The dishes had been laid upon the table with the quiet, practiced grace that Maria brought to all things. Steam rose from the porcelain bowls in thin, curling ribbons, carrying with it the scent of ginger and garlic and something sweeter beneath, the kind of fragrance that spoke of hours spent in careful preparation. The rice was pearlescent, each grain distinct and glistening. The braised pork belly, glossy and dark with soy and rock sugar, sat in its own rich liquor, the fat rendered to a translucent softness that trembled slightly with every movement of the table. There were vegetables too, stir-fried with wood ear mushrooms and translucent vermicelli, the colors bright and living against the pale plates. It was a meal that had been made with intention, with care, with the particular love of someone who understood that food was not merely sustenance but a language of its own.
Salvar looked at the spread before him, and his stomach turned to stone.
