Green Bean Epiphany

About 20 years ago, I was appearing on a television show and was lodged as the show’s guest for a few days at the Friendship Hotel in Beijing. I had often walked past it but never stayed there: it was a welcome change from my ordinary life, which revolved at that time around a boyfriend who wasn’t sure if he wanted to commit to me or break up. At dinner the first night, seated at a round table with the cast, I saw to my delight that dry-fried green beans were served. They were unusually beautiful, crisp and fragrant, and as I put the first one in my mouth, I was flooded by the sheer perfection of the dish. I don’t know who the chef was, but these were not only most expertly cooked, they were literally the best thing I have ever eaten, and remain so to this day. I think I gasped out loud: as my tongue sent the message of perfection through my body, I was hit with the realization that this was balance, this was harmony, and my relationship, the picked-over, much ballyhooed agony of trying to make something work which was not fated to work, was trash. I was stunned. I cannot put into words the horrific dichotomy I felt, sensorial ecstasy and agony in knowing my relationship was terrible. It was not a zen moment, other than the zen perfection of that dish. It was an epiphany, a moment of clarity wrapped up in green beans and thrown at my head like a brick. Hours later, when he sent me an email breaking things off, I could only agree, my heart aching not only for the loss of what I thought we were, but also at the realization that I could never enjoy dry cooked green beans without recalling that moment of pure misery.　

The beans save me once again years later: I was out with a group of friends, and the man I thought of as highly attractive and interesting sat next to me at dinner. He was new to the Chinese mainland, having moved up from Hong Kong just months before. We were discussing food and favorite dishes and both confessed to preferring a dish of sweet and hot cabbage to Peking duck. Sacrilege, I know. As the evening progressed, by which I mean much drinking and toasting, we spoke more and more about our past relationships, what we were looking for, our hopes and fears. Trembling with both hope (is he The One?) and probably alcohol poisoning, I told him the story about my epiphany over dry cooked green beans. He belched softly, picked the last cabbage-stuffed jiaozi off my plate, popped it in his mouth, said “It was probably the MSG,” then leaned past me to get the WeChat of the girl sitting on my right. Epiphany: Not only do I have rotten taste in men, but wow, this guy’s a dick.　

Third? My favorite, my sweetest. I had been out of China for a year, dealing with a tragic family situation. Broke, heartsick, I returned to China with nothing but a single suitcase and just enough money to survive until getting paid in my new job. It was too late to take the subway into the city, so I took a taxi. As I slid into the back seat, the familiar scent of a Beijing taxi began to tug at my heartstrings, that combination of human and jasmine air freshener and a whiff of cigarette smoke. My tense shoulders began to drop, and I found myself smiling while chatting a bit in Chinese to the driver. Just as the taxi entered Third Ring Road, my entire body relaxed: I felt as if I had entered a warm bath. A buzz went through me, and my brain shouted, “I’m home, I’m safe, I’m home!” This feeling has never left me. Even today, when I take a taxi into the city, I have the same reaction crossing North Third Ring Road. I’m home: I’m safe. I’m home. May this feeling never leave me.