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not expected to travel so fast. Within three hours we’d almost reached the border of Shandong province, so we pulled off the expressway to grab a bite. We found a restaurant called Jade Terrace, where the waitstaff wore tangerine-colored shirts and white aprons. A thin young waiter with a raw, new haircut seated us and asked, “What would you two beauties like for lunch?”
    “I’m no beauty,” I said. “I’ll become a senior citizen in a few years, so save that word for a nice-looking girl.”
    Nonplussed, he looked at Minmin inquiringly, then they both laughed out loud. I had a problem with the term meinű , a beauty, employed indiscriminately by the Chinese. Every young woman was called that, whether she was homely or beautiful. I disliked such a careless use of language, which blurred the actual forms of things and ideas. The word “beauty” ought to refer to someone who at least had some pretty features. My objection to the waiter’s greeting also implied I knew I was average-looking.
    We ordered steamed fish, spiced tofu skin mixed with mustard greens, and sautéed lotus root to go with rice. I calculated that we should be able to reach Linmin in less than two hours. “Let’s relax and take our time,” I told Minmin, who was fanning herself with a menu. It was warm inside the dining room, the air thick with the smell of frying oil.
    Our order came, all at once. To my amazement, the fish was a sizable salmon fillet, garnished with a few slivers of daikon and two sprigs of cilantro. I told Minmin, “I don’t think I ever saw salmon in China twenty years ago.”
    “This fish was imported,” she said.
    “But they sell the dish for only twenty-two yuan here. How can they make money?”
    “I don’t mean the full-grown salmon were imported. The fry were originally bought from Europe and then sold to domestic fish farmers. So this salmon must have come from a local farm.”
    “I see.” I noticed that she didn’t touch the fish and served herselfonly the tofu skin and the vegetables. “You don’t like salmon?” I asked.
    “I like it, but it’s not safe to eat fish randomly. Don’t ever eat fish heads and innards at restaurants. A fillet might be all right, less contaminated.”
    “Contaminated by what?” I asked in surprise.
    “Chemicals. My brother saw local farmers feed their fish lots of antibiotics to keep them alive in polluted ponds.”
    “Oh, I see,” I said. Food contamination was indeed a major problem in China. Just a week ago I had read in a newspaper that a small boy died after eating two pork buns bought at a food stand. It was also common knowledge that contaminated baby formula and poisonous milk were still rampant in some cities and towns. Word had it that thousands of infants had been sickened by drinking milk adulterated with melamine, a chemical used in making plastics. But I was nearly fifty-four and wasn’t terribly bothered by the problem. I told Minmin, “By Chinese standards I’m an old woman and shouldn’t worry too much. But you youngsters should be more careful about what you eat.”
    “Especially when you want to get married and have a baby,” she said.
    Minmin mentioned that her sister-in-law had been on a strict diet to detoxify her body so that she could have a better chance of giving birth to “a clean, healthy baby.”
    “What does she eat? Vegetables and fruits only?” I asked.
    “No. Some vegetables aren’t safe either, like napa cabbage, leeks, bean sprouts, tomatoes. Leeks are the worst because you have to use a lot of insecticide to keep worms from eating the roots.”
    “What vegetables are safe then?”
    “Potatoes, taros, carrots, turnips. This is okay too.” She picked up a perforated slice of lotus root.
    “How long will your sister-in-law continue to detox?”
    “A whole year. Besides the diet, she must drink an herbal soup every day.”
    “Ugh, I’d rather eat contaminated food.” It gave me a chill just to think of the bitter