23. The Kitchen God

In the early days of this millennium, I graduated university in England and set out for a new life in China. Here, I share the quiet stories of my journey, a chronicle of discovery and displacement, woven into the fabric of a land vast and unfathomable.

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The restaurant had been under construction for weeks, a barely noticeable affair wedged between two older establishments in the stretch of shops just outside the college campus. I passed it most days on my way to the noodle bar or to stock up on supplies at the shop, watching as workmen hammered and drilled into its ageing walls. A sign went up one day - a hurriedly painted banner bearing a few Chinese characters that I couldn’t quite decipher. The place seemed almost reluctant to open, as though hesitant to announce itself too loudly in the humdrum of the street.

On the evening it opened, the restaurant’s glass doors swung wide, as though some unspoken signal had been given. I stood on the pavement outside with a few of the college’s foreign teachers, the evening air thick with anticipation. By quiet agreement, I had been cast as the group’s spokesman, my modest grasp of Mandarin the closest thing to competence among us. Confident, perhaps, but only in comparison. A few months in China had taught me more of the language than I’d expected, yet I remained far from fluent - each word still a tentative step toward something elusive.

We stepped inside. The space was basic: plastic stools and fold-out tables filled the small room, with the pungent scent of frying oil hanging in the air. It was the sort of place some would call cheap, but it felt honest. No illusions. Just a hot kitchen and the steady clatter of pans beyond a curtained doorway.

The owner greeted us with a booming voice, his broad frame emerging from behind the counter. He was a man of average height, heavily built, with a chest barrelled beneath a brown polyester shirt. His hair, thinning, was sculpted into a brave attempt at a comb-over that defied both gravity and good sense. But it was the cigarette - dangling perpetually from his lips - that truly defined him. Even now, as he moved to greet us, it remained there, smouldering with a casual defiance.

We sat at a table, and he hurried over with menus. His gestures were wide, his energy unflagging, as though the restaurant’s very existence was something he needed to assert, to stake his claim in the world. But the words on the menus blurred into a wall of characters. I could pick out the odd ingredient, a few familiar radicals, but nothing certain. The others looked to me, expectantly.

He noticed our struggle and began demonstrating: moving from table to table with dishes fresh from the kitchen, pointing to their contents - beef, tomato, egg, chicken - and naming each in Mandarin. His accent was thick, the words emerging in bursts around the smoke. When he reached our table, he paused, held up a bowl of food, and spoke the name again, then pointed to it on the menu.

I repeated the word, awkwardly. He nodded, pleased, and had me say it again, slower. He seemed to take genuine pleasure in the exchange, not out of amusement but in the satisfaction of something landing.

We chose our dishes one by one, based on his demonstrations. Each time we made a decision, he disappeared behind the curtain, then re-emerged with a steaming plate or bowl, placing it in front of us with a small flourish. His movements had a kind of ceremony to them, though it was never overstated. And though he checked in often, he never hovered. It felt, somehow, like being looked after.

The food was simple but full of flavour - the kind that catches you off guard. A depth built not from technique, but from repetition. From someone who’d made the same dishes a thousand times and still found meaning in the making.

Conversation was limited. We asked about the ingredients, repeated the words he’d taught us. There was little shared language, but there was something else beginning to form. A kind of mutual curiosity. A quiet, flickering rapport.

When the meal wound down and the plates sat empty, I found myself wanting to mark the moment. I reached for a napkin and, with a borrowed pen, wrote the characters of my Chinese name - Ni Kou - slowly and carefully across the surface. When he returned to our table, I held it out.

He leaned over, eyes scanning the characters, then looked up with a small smile. I pointed at myself. “Ni Kou,” I said, carefully.

He repeated the name, testing it on his tongue, then nodded and tucked the napkin into his shirt pocket with surprising care.

“Li Demao,” he said. The syllables softened by his accent. He traced the characters in the air with his forefinger, as if writing them into the moment.

I repeated it back. “Li Demao.”

He smiled, quietly pleased. I thanked him for the meal. He gave a small nod, his cigarette still balanced between his lips.

When we left, the others stepped out into the humid Guangzhou night, already turning back to their conversations. But I lingered for a moment, watching as Li Demao wiped down a table, his movements unhurried. This restaurant, I realised, wasn’t just a place to eat. It was his stake in the world. A modest space, yes, but one carried on his back.

He wasn’t a chef, not exactly, nor a businessman. He was the keeper of this small room. Its guardian. Not with incense or offerings, but with plastic stools, simple menus, and a cigarette that never seemed to go out.

In the quiet gestures of that evening, he had shared something of himself. Not through conversation, but through presence. Through the care taken in serving a bowl of food. Through the simple act of remembering a name.

I left with the sense that something had begun. Not a friendship, not yet. But something. A small gesture returned. A name exchanged. A thread tied, however loosely.

A Moment of Gratitude

If the words of Ill Grandeur have resonated with you, consider buying me a cup of tea. In China, tea is more than just a drink - it is a symbol of connection, warmth, and reflection. A one-off tea is a way of sharing in the journey, supporting the story, and keeping the spirit of discovery alive. Every cup helps bring the next chapter to life.