Soup Without a Price

Gu Tingchuan's private dinner took place in a former shipyard on the river. Beyond the glass walls, freighters pulled their slow chains of light. Inside, twelve people sat around a tablecloth white enough to have never known grease. When Shen Yan entered with his own knife roll and a small clay pot, the attendants looked at him three times. Gu sat at the far end of the table, in his fifties, his smile mild and his cuffs without a single crease. “Your father once made a soup,” Gu said. “I still remember it.” “Good,” Shen said, setting down the pot. “I don't sell memories.” The club chef had planned the menu, except for the final course. Gu had saved that for him. The old cookbook grew hot under Shen's jacket.