How long is it since I wrote to our friend in Taiwan (W.'s friend in Taiwan)?, W. asks me. W. hasn't written to him in ages – years, he says. If you don't contact a friend in five years, then he's no longer a friend, that's W.'s principle. And to lose our friend in Taiwan (W.'s friend in Taiwan) would be a terrible thing.
Ah, how can he forget the sight of him, when we met him at the station. His weightlifter's vest … His Rupert the Bear vest … Our hearts lifted. Our speaker had arrived, and all the way from Taiwan!
And what did we do with him? Where did we take him? W. shakes his head. To the worst Chinese resturant in Newcastle. It was the only place open, I'd said. Our friend (W.'s friend) had travelled halfway round the world, crossed whole continents, and we took him to the worst Chinese restaurant in Newcastle.
It was my fault, W. says. My Oriental food enthusiasms. My dim sum enthusiasm. Surely a better restaurant was open in Newcastle in the mid-afternoon! Surely we could have found somewhere else!
Our friend had travelled halfway round the world, all the way from Taipei, Taiwan, a centre of great Chinese-style food, to Newcastle, which is no way renowned for Chinese-style food, W. says. Our friend had come the greatest distance possible, just to give a talk at my university, and we were going to take him to a restaurant that could only be the most inferior imitation of what he knew from back home!
W. warned me, he remembers. What did he whisper to me on the way to Chinatown? We mustn't poison our friend from Taiwan (his friend from Taiwan)! But how could he have known?, W. says. How could he have known to the hole to which I was leading them. The Oriental Buffet, W. says. All you can eat for £5, he says, shaking his head. The worst Chinese restaurant in Newcastle. The Oriental Buffet, my idea of a restaurant meal, W. says. The Oriental Buffet … God knows!
Our friend looked ill, as we sipped our Jasmine tea. I looked ill. W. felt ill, and that was before we began to eat. We hadn't even seen the menu! Hospitality is a great art, W. says. It's the art of arts. And here we were, as hosts, desecrating hospitality.
Still, he put a brave face on it, our friend from Taiwan (his friend from Taiwan), W. says. He took the reins of the conversation, as he always does. He was grace itself, as he always is. He tried to cover up the horror he must have felt at the dim sum, as it came glistening to our table. He didn't retch as he nibbled on chicken feet.
Were we going to poison our friend?, W. wondered. Had we brought him half way round the world just to murder him? Imagine the Chinese food with which he's familar, W. said, when our guest disappeared to the bathroom. He's bound to be an afficinado of every kind of dim sum, he said. And what have we served him? What have we done to him?
W. only hoped our friend from Taiwan (his friend from Taiwan) returned from the bathroom intact.
Still, he survived the afternoon. We survived it! And when we met up later that evening, we were determined to take our friend from Taiwan (W.'s friend from Taiwan) for a night out in Newcastle.
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