Eat Drink Man Woman

I am sitting in the library checking my email. One of my colleagues, Jian Lin, a neurologist from China, is at the terminal next to mine. For some reason we've hit it off rather well, in spite of my curmudgeonly manner. Jian is a very friendly person and, even though I'm not sure how much English he understands, we both love to talk about food.

"Hey!" he says, sliding up to me. "We are cooking fish tonight. Come eat with us."

Jian lives with two other Chinese guys. They take turns cooking supper for each other. Jian's told me about their feasts. A few nights ago they made pigs' feet.

"Thank you," I decline politely. "My friend is coming back from New York this evening and I have to go home and clean the house." It's true.

"What?!" he says disbelievingly. "Call him and tell him."

"I can't, he'll be flying soon."

Jian looks disappointed.

"Today is the weekend," he says bringing his fingers to his lips and kissing them to indicate what a good time we could have.

"How do you cook the fish?" I ask.

"You know how to cook fish?!" he looks at me incredulously.

"No, I don't know how to cook anything," I reassure him. "How do you cook it?"

"Well, we take a, " he motions with his hands to shape a pan, "Put in some oil, some spices, some water."

"Oh, ok."

"It is delicious," he says, his eyes lighting up.

"I'm sure it is." Words are poor instruments to describe the pleasure of a good meal shared with friends. Even plain fare like daal chawal takes on the splendor of biryani when eaten with the right people. And achaar. And papad.

"It is a shame," Jian repeats graciously.

"I hope you have a good meal."

"Next time," he says.