Soup Without a Price

When he opened it, it read: **Clear daikon soup. Diner: Gu Tingchuan.** “Daikon?” someone chuckled. “This dinner could buy a truckload of it.” Shen ignored him. He shaved the radish paper-thin, salted out its harshness, and built a stock with pork bones, dried scallops, and a thumb of aged ham. But at the last moment he kept only water and radish in the pot. The flame could not be high. The broth could not boil. The radish had to surrender its sweetness a little at a time. The soup arrived nearly clear, with no visible sheen of oil. Gu tasted it, and his smile paused. “It tastes like my mother's,” he said. The table went quiet. For the first time, Gu looked like something other than a winner. “She sold vegetables at the docks.