Free What the Chinese Don't Eat by Xinran

I ran out of the engine room and tried very hard to find her. But I couldn’t. I’m so sorry.’
    How had Mimi got off the boat and back home from the river bank to the city centre, full of cars and people? No one could find out.
    But the next Chinese new year was the first time all Mr Chopsticks’ children had spent new year with their father for a long time. They talked about Mimi’s journey and their search, and their faces were full of respect. They were proud to be Mr Chopsticks’ children.
    Mr Chopsticks is my grandfather; I read this story in his diary. He wrote: ‘I have got back my children, my love and my family, all from Mimi’s journey home.’

30th April 2004
    They move millions to a new town, replant entire mountains – the Chinese are amazing
    ‘Is it chicken?’ an editor from Portugal asked. ‘No, it’s fish cooked in wine,’ answered the waitress. ‘Is it fish,’ asked an Italian agent, pointing to another dish. ‘No, it’s steamed pork.’ ‘Is it meat?’ asked a Norwegian publisher. ‘No, it’s tofu …’
    There were endless such questions from my 14 western friends on the first day of our trip to Beijing. We were there as part of a tour called ‘Open Your Eyes to China Today’, and although they ‘knew’ China from anecdotes, guides and history books, none of them had been before.
    ‘I am naming the world all over again,’ said a French editor. Despite being Chinese, I felt the same.
    ‘Is that really the Beijing hotel – the famous party hotel,’ I asked my Chinese guide two days later.
    A five-star hotel, located in central Beijing next to Tiananmen Square and Wang-Fu-Jing high street, it used be the largest and best in town. It was also the tallest building in China and, before 1990, every Chinese person visiting Beijing had their photo taken in front of it. I remember the first time I looked up at it, in 1984, and what people were saying: ‘Look, look, there are some golden hair and black faces in it.’ ‘One, two, three … oh, my God, there are 18 stores.’ ‘I heard only chairman Mao’s guests can stay there.’ ‘Come on, we’re in the queue. Get out if you’ve taken your picture.’ ‘Keep away from the front gate. Go away.’
    Now I have returned and can actually stay in it with my western friends, even though none of us is a guest of Mao Ze Dong or Deng Xiaoping or Jiang Zemin. Some of the voicesare still the same, though. A crowd of farmers, peasants and guards stands in front of the building. ‘What a busy hotel,’ they say. ‘A real party hotel.’
    The following morning, when my friends went to visit the Forbidden City and my room was being cleaned, I could not get a coffee because all three cafes were being used for government conferences. There was no space for my computer in the business centre – there was not even a chair to sit on while I waited for my room.
    I went back to reception. ‘Why do you offer rooms for tours if you can’t accommodate them?’
    ‘We need to make a living,’ answered a manager, smiling nicely. I supposed she was familiar with this question. ‘But how about those staying here,’ asked another displaced guest.
    ‘Sorry about this. In China, the words of our leaders and bosses are law, and we can’t go against them. This is the Beijing Hotel.’ Her voice was soft and proud.
    ‘Corrupt,’ said a Chinese woman in her 40s, who was standing behind me. She wore a business suit and carried an armful of files. ‘What? Are you talking to me?’ I turned to her.
    ‘I’m talking to myself. I hate those corrupt people.’ She was looking at the crowded meeting areas.
    ‘Why? Do you know them?’
    ‘Have you seen anyone leave those meeting halls with empty hands?’ She still didn’t look at me.
    ‘No, but they might be carrying business files.’ I really didn’t want my enjoyment of the hotel to be destroyed by her hatred.
    ‘Are you really Chinese?’ And finally she looked at me, sharply.
    ‘Is this the