We are in Taipei, the hub of everything Taiwanese and tempting. We are in the land of beef noodle soup and braised pork rice, of oyster vermicelli and scallion pancakes. So, of course, you order Peking duck for dinner.
There is nothing wrong with that, of course. We had just checked into our hotel, directly from the airport. A five-hour flight is a tiring business. There will be time later to reacquaint ourselves with the city, to meet our friends and drink coffee, to hunt down a proper dàn bǐng.
For now, there is the spectacle of the chef slicing tissue-thin strips of duck skin, shiny with fat and ready to shatter with a single bite. There is the folding of steamed crêpes to follow. There is you and me, after the chef has left our table – along with the rest of the duck, to be turned into duck bone soup and soy-tossed duck noodles – and the two of us will have this first meal after our journey together. And every meal after. As always, as before. And it never gets old.