CHAPTER FIVE

“So, what brings you to London, Dee?”

The question came from Bertrand Russell. Dee, Russell, Russell’s wife, Dora, and I were at table. We were eating, with silver chopsticks brought back from the Russells’ time in Peking, a Shandong feast of Dee’s creation. The Russells were both adept with their chopsticks, and seemed to be enjoying the cuisine as much as Dee and I.

It was Dee’s determination to cook this meal (“To repay Russell for his efforts, Lao, and also because as many good meals as I’ve had abroad, there’s nothing like the food of home”) that had brought on the ire of the cook, Mrs. Hennessey, whose planned menu had been shunted aside for it. Her wrath had been turned away by Dee’s cleaver lesson and his promise to leave with her all the herbs and spices that remained after he’d prepared the dishes. Those dishes—stuffed tofu, four joy meatballs, and now a whole ginger-steamed carp, all accompanied by a tureen of jasmine rice—simultaneously filled me with delight and deepened my homesickness. Since I’d first let rooms from Mrs. and Miss Wendell I’d generally taken breakfast and dinner with them. This arrangement offered the dual advantages of providing nourishment and affording me an opportunity to spend time with Mary.