23 Pork at Mao Jia

Its 12.44 Beijing time. In my apartment at Riversides, Shan Sui, meaning "water" and "mountain". Weather cool, dont see any sun from my study and I dont care, always better
than the usual 35 or 40 degrees, though I dont care about that either- I just slow down.
On my 9th trip since october 17, I slept well and long- the beneficial effect of a two hours delay.
At the exit I had an unexpexted reception of kind people, one of them the habitual driver. I described him earlier and I keep respecting him for the dedicated way he performs his duties.
During the trip I detected new proof. Every 5 minutes he seems to restart. He straigthens his
back and makes that movement atletes show before the start: he shakes his shoulders, makes
fists (one after the other!) and loosens them. And then on for the next stretch of tarmac- very
quiet yesterday. I imitated him and he recognized his habit. Laughed. Then he complimented me with a loss of weight by admiringly putting a flat hand on my stomach. I am not sure I deserved that gentle gesture.
While typing- always with two fingers, and as fast as they can be- I enjoy the tiniest sigaret
I ever smoked. Its called CAPRI and not much bigger than a matchstick. Menthol. Superslim.
From the USA. I got half a package of the lady R who joined me for a businesslunch with A,
the senior account manager of a firm that may help SchoutenChina by opening her nationwide
distibutionchannel.
This meeting took place in Mao Jia. A had made a reservation in a seperate room, not unusual
in Chinese restaurants.

When you carve a dead pork, you first have to force your way through the tough pigskin. After that you will experience a sudden fastening of the speed of your knive, because it glides through
the thick layer of fat. After that you hit the muscles, the flesh.
This three layerd piece of the pig( skin, fat, flesh) was the lifelong delicatesse the chairman, the founder of the Chinese Republic, kept enjoying until his last days.
And that delicatesse was offered to me, guest of honor, in my chair facing the door. And yes
I really liked it. I ate too much there in MaoJia, the restaurant offering food from Hunan, where
the chairman was born. Simple food, rich food. I read somewhere, he caressed this food, also
to honor the simple village life, when times were harsh and heroic.

Just before I left I finished my novel. Gave it to read to Anne, Monique, Carry and Willem. The
book is not about me, but about a 43 year old character living his rich life deepdown in a dutch
polder untill things happen he no longer can control: old pains he cannot longer hide from, fraud
and the loss of ideals. " How can you attach to people. love them who once will leave you, betray
you." Thats not the story, thats the theme.
I placed the story in a polder, resembling the polder I live in Holland: de Bommelerwaard.
Zaltbommel is the main town. Thinking about my diner at MaoJia it comes to my mind
how poor the people uede to be in that polder. The peasant family very often raised a pig. Their only extravagance. Slaugthered the beast just in time for Christmas. I am talking about 90 years ago, when the social revolution in Holland not yet had taken place. Pig food a delicatesse for those who could afford.
I ate far too much from the chairmans delicatesse.
" Why," the elegant R asked.
I could have said:' Out of solidarity with my grandparents and their parents." But that
would have been a lie.
"It was delicious," I said.
"Think of your health." R riposted.
"Next time," I said.
I knew of course, it would take me 3 days to overcome the beneficial but poundsgaining
effect of the chairmans' delicatesse.
How did he manage, I wonder.