and she noticed her spiral evergreen, appealingly placed near a small stone table with four stone stools. She felt a surge of warmth. "I know it's going to be great. I can feel it."

"Your lips to my kitchen gods." They walked up the porch steps to the dining room, and he pulled back the door for her.

"I keep thinking about your father," she said, "that he came. Is he going to come up to Beijing now?"

"He says he will. He may get here tonight. We're not sure. Everybody's so sick with sadness about Xie."

"I hope you can set it aside."

"We're trying."

"Does he like being back, your father?"

"He loves it! You should have heard him go on. How the Zhejiang Food and Restaurant Association met him with flowers - just because he was a Liang. I told him he deserved it. Look what I did in here."

She followed him across the dining room, lit with silk lotus-shaped lamps, set with one exquisite table for the panel. "Beautiful," she said. The room was not bare, as it had been before, but warm with purpose. There were enormous candles in tall stands, which she knew he would light later. Divans were built into the walls. Doors closed off small private rooms. The outside world had fallen away. She had the strange sense that they could be standing here at almost any time in history.

The kitchen was different from the serene dining room, shouting, chaotic. On every surface were bowls and baskets and plates of fresh ingredients, every sort of vegetable and herb and paste, chopped and minced and mixed. There were freshly killed chickens and ducks. One of Sam's old uncles - these were the other two, the ones she had not met - groomed one of the birds, turning the warm, fresh carcass around in his lap.

"Do you know my Second Uncle Tan?" Sam said.

"Ni hao." Tan dipped his head. Tan dipped his head.

"And this is Jiang, First Uncle," said Sam.

"Hello."

"The writer!" said Jiang in English. "Very good. Come in!"

"I'm only going to watch," she said. "And please know I'm sorry for your loss." Sam translated this, and both uncles thanked her. "They're your assistants?" she said to Sam.

"Each chef is actually allowed three assistants. I'm using only two. As you know, my Third Uncle couldn't travel. These two have been terrific."

"I'm sure," she said, and surveyed the room, the brilliant sheaves of chives and greens and shoots, pale mounds of cabbage, glistening white bricks of tofu. A blue-and-white bowl held raw fish heads, pink flesh, silver skin, brilliant shiny eyes. Oh, the soup, she thought, excitement picking up. From Hangzhou.

Sam was packing a round mold in front of her. In the bottom went a geometric slab of dark-brown braised pork, upside down on its fat and skin. Around the pork he pressed rice mixed with ginkgo nuts, dates, lotus buds, silver fungus, pine nuts.

"Eight-treasure dongpo dongpo pork," he said. "My version of a classic." He pressed foil around it, whip-tight. "I'm going to steam it two hours. The brown sauce suffuses everything. I pork," he said. "My version of a classic." He pressed foil around it, whip-tight. "I'm going to steam it two hours. The brown sauce suffuses everything. I am am going to drain off some of the fat before I serve it, though - and you wait. You'll see. We'll have an argument over it." going to drain off some of the fat before I serve it, though - and you wait. You'll see. We'll have an argument over it."

Across the room Tan had finished with the chicken and was now preparing to carve vegetables, turnips and large, pale daikon radishes. "He's great with a knife," Sam said, looking at his uncle. "He taught me. Now watch this."

Sam picked up Tan's warm, fresh chicken and positioned it on his chopping block. He applied a small, sharp knife to the rim of the chicken's body cavity, working his way in. He separated the skin from the carcass with love, one millimeter at a time, teasing the two apart without creating the slightest nick or tear. She barely breathed. In a minute he had the entire skin off the chicken, in one piece, and he held it up, grinning.

"Oh, bravo," she said.

"How about it?" He was proud of himself.

"You should have been a surgeon."

"No! I should have been this, just what I am. Okay. We call this the chicken's pajamas." He laid it aside. "You watch. You're going to see it later."

"Can they take the skin off like that?" She looked at the uncles.

"No," Sam said. "They can't do it. Neither of them. Not many chefs can. You have to be able to feel it." He switched to Chinese and shouted something to Uncle Jiang, who was at the next station mincing ingredients Sam would combine to stuff into the chicken skin: cabbage, exotic dried mushrooms, tofu skins, chives, and minced salt-cured ham from Yunnan.

"You should add rice to the stuffing," Jiang said in Chinese.

"No," Sam insisted. "No rice until the end." Because then there would be the glutinous rice in the pork mold, profound with the rich mahogany sauce and its eight treasures, and the dongpo dongpo pork itself. That was rice enough. pork itself. That was rice enough.

Maggie could not understand these bursts of Chinese, but she could see Sam's Second Uncle Tan get up on the other side of the kitchen and move to lift the cover off a large stoneware crock. He hefted this and tipped it to fill a cup, which he then drained, quickly.

"Xiao Tan," Jiang reproved him. Jiang reproved him.

Tan raised his hand. He didn't want to hear it. "My old heart," he protested.

"Mine too! How do you think I feel, with Little Xie gone from this world! The same as you. I burn inside. But right now we need our wits. We must help Nephew."

"I have my wits," Tan grumbled, but he capped off the jug and returned to his vegetables. He was ruddy, glowing, visibly happier for his drink. Maggie watched it all.

Sam watched it too. "Tan's been up half the night," he explained. "My father called him and woke him up the second it happened."

"So hard for them. And you."

"Yes. Thanks."

But she could still feel unease in the air. Sam and Jiang didn't like Tan's drinking. It would be better for her to get out of the kitchen and take a walk before the panel came. "Do you mind if I look around?"

"Go," said Sam. "Go anywhere."

So she slid off her chair. Sam was bent over his cooking. She traded nods and smiles with the uncles and pushed open the heavy door. She liked how hard it was to push. She liked some things heavy, a fire poker, bedcovers, keys on a piano. Matt had been heavy, much larger than she. A protective weight on top of her.

In the dining room, the standing wood lamps made pools of light against the pitch of the fitted rafters and the black tile floors. Tall windows were cranked open to the courtyard, where garden lights glowed among the potted flowers and wood filigree.

She peeked into the small private rooms. Two had round tables and chairs. One had a piano. A piano! The sight of one always brought back the warm feeling of her mother's apartment. She wondered if it was in tune.

She walked across the courtyard. The light was starting to fail. The second dining room was here. This one was done differently, with white walls and contemporary art, and also doors to private rooms.

She looked into the smallest, north-facing room. It had not been restored. This was where he had lived while the place was being done. The high wooden ceiling was weathered, its paint half flaked off. The walls were seamed with cracks. Black-and-white subway tile, pieces of which were missing, covered the floor.

She turned out the light and crossed to the last, south-facing room. This was where he lived now. It was a warm room; it contained a life. The bed was rumpled. A laptop blinked on the table. Clothing lay in folded stacks beneath the window.

He had said to go anywhere, but here she was intruding. This was his private place. She did not enter, just stood in the doorway and looked.

Like the other rooms, this one had high rear windows. They were screened and hung open on chains. Through them she could see patches of rooftops and sky.

She leaned on the door frame. It was comfortable. There was a stillness to China in unexpected places, and once again she had the curious sensation of being anywhere in time. She felt relieved of her life, of the world she knew, stripped away from herself. It was a strange place, far from her home. She really didn't belong. So why did the surprise thought keep rising like a bubble inside her that it might be nice to stay?

She backed out of Sam Liang's room. As she crossed on the path she could hear the Chinese voices from the kitchen. The interplay of sounds was like abstract music to her. When she pushed open the door to the kitchen she saw that Jiang was disagreeing with Sam about something. Tan was off by himself carving furiously. He already had made birds and animals. He looked slightly melted.

"Perfect timing," Sam said to her. "They'll be here soon."

"Were you arguing with him?" she said when Jiang turned back to his task.

"He thought I was using too many crabs."

"Is there such a thing? Ever?"

He laughed.

"I didn't think so," she said, triumphant. "What's the dish?"

"Spongy tofu. It's a simple, plain dish - but the sky-high imperial version. The thing about tofu is, if you boil it rapidly for thirty minutes it will fill with holes. It becomes a sponge, ready to squirt its sauce when you bite into it. Now the average kitchen might dress it with green onion and oyster sauce. You know, whatever. Not me. I am making a reduction sauce from thirty crabs."

"But that sounds great!"

"And not even their meat. Their shells, their fat, and their roe. Reduced and thickened until it's just thick enough to soak into the tofu and stay there. Until you bite into it. This is a dish of artifice. See? It comes to the table looking like one thing. Like the plainest of food. Tofu. But you taste it and it's something different."

"Don't listen to them. Do it."

Sam stopped and turned his head to a sound, the gate. A knock. It was the smallest of sounds by the time it got all the way back to the kitchen, but this was his home and he knew that small sound by heart. "First Uncle! They're here."

"Oh!" Jiang yanked off his apron and brushed his pants, anxious suddenly, fussy.

"You're fine," said Sam. "Go."

Maggie held the heavy door and watched him pause to light the candles and switch on more lamps to illuminate the couplets of calligraphy around the walls. Then he hurried out to the gate.

"How many judges are there?" she asked Sam.

"Six. All food people, from the Ministry of Culture and the Beijing Restaurant Association."

"Here they come." She peeked through the door.

Sam put his knife down and came over to stand next to her and look through the crack. The panel filed in, all men, with one senior member, all in dark suits, smiling, First Uncle welcoming them. It was right for him to be the one to do it; he was the eldest. Once he had them settled in their seats around tiny dishes of pickles and salt-roasted fava beans, he poured a rare aromatic oolong while he delivered a sparkling little introduction to Liang family cuisine.

"Now!" he hissed as he swept back into the kitchen. "Are you ready?" But Sam already had the first appetizers laid out. After an interval for the diners to relax, Jiang carried out a mince of wild herbs and dried tofu, sweet-savory puffs of gluten, and pureed scented hyacinth beans. He came back for the fragrant vinegar duck, spattered with brown Shanxi vinegar. The last appetizer was fresh clams, marinated in a dense bath of soy, vinegar, and aromatics. "That's nong, nong," he said, bringing the sauce close to her to smell. "The dark, concentrated flavor."

A shimmering interval of eating and happy laughter floated by in the dining room. Appetizers were consumed, along with tea and the first toasts of wine.

Sam himself carried in the first main courses. According to the classical pattern he started with a few lacy-crisp deep-fried dishes: pepper-salt eel fillets like translucent little tiles, similar to those his father had described making for the mother and son in the swamp; and an aromatic stir-fry of yellow chives studded with tiny, delicate fried oysters.

Back in the kitchen, he stir-fried tender mustard greens with wide, flat tofu-skin noodles and plump, fresh, braised young soybeans. These glistened on the platter in a light crystal sauce. After that there were lamb skewers, delectably grilled and crusted with sesame.

On the other side of the kitchen Sam noticed Second Uncle looking distinctly glossy as he bent over his knife. Too much to drink. It was bad enough that he was using a knife to carve vegetables; he had to be kept away from food. Sam and Jiang would need to do everything by themselves. Could they?

"When is Baba getting to Beijing?" Sam asked in Chinese, loud enough for only Jiang to hear.

Jiang understood; he sent the smallest look in Tan's direction. "Actually, he is here."

Sam jerked around. "Already here?"

"He came a few hours ago."

"Why didn't he call?"

His eldest uncle regarded him patiently. "This is your night."

Sam understood, but still - to stay away from his childhood home? "Where is he?"

"At Yang's house. Not far from here."

"We may need him," said Sam.

"We may," Jiang agreed. "But let us wait. Do you know, it was always difficult for your father to be his father's son. He was never the original one or the real one, only the son. He knows well that you have been here alone for four years, with us. He wants you to win tonight the same way." Jiang raised a white eyebrow. "I agree with him."

"Unless we need him," Sam qualified.

By now there was a palpable surge of success from the dining room, the sound of pleased conversation, laughter, delight, comprehensible in any language. Everyone in the kitchen was smiling, Jiang, Sam, even Tan, still on the side carving daikons.

Sam signaled Jiang that there would now be a pause. Shaoxing wine was to be served, thick, aromatic, in tiny stoneware cups. Uncle Jiang poured it from the large crock into the smaller, more precious one that would be borne to the table; it was inscribed with the words of the ninth-century poet Po Chu-I, What could I do to ease a rustic heart? What could I do to ease a rustic heart? Sam had planned every small thing this way, to support the theme of the meal. He positioned the jug with its words on the tray. He hoped the diners would have their own rustic thoughts. Perhaps they would be reminded of the words of Confucius - Sam had planned every small thing this way, to support the theme of the meal. He positioned the jug with its words on the tray. He hoped the diners would have their own rustic thoughts. Perhaps they would be reminded of the words of Confucius - With coarse grain to eat, with water to drink, and my bended arm for a pillow: I still have joy in the midst of these things. With coarse grain to eat, with water to drink, and my bended arm for a pillow: I still have joy in the midst of these things.

When the tray was ready Jiang closed the wine crock and stowed it high in the cupboard, out of reach. "I saw that!" said Tan.

"I hope so!" Jiang shot back.

While they were drinking and toasting the dishes at the table Sam took the next course from the oven, a perfect plump chicken, roasted to a crisp honey brown. No, she thought, not a chicken - this was the chicken skin. skin. "Is there any chicken inside?" "Is there any chicken inside?"

"None," he said. "Minced vegetables and ham. You cut it like a pie. Here we enter the part of the menu which toys with the mind. You see one thing, you taste something else. This is supposed to wake you up, make you realize you've been daydreaming. You know what I mean?"