Dumplings Al Fresco

Chinese folks eat so early, and they just don’t eat outside. Spring came, and the days were growing longer; and I just could not face more ersatz Western food in overstuffed surroundings or another joint where you had to dip a plastic mug into a tub for some warm, flat, mystery beer to wash down some equally mysterious Chinese food. Wes, my guest from Texas, was unlike the usual visitors from abroad who, no matter how well traveled they might have been, became child-like in China, falling into my arms whether they knew me or not. He was low-maintenance and happy to get with any program.

Ritan (Altar of the Sun) Park was within striking distance of the Jianguo Hotel where I lived and worked. Although it wasn’t ideal—I couldn’t boil an egg for three years—it was considered the height of luxury; and I quickly learned that to berate it in the presence of locals was deeply insensitive, considering the deprivations of their daily lives. I considered its lobby my personal sitting room, and had grown used to seeing the likes of Elton John sporting a blond wig while playing the piano, Omar Sharif enjoying a rubber of bridge, and an Australian prime minister receiving Zhao Ziyang, the premier later purged in the aftermath of the Tiananmen Massacre. It was from here that Wes and I set out for the derelict temple in the park that served dumplings in its courtyard. We struggled through the rows of bicycles that baffled our exit from the rear of the hotel, finally able to stroll along the lanes, the spring dust giving way to the greenery of gnarled trees.

Going down Guanghua Road, I pointed out various embassies, their entrances crowded with gaudy displays of potted flowers—as though in competition with each other—and largely known to me from drinks parties held on Friday evenings on a rotating basis. Though not a “happy hour” type myself, there were few watering holes in this burg, and thus, I was occasionally tempted to show up. The British were particularly hospitable, opening up The Bell to the foreign community, a pub in the forecourt of the embassy, where the Chinese were, of course, excluded by their own authorities. At one of these occasions, I spotted a macho marine wearing a tee shirt advertising The Hobbit, a gay bar in Manila which specialized in dwarfs and their admirers. Overtaken by mischief, I sidled up to him and expressed my regret at being so tall. On we walked, eventually reaching the gate of the park where we had to make a payment—the only time coins ever changed hands because their value was so tiny they had no place in regular transactions—to gain admission. Winding amidst untidy foliage, random piles of paving stones, dog-eared posters