Teaching school had been moderate in its demands, with lots of time off. And a man who taught school was a woman magnet. That was a huge plus. Women loved a man who worked with kids. Double that for a man who could cook, and who cooked for fun. He almost always had someone, and life was sweet even if that someone kept on changing. It wasn’t until he was past thirty, with most of his friends paired off, that he started to grow tired of traipsing from one abbreviated version of connubial life to another, his scuffed-up suitcase of self in hand.

At the same time he started thinking about China. He decided to put aside Western food, ignore his father’s warnings, and start to learn Chinese. The rest of that year he drove often to Cincinnati for long beans and pea sprouts, bottles, pastes and sauces. He took a lot of time to think. China was half of him too. He was the grandson of the Last Chinese Chef. He could either avoid it or commit to it.

He made his father sit down with him, dictionaries at their elbows, and start putting The Last Chinese Chef into English. Sam’s own two years of college Chinese had woefully underprepared him to do it alone. But once he knew what the characters were and could look them up, he could take his time with it. He loved the Chinese language, its allusive elegance. He loved the whole sense of history that came with it. And after months of reading and cooking he loved the food, too, even though he knew he’d barely scratched the surface.

“I want to go, Ba,” he said. “I’m going back.”

“Where?” His father was reading the Chinese newspaper from Chicago and only half listening.

“China.”

“Speak reasonably,” said his father.

“I mean it. The uncles are getting on. I want to go while they can still teach me. I’m going to cook, Ba. I’m going to learn. I’m thirty-seven. If I don’t start now, I never will.”

“So learn!” Liang Yeh barked. “You want to throw your life away, urinate on everything, including your education which your mother and I worked so hard for, who am I to stop you?”

“Don’t, Baba.”

“I suppose my opinion is worthless — ”

“Of course not.”

“ — but even you know you are not a Chinese chef! You are good with food, I admit. Everything you cook is excellent. But to become a Chinese chef you must start young. You must be trained like steel.”

“I can learn,” Sam said, stubborn.

“Zi wo chui xu,” his father shot back, You talk big. “You think you can do it? Learn to cook, then! Just don’t go back to China.”

“But I must go back to China. It’s the only place I can learn.”

Liang Yeh was trembling. “Force words. Twist logic. You can go to Chicago.”

“Ba,” said Sam, “you yourself are the one who said a Chinese chef cannot cook in America! Remember? No cuisine here. No audience.”

“That’s true! But you can’t go back.”

“Look, I understand what you went through. It was bad.”

“You don’t understand! I should write it down so you truly do.”

“Yes! You should! Do that! But why can’t you see — whatever it was that happened — the world has changed? It’s never going to turn back to the way it was. Other things might happen, but not that.”

“You know nothing!” his father bellowed. “What if they arrest you? They can do anything!”

“You’re crazy! Why would they arrest me? I’m an American.”

“I am your father! I escaped!”

“Ba, they don’t care. That’s history.”

“You will throw away everything!”

“First of all, you’re wrong. Nothing’s going to happen to me. Second, as for your opinion about my life, you’re wrong there too. I really believe that. I actually feel for the first time that I’m doing something right. I want to go. I’m going.”

“What one thing have I always asked you?”

“Never to return to China. But it doesn’t make sense anymore. I’m sorry.” In that moment his tone changed, no longer arguing, now consoling. He knew what he was going to do.

Liang Yeh felt it. “So you will do this no matter what?”

Sam nodded. “Come,” he said to his father, as he took his arm. “Sit for a while. Let’s have something to eat.”

“Take them out,” Xie quavered. “No, don’t touch them yet. They ought to rest. Ten minutes. Come and sit by me.”

Sam pulled up a stool and sat close beside him. After a time he heard the little car whine up the hill. The three sisters and Maggie came in. The blissful look on Maggie’s face was nice to see. “You seem to have enjoyed it,” he said.

“I loved it,” she corrected him. “They were so nice to me.” And she gave Songan and Songzhe each a squeeze on the arm.

“You’re in time for the ribs.” He used heavy gloves to flip the steamed plate over onto another one. Now the lotus packages, each of which held two succulent pieces of pork rib, were seam side down. “Lotuses are special to Hangzhou,” he said to Maggie.

“I saw them in the lake. Great clumps of them.”

“You should come sometime when they bloom, in midsummer. When you get close to one and smell it, it’s the most surprising thing. The blossom doesn’t smell like a flower at all, it smells camphorated. Like a Chinese medicine shop. But the leaf has its own flavor, which comes out in the cooking.” And he transferred one lotus wrap to a small plate for everyone in the room.

Inside the leaves, the rib meat came away under their chopsticks, rich and lean and long-cooked with a soft crust of scented rice powder. Underneath, the darker, more complicated flavor of the meat, the marrow, and the aromatics. Maggie thought it was wonderful. She ate everything except the rib bones, which she nibbled clean and folded back up, polished, inside the leaf. She wished she could lick the leaf, it was so good — and she wasn’t even hungry. She sent an assessing glance around the room. Songan and Songzhe and Songzhao were eating happily. Songling was slowly, patiently, giving bits of the meat to her father. And then all movement in the room stopped.

Xie’s face was falling in disappointment. “Throw them out,” he said sadly.

Sam swallowed. What was there to throw out? Everyone else had eaten them.

Xie turned his gaze to Songling. She removed his portion and carried it back to the kitchen.

“What’s wrong with it?” asked Sam in Chinese. Everyone sat, uncomfortably silent.

“I will concede that scallions and ginger uplift pork,” said Xie. “They carry its flavor, which is a dark flavor, up and out into the light. This is their function. But this is a dish of refinement! Sophistication and subtlety are what is most important, not the peaks of flavor. Everything must be intelligently stated. Every flavor must be a play on texture, while every texture suggests a flavor. This cannot be accomplished with extremes. Ever. The spicy, the flagrant, the hot — these things will never work.”

“So their flavors were too strong.”

Xie made a small nod. “You can be rustic, but never coarse. Always believe in the intelligence of the diner. Always reward them with subtlety.” His words dissolved into a sharp, spiking cough. Songan patted his shoulder, Songling stroked his hand.

“Baba,” said Songling, “you will tire yourself.”

“Yes, yes.” He bobbled his chin at Sam. “Well? What are you waiting for? Start again!”

Sam exchanged discreet glances with the four siblings; none wanted the old man to be exhausted. They carried him to a quiet corner of the kitchen, leaving the two Americans alone.

Maggie watched Sam turn and draw another package of ribs out of the refrigerator. It was clear to her that the old man didn’t like the ribs. Why? She had vacuumed up her own portion shamelessly after the first bite bloomed in her mouth: lovely, mahogany-deep pork with bright accents of onion and ginger.

“What was wrong?” she said.

“He thought the flavors were too strong.”

“Onion and ginger?”

He sighed over the new row of lean, rosy-fresh ribs. “You noticed.”

“That doesn’t mean I thought it was a problem.”

“He’s right. A meal like this has to be subtle.” He cut with irritated clacks of his cleaver. “I ought to have known that.”

“Well,” she said. She sat listening to the rhythm of his cutting. This was a sound she liked. In time she noticed that the kitchen was a litter of sauces, chopped piles, covered dishes, and used bowls, and she walked to where he was standing. “I think you should move over, Sam. If you could. Make room at the sink. I can’t cook in the slightest. I would never think of trying to help you. But I can wash. I happen to be very good at washing, and there’s a lot of it here. Let me clean up behind you.”

“You can’t do that. You should sit down. You’re a guest.”

“You want me to be relaxed, right? Comfortable?” She waited for his confirming glance. “Then let me help. You’re American. You know visitors like to help.”

“But you could go upstairs — to the room where I’m going to stay tonight. You’ll see my things. It’s quiet. We’ll call you for dinner.”

“Sam. I want to help.”

“Okay.”

His tone was resigned, but she could tell he was glad. She cleared a space on a counter and covered it with towels, then started scrubbing used dishes and bowls and upending them in a pyramid on the towel. When she finished building it, she dried and then started again.

“You’re precise,” he observed, of her stacking.

“So are you,” she said, of his cutting. “You were taught well.” She watched him. “Why’d you start so late?” she said. “I’ve been wondering.”

“Underneath, I think I wanted it too much.”

She upended a clean, dripping enamel basin on the outer flank of her pyramid. “Meaning?”

“Did you ever want something so deeply you were scared to let yourself have it?”

“Like love,” she said suddenly, and then wished she hadn’t. She swallowed. “Like being in love.”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Like that.” He swept the ribs into a new bowl, washed his hands, and retied his hank of hair behind his neck. “Like a desire so great you know you will never forgive yourself if you fail. So you hang back.” He washed scallions and cut them into green circlets. “And then you wake up one day and you realize if you don’t do it now, it will move out of reach forever.” He looked sideways at her. “You know?”

“I do,” she said. “I know.”

He nodded. “So I came here.”

“I think you belong here.”

“And in some ways I don’t.”

“No doubt. But I love seeing you with your family. They are so good. Even your uncle, even when he’s on the warpath.” She looked behind her at the frail man beneath the blanket, dozing now, each breath scratching. “He is hard on you.”

Sam smiled down at his uncle’s chopping block, which she saw was like the ones he had in his restaurant kitchen in Beijing, a massive, well-worn slice of tree trunk. “There was a famous Chinese food writer and gourmet in the eighteenth century named Yuan Mei. His advice was, if you want truly good food, be hard on the cook. He said the Master should always send down a stern warning, before the food is served, that tomorrow the food will have to be better. Or else.”

Maggie laughed.

“It’s not just him, in other words.”

“So it’s cultural,” said Maggie. “But it’s personal, too. He loves you.”

“He does,” Sam agreed.

“So go ahead,” she said, and swept her eyes over the counters filled with food. “Pull one out for him tonight.” He smiled. She took a fresh towel and started from the top of her new, perfect structure, dismantling it in order, drying.

It was a perfect position from which to observe the rhythm of the table, and to begin to see how their manners worked. It was quickly clear to her that the object was to serve others while avoiding being served in turn. She could see this was what they were doing with one another, so she played along.

It suited her, to resist being served too much — especially tonight, when she was eating the way she ate when she was working. She consumed a small amount of each thing, but with heightened attention. Over the years she had found that she couldn’t eat a lot if she was eating critically. To be truthful, her limit for genuinely attentive eating was four mouthfuls; after that she wasn’t tasting, only eating. So when she was working, though she spent a lot of time researching and scheming and ferreting out food, she actually ate but little.

Her friends used to ask her how she could do her job and not grow fat; she would answer that it was the opposite, that it was working with food that kept her thin. To do the job, she couldn’t just close her eyes and eat. She had to go slow, think, pay attention, and stop after rather little. It was a good thing, too. Food writers weren’t supposed to be fat.

On this night she focused on the perfection of the food. First the appetizers, served at room temperature: an herb-scented puree Sam told her was hyacinth bean, then toothsome puffs of gluten in a sweet-savory sauce, pan-roasted peppers, and some kind of minced salad of dry tofu and macerated wild herbs. She loved the crisp spiced duck with buns, the dongpo pork, the one they’d had in the restaurant — pork lean beneath the fat that peeled off to leave the meat in a rich, mellow sauce. But best of all was the second soup. It brought gasps around the table, even from Uncle Xie. The live fish had been transformed into pale, fluffy fish balls, light and airy and ultra-fresh. These floated in the perfectly intense fish broth with shrimp, clouds of soft tofu, and tangy shreds of mustard green. She felt when she was eating it that it nourished every part of her; it was a soup she sensed she would remember all her life.

At the end he served a sweet mold of rice and dried fruits, and then finally he sat down. He said this was called ba bao fan, eight-treasure rice. She was so pleasantly full that she couldn’t believe he was bringing out one more course, much less something sweet, but as soon as she took the first bite of her portion she knew she would eat every morsel of it.

“That soup was genius,” she said to him afterward.

“That’s a recipe from Songling’s restaurant, Shan Wai Shan. The soup is one of their specialties.” He turned and spoke to them in Chinese, listened to Songling’s answer. “She says they sell eight hundred orders a month. People come from all over the world for that soup. True believers can even buy one of the blue-and-white tureens to take home. They’re made exclusively for this soup in Jingdezhen. It’s a whole industry, this recipe.”

“A great meal,” she said. “Great. Your uncle loved it. Everyone loved it.” A clamor of agreement rose around the table, and Sam was toasted and applauded.

Then he turned his attention to Third Uncle. This was the opinion he really wanted.

“The drunken prawns were very good, and the fish in crispy tofu skins. This is the use of meaning in a meal. Well done,” Uncle Xie pronounced, and sent him a look of pride.

Sam understood. As soon as he had seen drunken prawns on the menu, he knew that Uncle was paying him a compliment. The dish was included as an homage to Yuan Mei. Sam recognized the dish from Yuan’s writings. “Every chef since the eighteenth century owes part of his learning to Yuan Mei,” Uncle had told him. “Read him, my son. Only then will you deserve to call yourself a Chinese chef.” By including this dish, Uncle was betting that Sam had done what he was told and would recognize the reference. Sam did. And he returned the compliment, this time flattering Uncle. He did this by adding a fish and crispy tofu-skin dish first described in the seventeenth-century literature of Li Yu, another of history’s famous gourmets. Uncle was pleased. Sam loved these layers of learning, these meta-levels that made a meal an act of poetry. “Thank you,” he said to his uncle.

After that the three sisters banished them from the kitchen while they cleaned, and Sam and Maggie sat in the front room with Uncle Xie, Wang Ling, and Songzhao. A few questions were put through Sam about Maggie’s work, the kinds of articles she wrote, and then they asked the inevitable Are you married? — to which she replied, fast and flat, that she was a widow. This was her default reply. She no longer had to give an explanation or tell the story. She just said it.

Sam looked at the clock and twisted his torso suddenly up from the chair; the new batch of ribs was done. She heard the talking and the laughter from the kitchen, the click and clatter of dishes, the thump of the hot bamboo basket. In a minute he came back with a steaming row of lotus packages and small plates and chopsticks. They waited ten minutes; then each of them had to open one and taste it.

They all unwrapped. It smelled even better than the last batch. It smelled wondrous. Maggie couldn’t wait to taste it, full as she was from dinner. You’d better not eat like this, she thought, and then immediately took up a piece of rice-crumbled, tender pork anyway. It was heaven in her mouth, rendered and lean, but rich from its soaking in fat and marrow.

Sam sat next to his uncle and lifted a bit of meat to the old man’s lips. Xie chewed the meat and closed his eyes. At first Maggie thought he was happy. But then she saw he swallowed with effort, and refused more. Maggie lowered her chopsticks. She thought these ribs were wonderful. The first batch had been good and this batch was even better. But Sam’s uncle was delivering some reasoned, labored criticism. Oh, please, she thought. Yet Sam listened intently.

She followed him into the kitchen. “Now what?”

“The flavors are less obvious, but not seamless.”

“Isn’t there a possibility he’s missing the point? There’s a symphony of flavor in this dish. It’s that matching of flavors you were talking about, what did you call it — ”

“Tiaowei,” he said.

“Right,” she said, as if she remembered, which she did not. “Plus there is the texture. The rice coating is just the right consistency to mellow the feel of the pork. It also rounds out its taste. What is that flavor in the rice powder, anyway? Anise?”

“It’s called five-spice. It’s a spice blend. Very common here.”

“Ah. And then there’s the flavor of the lotus leaf. I say the ribs are brilliant.”

“Thank you.” He smiled wearily. “I appreciate that, but I have to make them again. I told him I would. Can you give me just a few minutes? I’m sure you want to go back now. Just let me get this next batch in the steamer and I’ll take you. Songling will watch the flame while I’m gone.”

“Of course. Take your time. But I’m going to go upstairs, if it’s okay, to the room you mentioned before. Can you come get me when you’re done?”

“Sure,” he said.

“It’s a long time since we left Shanghai.”

“Was that this morning?” He closed his eyes. “It seems like a month ago.”

She nodded.

“Go,” he said, and pointed her up the stairs. “When the ribs go in the steamer I’ll call you.”

At the top, in the second room, she saw Sam’s things in a small pile on the bench at the end of the bed. He was neat, but she already knew that.

There was a low light burning. She closed the door and sat on the bed. She kept seeing the elfin face of Shuying, the eyes, the curls. If you are his, then I’ll see his face again.

It would be days until she found out. Right now she had done all she could. Now was the time to wait, and to be tired. After a few minutes she got up and turned out the light and returned to the bed. She lay down. Instantly quiet and ease settled over her. She thought she had never been anyplace so peaceful as this little Chinese room. She’d just rest there for a second, she decided, but then she closed her eyes and she slept.

The door was half-open. Light was coming in from the hallway. Songling was bending over her. Maggie saw her triangular cheeks and chin. She looks like Uncle Xie, Maggie thought as she closed her eyes again. She felt Songling pulling her shoes off. Dear Songling. Thank you. Then she felt the Chinese woman covering her with a blanket. Warmth settled softly on her. Songling’s small steps went out and the door closed, and everything was darkness.

She slid off the bed and crept to the window. There were no lights outside, only trees and bamboo, but the moon was full and the pale mercury of it just enough for her to make out the time on her watch.

Three-thirty. Damn. Deep night. Everyone was sleeping. So where was Sam?

She crept to the door and eased it open. The light was still shining in the hall. It hit her harshly and she squeezed her eyes shut a long second before she opened them again. And then she saw him. He was rolled in a blanket at her feet, sleeping.

“Hey,” she said. He didn’t move. She bent and wrapped a hand around the knob of his shoulder. “Hey, get up.”

He lifted himself to his elbows and looked at her. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m okay.” And he twisted to lie back down.

“No. Come on.” She pulled him by the arm until she had him lurching to his feet. She drew him into the room and shut the door. Again the darkness. Good. She steered him to the other side of the bed and he fell, gratefully, going quiet and still again almost instantly. She lay down on the other side and drew the blankets up over them both. They had on all their clothes. He was like a narrow mountain range behind her, one dark-ivory hand curled on the white pillow. She turned her back to him and went to sleep.

She stepped out of the bed into the warm light. At the sound of her feet on the floor, a flurry of footsteps came down the hall and hands knocked on the door. Immediately the door opened.

It was the three sisters. “Ni qilai-le,” said Songling, with the happy air of someone who had grown tired of waiting for Maggie to show some signs of life. They set a towel and washcloth on the bed and then crowded around her, touching her fluffy hair with frank interest. Now that she had spent the night in their house — or maybe it was now that she appeared to have spent the night with the man they knew as their cousin, she wasn’t sure — their link had tightened. Songan brought a hairbrush from the drawer. Maggie had to stop her. “No. Never.” She took a pick from her tote bag and showed them, and then they all wanted to do it. Songzhe combed out her hair first, then each of the others took a turn. It felt good to Maggie, the hands on her shoulders, the musical sound of their talk, the rhythmic soft pulling against her head. Almost, she could go back to sleep sitting up.

Then she heard Sam’s footfall on the stairs. Strange that she knew his step already. He reached the door and knocked and pushed it open, then froze at the sight of the three women around her.

“I’m getting a ’do,” Maggie said.

“Ah. I see. Do you want to take a shower? And then we’ll have breakfast.”

Of course, she thought, another meal. “Does someone else need to use the bathroom?”

“Not now. They’re Chinese. They bathe at night. You slept through it.”

The sisters got up and trickled out, sly, smiling, as if now was the time for Maggie and Sam to be alone.

“They like you,” he said. “They told me so.”

“They think we’re together.”

“No,” he said. “I told them we’re just friends.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I took your room.”

“Not in the end,” he said.

She stared, suddenly aware that this was a moment that needed to be broken. “Okay,” she said, “let me wash. I’ll be quick. I’ll come right down.” And he turned quickly and left.

Breakfast was congee, rice porridge with shreds of a briny, pleasingly marine-flavored waterweed and crunchy, salty peanuts. Hard-boiled eggs, pickles, and fluffy steamed buns flecked with scallion surrounded the pot. Two kinds of tea were poured, Dragon Well green, which was Hangzhou’s local specialty, and a light, flowerscented oolong that Sam said was from Fujian. The women sat around her, smiling and laughing. They gave her occasional little pats and presses of affection. He’s a good man, their looks seemed to say. Take care of him. They misunderstood, of course. They still thought she was his woman. Even the patriarch sent her an indulgent, welcoming smile. She caught Sam’s eye. He shrugged, as if to say he sensed it, but what could he do? Actually she didn’t mind; she liked it. She liked the feeling she had when she was among them.

But soon Sam had to say goodbye. They needed to catch a train in time to make their flight. He embraced everyone for a long time and longest of all his uncle. Maggie embraced them too, pressing her cheek to each of theirs in turn.

They rode down in Songling’s car, with Songzhao in the front passenger seat and Maggie and Sam behind, comfortable, leaning back side by side, easy in the green curves of bamboo light. They came to the lake, with its boats and its tree-shaded serenity, and they curled around it for a while until they reached the hotel. The car idled in the big, looping driveway while she ran up and retrieved her bag, rode the elevator down to the lobby, and checked out. She had never used her room.

They turned away from the lake now and into the crowded streets. Traffic crawled between the tall commercial buildings. Songling and Songzhao were talking softly up front in Chinese. Sam was content, tired. His hair was pulled tightly back in his ponytail, but here in the bright daylight of the car she could see the silver strands weaving back from his temples. “What?” he said, looking at her.

“Nothing.”

“My gray hair.” He reached up and brushed a hand above his ears.

“How did you know I was looking at that?”

“How could I not know? I’m sitting right next to you.”

She nodded, but inside she was thinking no, that does not explain it. Because she had been sitting next to people all her life and most of them never had any idea what she was thinking. Even people she knew fairly well. He seemed to know, though, at least sometimes.

“Maggie,” he said, a bit tentative. “I wanted to say sorry about last night.”

“Sorry why?” she said. “I’m the one who fell asleep in your room.”

“I feel bad, though. I wanted to say something to you. I really did mean to spend the night in the hall.”

Songling and Songzhao were still talking in the front. Songling let out a little laugh and they went right on in Chinese.

“I like you,” Sam said. “I would never want to disrespect you. I went to sleep in the hall because I would never do that.”

Got to respect the widow, she thought with a flash of hurt. “I wasn’t offended,” she said.

“Because I would never do that kind of thing lightly,” he said. “Never did and never have. Well” — he made a small confessional cringe — “I can’t say never. But even though I’m clueless on almost everything, I have managed at least to figure this much out, by this age — that there is nothing casual about people being together that way.”

“It wasn’t like that,” said Maggie. “I made you come in because you were sleeping on the floor. Besides,” she added, as they stared out the window side by side, “I would never do that lightly either.”

“Okay,” he said. The subject was closed. There was a Chinese comic monologue on the radio, punctuated by laughter from a studio audience overlaid by chuckles from the front seat and even, once, a small chortle from Sam. Maggie was getting used to this world she could see around her, the Chinese world, one she could float across like a cloud. It was strange to sense it, to begin to recognize it, but she felt free here. She felt good.

Then they were at the station, and they piled out and hiked the straps of their bags up on their shoulders. Emotional goodbyes went back and forth, and Sam and Maggie exchanged quick embraces with Songling and Songzhao. When she hugged Songling the woman delivered a musical stream of Chinese in her ear, and Maggie gave her an extra squeeze of assent in reply. Whatever Songling said, she agreed with it. Sisterly support. Part of her wanted never to leave, wanted to stay here forever in this place where she couldn’t even understand anyone. The car was running. Sam was behind her. She turned away, reluctantly, and followed him up the steps and through the doors that led into the station.