Furiya - How to Cook a Dragon

Table of Contents

The CRICKETS Song

IF IT WERENT FOR the Beijing duck dinner that July evening in 1997, I never would have met the cricket peddler.

It was my first night out since Id arrived at the Beijing International Airport less than a week before. I had taken a three-month leave of absence from my job to be with my then boyfriend Eric, who lived and worked in Chinas capital city. The first few days, I slept like a dog. When I couldnt sleep, I walked around Erics apartment in a drowsy blur. Around midnight, Id awake, wide-eyed, and eat salami sandwiches and instant noodles in front of the TV. I watched The Simpsons and CNN Asia until the sky went from black to gray. All the while, Eric snored away in the bedroom.

The Beijing duck restaurant Eric took me to for my first dinner out was a typical sprawling, banquet hall-style Chinese restaurant with massive round tables, each with a lazy Susan at its center. In the entranceway were photos of foreign ambassadors and dignitaries who had eaten there over the years.

Using my chopsticks, I picked from a small dish of peanuts, boiled with star anise and heavily salted. These delicious nuts were served with drinks at almost every restaurant; Eric had corrected me when Id first picked them up with my fingers.

Although we had dined together at home during the week, I was surprised by how shy we were on this first official date. We were familiar with each other, and yet wholly unfamiliar. Eric was already living in China when we first started dating; hed visit San Francisco, where I was living, for business meetings every couple of months. I couldnt help but feel overwhelmed by the fact that we were virtual strangers.

And yet here I was, embarking upon something pretty huge, given the circumstances. After Id secured my leave of absence, I subleased my apartment in San Franciscos Mission district. What outcome would result from our time together, I didnt know; all I was certain of was that Eric wasnt committed enough to our relationship that I was willing to sacrifice all my ties to San Francisco.

I had known Eric for almost three years, mostly as a work friend. We met while working at an investment bank in San Franciscos financial districtI as a receptionist and he as an analyst in the banks bullpen. During our relationship, whenever anyone would ask us how wed met, Eric would say that Id had a boyfriend at the timea man I later married and quickly divorced. And then she was available again, he was fond of saying.

Our workplace was a breeding ground for difficult attitudes, inflated egos, and insecurity. But the Eric I knew then was above Ivy League name dropping and didnt fit the stereotypical image I secretly had of a status-conscious upper-class person. He was down to earth and gravitated toward the mailroom guys and the front-desk ladies; he rode a motorcycle to work. In a world of one-upmanship, capitalism, and shaky value systems, Eric was a sincere, regular guy.

The summer of my first divorce, I began working on a novel to get my life back on track. Eric was working at the banks Shanghai office. That fall and winter I spent time healing by hanging out with my friend Gill, swimming in the San Francisco Bay, and riding my motorcycle in the hills of Marin County. Over many margaritas sipped under the year-round Christmas decorations at the Mexican restaurants La Rondalla and Cantina, I tried to figure out what had gone wrong, and how my dreams of having a husband and a family had slipped away from me.

The first hint of spring was in the air the afternoon I ran into Eric, who was traveling a lot at that point, in the executive kitchen. He was back in the States for a week of meetings. I think it was then that I really saw him for the first timehis intensely dark chocolate-drop eyes and light freckles that I hadnt noticed until I got up close. He somehow appeared taller, too. The skinny white guy with the runny nose was how he charmingly described himself; his wit, self-deprecating sense of humor, and unpredictable goofiness captured my heart. And for most of our relationship, I lovingly saw him as the funniest, sexiest man I knew.

We met for drinks that very night at a smoky, semidark dive bar in the Mission; the Counting Crows played loudly through the speakers. Over my wheat beer and his scotch and soda, we discussed our life goals. Mine was to pursue writing; Erics was to make money. Love, marriage, and children, we agreed, would follow naturally. From there, we started a rocky yearlong relationship and saw each other whenever he was in town. Each visit was an exciting social whirlwind, crammed with ski weekends in Tahoe; after-work dinners at hip, expensive restaurants; and drinks at the cool bars and cocktail lounges that were sprouting up on every corner of San Francisco on the eve of the prosperous dot-com era. But then wed be separated for three weeks to a month at a timesometimes longer. The distance and stretches of time we spent apart made me paranoid that Eric was seeing other women, and although I was already head over heels in love, I called it quits after a year and a half.

Eric arrived in San Francisco that New Years Eve and appeared on the doorstep of my new apartment in the Mission. Before the clock struck midnight, I agreed to give it another try. Six months later, I applied for my three-month unpaid sabbatical, found someone to sublease my apartment, and was on a plane to Beijing, where Eric had relocated permanently and taken a job as the chief financial officer of a Chinese software company.

While we waited for our food, a young man wearing a traditional Mandarin tunic and tasseled hat came to our table to pour tea. With a flourish, he presented a metal teapot; a long, knitting needle-like spout sent a lively stream of eight-treasure tea into my cup. Afterward, he strode around the banquet room, carrying the teapot like a watering can, on the prowl for more cups to fill.

I took a drink of my beer and barely touched the sliced-cucumber appetizer because I was anticipating the duck. The richness of this traditional duck dish was more appropriate for hearty autumn and winter appetites, but Id heard so much about it that Id insisted Eric take me someplace where I could try it. Its a once-in-a-lifetime culinary experience to dine on this imperial dish, which has been refined and improved over the centuries to achieve a near mythical reputation. The Chinese use a technique that separates the skin from the body to achieve the perfect crispness. Each duck restaurant has its own secret spice rub, which is massaged liberally into the ducks carcasses. Fragrant fruit-tree wood, such as date, peach, and pear, is used in the roasting process for an additional layer of flavor.

When I lived in San Francisco, I never felt inclined to seek out Beijing duck, though I regularly saw the shiny roasted birds hanging from restaurant windows on Kearny Street in Chinatown. So now I waited, rather impatiently, as I smelled the mouthwatering sweet aroma of roast duck from the tables around us. I couldnt resist craning my neck to take a look at the feast that would soon be laid out at our very own tablethe dark, tender meat and the shiny, crisp amber skin Id been told tasted like bacon.

I was delighted to finally see a chef pushing a trolley cart toward our table. As if bearing a vintage wine, he lifted the platter and presented the plump duck for our approval. I nodded at the skins glistening veneer; I looked at Eric and smiled.