"See you," he said.

She raised a hand and walked all the way to the turn in the road along the lake before she looked back. In that blink she saw him withdrawing, his blue jeans, the old-ivory skin of his hands, and then, click, click, the gate closed. the gate closed.

4.

Let us return for a moment to the popular view that poverty, specifically scarce food and fuel, stimulated China's culinary greatness. Certainly it is true in the case of cooking methods, and when it comes to the unsurpassed ingenuity of Chinese cooks in making delicious dishes out of everything under heaven, all the plants of the earth and sea, all the creatures, all their parts. These are the legacies of scarcity. Yet truly great cuisine, food as high art, did not arise here; it arose from wealth. It was the province and the passion of the elite. Throughout history, gourmets and chefs tended to reach their heights in conditions of plenty, not need.

- LIAN G WEI, The Last Chinese Chef

The following morning Sam Liang came back home from delivering some birds to his poultry farm outside the city. It was not his farm, exactly; he leased space there for his fowl before slaughtering them. He followed Liang Wei's dictum, which was that a bird one wished to eat must spend at least the last few weeks of its life running and exercising in the fresh air. This made for better meat, according to The Last Chinese Chef. The Last Chinese Chef. It was a brutal way of looking at it, a Chinese way: care for the creature, love it, pamper it, then eat it. Of course anywhere one went one found eating to be a cruel business. Here, though, there was no pretense. You knew a healthy animal tasted best, and so you raised it or at least fostered it. You knew fresh meat and fish were the most delectable, and so you did the slaughtering yourself. There were even dishes with live ingredients. In drunken prawns in the Shanghai style, for example, the prawns were not quite dead when eaten but so inebriated from being soaked in wine that they lay perfectly still for your chopsticks. No Chinese diner would flinch at the faint flutter of movement in the mouth. On the contrary. To the It was a brutal way of looking at it, a Chinese way: care for the creature, love it, pamper it, then eat it. Of course anywhere one went one found eating to be a cruel business. Here, though, there was no pretense. You knew a healthy animal tasted best, and so you raised it or at least fostered it. You knew fresh meat and fish were the most delectable, and so you did the slaughtering yourself. There were even dishes with live ingredients. In drunken prawns in the Shanghai style, for example, the prawns were not quite dead when eaten but so inebriated from being soaked in wine that they lay perfectly still for your chopsticks. No Chinese diner would flinch at the faint flutter of movement in the mouth. On the contrary. To the meishijia, meishijia, the gourmet, this was the summit of freshness. the gourmet, this was the summit of freshness.

At first, Sam had been a bit disturbed by this. It seemed to echo the faint streak of sadism he saw in China's past. Every country had its dark history, but in China there were certain convulsions, like the famine and the Cultural Revolution, that seemed needlessly cruel. And the privatized Chinese business world, right now, in the twenty-first century, was cruel too. Things ran on opportunity, not principle. No one thought in terms of win-win dealings but only about who would win and who would lose. Every man watched his back at all times. In the America of Sam's youth, he had heard people say they lived in a "dog-eat-dog" society. Here in China, they said "man-eat-man." That That was the economic boom. was the economic boom.

With each passing year in China, though, he saw that the true situation was more subtle. It was not so much that China was crueler than the West, only more honest. The frankness of life, even of death, was always in front of him here - certainly when it came to food. It was more honest to take home an animal and slaughter it than to buy its meat in a square, shrink-wrapped package, more honest to keep a fish alive and swimming until the moment you wished to devour it. His appetite stirred at the thought. He so loved the xian xian of fresh fish. of fresh fish.

As for the business world, it had its treacheries but also a massive and marvelous saving grace: guanxi. Guanxi guanxi. Guanxi was connection, relationship, mutual indebtedness. It was the safety net of obligation and mutuality that held up society. The best opportunities and connections were kept for the family, the clan, the friends, in an outwardly rippling circle. You gave one thing to the world; you gave something higher to your own group. As an American, Sam had been put off at first by this, for all he could see in it was cronyism. Later, when he came to know it as a way of life, he saw its mercies as well. was connection, relationship, mutual indebtedness. It was the safety net of obligation and mutuality that held up society. The best opportunities and connections were kept for the family, the clan, the friends, in an outwardly rippling circle. You gave one thing to the world; you gave something higher to your own group. As an American, Sam had been put off at first by this, for all he could see in it was cronyism. Later, when he came to know it as a way of life, he saw its mercies as well.

He saw too that it was food - people eating together, whether at banquets or daily meals - that kept the engine of guanxi guanxi going. Perhaps this was why chefs in China had always been so important. going. Perhaps this was why chefs in China had always been so important.

As he walked the last stretch from the subway stop and came to the early-morning edge of the lake, he was also thinking about texture. On his way back he had stopped by a dealer who sold all kinds of dried mushrooms and fungi and water weeds and flowers, just as the man was opening up. Sam had bought several varieties of mu-er, mu-er, wood ear, so called because of the way it grew on trees. One bag was the delicate white ruffles called cloud ear; the others were the more common crisp brown flaps. When reconstituted they had a robust vegetarian crunch, one that no amount of cooking could soften. No taste beyond the faintest metallic sense, easily corrected by other ingredients. All texture. Whether added in slivers or pieces, they could transform many dishes. wood ear, so called because of the way it grew on trees. One bag was the delicate white ruffles called cloud ear; the others were the more common crisp brown flaps. When reconstituted they had a robust vegetarian crunch, one that no amount of cooking could soften. No taste beyond the faintest metallic sense, easily corrected by other ingredients. All texture. Whether added in slivers or pieces, they could transform many dishes.

He saw his own gray stone wall ahead, set back slightly from the sidewalk. It was noisy here on the street, busy, but inside his place it was quiet. Perfect for a restaurant. And out front was the long, thin tendril of lake. It was classic feng shui, and not in any obscure sense either, for no one could arrive or leave without taking pleasure in the sight of the lake.

This district had changed even just in the last few years. Once characterized by graceful, crumbling residences, moody water, and a few far-off shapes of pagodas and skyscrapers above the willows on the opposite shore, it had become a theatrical sightseeing spot. Young men pedaled tourists in rickshaws. For blocks at a time the sidewalks were crowded with cafes and bars, their doors flung open, Chinese pop blaring.

Nowhere else on this strip was there a restaurant like the one he was going to open, but that didn't matter. Fate had put his family in this neighborhood. And he loved it. He loved the summer, with its repeating cicadas and hot, hazy air; the winter, when the sky was bright and cold and itinerant vendors sold hot meat skewers and char-fragrant roasted sweet potatoes. In fall the light turned golden and men sang their way along the lake's edge, under the trees, offering fanned sticks of candied crab apple.

He unlocked his gate and brought the big brass joins together again behind him, carried his bags to the kitchen. He needed to put the food away and leave. It was time to go meet Jiang and Tan.

That morning Zinnia called and asked Maggie to meet her at a Shanghainese restaurant near the Calder Hayes office, even though it was too early for lunch. Maggie hurried there, hoping Zinnia would have the tickets. It had been almost two days. After leaving the chef 's house on the lake the day before, she hadn't done much except sit in the apartment thinking about Matt. She had been in the same apartment with him three years before, in the same rooms; he came easily to mind. Yes, they had liked being apart. And yes, they were happiest of all when they were first reunited again, in the golden space before questions and qualifiers started, once again, to resurface.

So they specialized in reunions, and in separations; that was all right. They came and went, living on takeout containers, his and hers, one side of the refrigerator and the other, experiencing their joy in cycles. Even on the downslope, when they'd started contracting back into their own agendas and dropping seeds of irritation, they were honest. She always felt she knew what was in his heart, good or bad.

And that was the problem that had kept her up late the night before, looking out at the still, shimmering city. Now there was this claim. So maybe she had no idea what was in his heart. Did you do it? Did you do it?

No.

Do you know this woman?

No.

Then how did this happen?

She sat on the couch throwing silent questions, imagining answers. She visualized his kind, big-jawed face and felt sure he was saying no: no, it was not true. She decided she believed him, as she always had; then she changed her mind and threw him out of her heart and ceased to accept his denial; then some hours later she took him back again. By the time the deep night had come and the street below had gone silent she was exhausted. She slept as if unconscious, without dreams, and when she awakened she felt tired, as if she'd barely slept at all.

She pushed open the door to the Shanghainese restaurant. Inside, the world changed. She felt pushed back in time. Around her were dark-wood walls and brass lamps, waitresses in old-fashioned side-slit gowns. Only the diners were modern, with their crisp clothes and multiple, faintly chiming electronic devices. Among them she saw Zinnia, who waved her over.

"Sit!" she commanded when Maggie reached the table. "How are you? Are you well?"

"Well enough. Did you hear anything about the tickets?"

Zinnia's earnest smile evaporated for a second.

Maggie saw she had been abrupt. "I'm sorry - I guess I thought maybe that was why you asked me here."

Zinnia nodded. "I don't have the tickets yet. Unfortunately I did not receive your file until I was assigned to help you, and that was the morning you arrived. So I have just started. But I will do my best. You should not worry."

"You are determined," Maggie said admiringly. "I believe you'll do it."

"I will. Ni fang xin hao. Ni fang xin hao. That means you should put your heart at ease. The day we met I had a lunch. The person couldn't help me. But then last night I had dinner with a friend from China Northern. It is one of the biggest domestic airlines. We had ten courses and wine. Very good. Long talk. Now I am waiting for his call." That means you should put your heart at ease. The day we met I had a lunch. The person couldn't help me. But then last night I had dinner with a friend from China Northern. It is one of the biggest domestic airlines. We had ten courses and wine. Very good. Long talk. Now I am waiting for his call."

"Good," said Maggie.

Their business clarified, Zinnia looked back at what she'd been studying when Maggie walked in, which was the menu. "I want to have the jellyfish. It reminds me of my childhood. My son likes it too. Have you had it?"

"Yes," said Maggie. "You have a son?"

"Yes. Two years old. He's a good boy," she said proudly, still looking at the menu. "When you had jellyfish, did you like it?"

"It didn't have much taste."

"You are right! Actually jellyfish is not taste food. It is texture food."

"Fine." Sam Liang had told her all about texture. "Let's have some."

"Hao-de. Then some other dishes." Then some other dishes."

"What exactly did you ask him?" said Maggie. "The guy from China Northern."

"I didn't ask him. I only mentioned the facts in passing."

"I thought you meant you had dinner to ask him for tickets."

"Yes. But that was the request, the dinner. The only thing left was to mention the matter in passing. I did. Now I must wait."

"I see." The jellyfish arrived, handed off by a waitress on her way to another table. "So do you think it's possible we could leave today?"

"Maybe tonight, more likely tomorrow." Zinnia reached out and snagged Maggie a pale, translucent heap of gelatinous curls. "Try," she said.

Maggie took a curl up on her chopsticks and ate it. The flavor was mild, barely discernible, but Zinnia was right about the texture: it was the mouth-feel of the food that snapped her to attention, crunchy and spongy at the same time. "Hey," she said. "Not bad."

The younger woman grinned. "That's what we say! Bu cuo. Bu cuo. Not bad. It means so-so in English, doesn't it? But it's a sincere compliment in Chinese. Did you know that? It means you like it. Good." Zinnia took some on her own plate. "Are you free after we eat?" she asked. Not bad. It means so-so in English, doesn't it? But it's a sincere compliment in Chinese. Did you know that? It means you like it. Good." Zinnia took some on her own plate. "Are you free after we eat?" she asked.

"I have a meeting." She looked at her watch. She was going to see Sam Liang again.

"Can you stop at the office first? Carey James is back from Bangkok. He asked to see you."

"Yes," Maggie said immediately. For this she would call the chef and see if she could be a little late. Carey had memories of Matt, memories she hadn't tapped. He'd have images or nuances still new to her - events, jokes, snippets of remembered conversations. She may have had this new blade of uncertainty about her husband buried in her side, but she still knew that she would take anything. Anything about Matt. Even just the chance to talk about him a little bit with someone who remembered him. "Of course," she said.

"Good," said Zinnia. "Now come." She pointed with her chopsticks at the food. "Every person needs to eat."

"You have to decide what manner of menu you want," Second Uncle Tan told Sam. They were in a restaurant having midmorning snacks, restaurants being far and away the best places to meet in China at any time of day. Homes were small, while the world outside was filled with public places where people could eat or even just sip tea.

"There are three kinds of menus," Tan said, "the extravagant, the rustic, and the elegant."

"And within the elegant there is the recherche," Jiang said, breaking his Chinese only for the French word. "This is another possibility: nostalgia. There are certain great classics still remembered by the people."

"Jiu shi," Tan agreed, It's so. Tan agreed, It's so.

"You could make crisp spiced duck," said Jiang. "Carp in lamb broth. And old-fashioned hors d'oeuvres - dipped snails, fried sparrows."

Tan looked over with a snort. "Too intellectual. Such dishes are only for true aficionados."

"Afraid I'm with Second Uncle," said Sam. "That's not for this panel. And a rustic menu wouldn't work for them either. You and I know, to cook plain food brilliantly is one of the hardest things of all. But they won't see it."

"Just two hundred years ago Yuan Mei himself said that the most sophisticated thing of all was to use the cheapest bowls and plates," Jiang said.

"But today?" Sam said. "Now that everything is about money? Suicide. Impossible. However," he added, "we could go with the elegant. For instance - what about tofu in the shape of a lute, stuffed with minced pork, flash-fried? And a chicken's skin removed whole, intact, then stuffed with minced ham and vegetables and slivered chicken meat and roasted at high heat until fragrant - "

"Impressive," said Jiang.

" - and the skin is snapping-crisp, cui cui - " - "

"Texture!" said Tan. "Yes. You should make this point clearly. What other cuisine controls texture as ours does?"

"He is right," Jiang said.

Sam understood the implication. Be Chinese. Let the other, native-born cooks take chances and improvise. He would be what his grandfather had been, what his father would have been, a cook of tradition. Beijing might be wide open, aggressive - profane, even - in its run for the future, but people still longed for the past.

That was one reason he and his uncles liked this restaurant; it was old-fashioned and therefore restful. While they talked they picked at a few dishes. One plate was heaped with braised soybeans mixed with the musky chopped leaves of the Chinese toon tree; another held rosy-thin slices of watermelon radish in a delicate vinaigrette. Uncle Tan had proposed ordering wine, but had been overruled with a sharp reproof from Jiang. Sam agreed. It was not even lunchtime. Too early.

"For texture you could consider silver fungus, or your stir-fried prawns," said Jiang. "Ah, yes! Those prawns. First crunchy, then inside, soft as mist."

"I made those prawns just yesterday," said Sam. He thought of the American writer in his kitchen, her ease as she watched him cook, her careful eyes, her perception that never lagged no matter how much he told her. The inflection of her speech, which was sunny and American and sounded like home to him. Even though what she told him just before she left, about her husband's death, fell like a heavy weight. "I made them for the woman writing the article."

"Ah, the woman!" They leaned forward.

"Forget it," Sam said. "She's in a bad situation. Her husband died - "

"A widow," clucked Tan.

" - and there is some matter here in China over his estate." He stopped at the sound of an American voice behind him.

"What are you guys talking about? That's some fast Chinese."

"Hi," said Sam, turning. It was David Renfrew, one of the shifting crowd of foreigners he had met here. He had thought he would find friends among them, as they, like him, were outsiders, but so far he had not. "We were actually talking about prawns," he said. "Have you eaten?" It was a traditional Chinese greeting, but said in English, from one American to another, it had an agreeable irony.

"Just did," David said. "I heard you were on TV last night. You're up for the cooking games."

"Auditioning for the team," Sam said.

"Good luck."

"Thanks. Meet my uncles." Sam circled a hand around the table. "We were just going over what I should cook. David Renfrew, Jiang Wanli, Tan Jingfu. Jiang is a retired food scholar, Tan a retired chef. David is a banker."

"Pleased to meet you," said David.

"Pleased," they both murmured back in English.

"So." David turned back to Sam. He still spoke little Chinese after all his time here, and didn't really try. That was typical. David had been here a bit longer than most, the average expatriate stay being only about two years, but he still lived the laowai laowai life. With occasional excursions for variation, this generally meant shuttling between the office and the circuit of clubs and hotels and gyms and restaurants that were aimed at foreigners. life. With occasional excursions for variation, this generally meant shuttling between the office and the circuit of clubs and hotels and gyms and restaurants that were aimed at foreigners.

"When was the last time I saw you?" David said. "Hold it, I know. That party at the Loft. Right?"

"I think so." That had been one of those nights when Sam had gone out even though he hadn't really wanted to.

"You know who else was at that party?" said David. "Her." "Her." He trained his eyes on someone across the room. "I saw her that night. She was a friend of someone I used to know. Damn, what's her name?" He trained his eyes on someone across the room. "I saw her that night. She was a friend of someone I used to know. Damn, what's her name?"

Sam leaned to the side in his chair to follow David's gaze. "Where?" he said to David, and then, "Oh, I know her." He recognized her short, tentative posture, her straight fall of hair. She worked in the Sun Building. He'd met her through a Dutchman who knew her there, a guy who managed a shipping company. Piet. What had happened to Piet? Gone back to Europe. Then he had seen this girl occasionally at parties. She seemed young, maybe a little naive, but nothing about her had really caught his attention. "That's Xiao Yu," he said.

"Xiao Yu! That's it. Thanks."

"Do you know her?"

"No. Well, I met her. At my friend's place. That was a while ago. Forgot her name." A possibility ticked across his precisely edged Teutonic features. "I'm not stepping on toes, am I?"

"You mean her and me?" said Sam. "No."

"Just asking."

"We're barely acquainted." Sam sent a glance to Xiao Yu. "I mean, feel free," he said to David.