once more i’m at a restaurant. it’s opulent with a beautiful indoor garden and lavish dining rooms. already, a feast is laid out before me, a broth of beef, steamed fish, rice, roast duck, roast chicken (both birds plated with their heads). the duck’s beak looks as though you could break it off without effort. would i eat it? no. well, maybe. who knows? and there’s soup with ghostly white mushrooms and greens swimming in a deep bowl.

what am i doing here? and where is here, exactly? it’s lijiang city, in the province of yunnan, china, which i’m touring courtesy of the chinese government. and my fellow compatriots, representing different media, are seated around me, eyeing the feast apprehensively.

‘i can’t eat any of THAT,’ says a woman, who looks around my age.

‘don’t worry, i’ve got masdhalhu in my bag,’ says a young man with long hair.

‘ooh, really?’ says the woman. ‘take it out, share for god’s sake. it’ll go with the chili paste.’

‘the only good thing on this table,’ says the man and the woman laughs.

good god. we’re here on a four day trip and this man’s brought masdhalhu.

‘are you from male?’ i ask him.

‘no,’ he says. ‘why do you ask?’

‘how about you?’ i ask the woman.

‘i’m from meedhoo,’ she says. ‘where are you from?’

it’s starting to make sense now. i put some birds on my plate. the chicken is succulent, crispy out, moist within. but the rich, fatty flesh of the duck takes centre stage.

‘how can you eat that?’ says the woman, making a face. she eats rice from her soup bowl with a fork she got from a server. ‘is that even halal?’

‘it’s good,’ i tell them. ‘what kind of food do you like?’

‘many kinds, actually. indian, thai, middle-eastern,’ she goes on. ‘the restaurants here are terrible. you know a place with great restaurants?’

i shake my head.

‘dubai!’ she exclaims. ‘dubai has AMAZING restaurants. have you been?’

‘no,’ i say. ‘do you travel a lot?’

she smiles and eats some rice, swallows, then says: my job takes me all over the world.

‘what job is that?’

‘i work in management,’ she replies, playing with the processed fish in her bowl with a fork.

‘management,’ i mutter.

‘what was that?’ she says.

‘nothing.’

‘i could barely eat in cambodia earlier this year.’ she says, then looks coldly at my duck. ‘how can you eat that? are you a foodie?’

‘i can’t stand foodies,’ says the young man.

‘i just like to eat,’ i tell her, apologetically.

‘i have such a busy month in august,’ she says. ‘i’m going to nepal.’

‘do you have flags of the countries you’ve visited on instagram?’

‘obviously,’ she says, slightly offended.

i dig into the fish. it is a river fish of some sort, fresh and tender, falling apart when i press it against my palate. it fills my mouth with its delicate umami.

‘i’m not coming back to china though,’ she says.

‘but we’ve only been here a couple of days,’ i point out. ‘is the chinese flag going on your instagram?’

‘why are you so concerned about that?’

‘just curious,’ i say.

i try to finish with the soup but end up doing something else.

‘EW,’ says the woman. ‘i can’t believe you ATE that.’

‘me neither,’ i say, wincing from the beak’s bitter brittleness. ‘me neither.’

no matter. at least with this trip i finally have a basis for comparison for when i go to don’s, the chinese restaurant at nasandhura.

‘say something?’ asks the young man.

‘no,’ i tell them. ‘nothing at all.’