003 on 006

My parents raised me never to speak badly about anyone, or even to venture my opinion without being directly asked beforehand. My schoolteachers and sunday schoolteachers enforced it and most of the neighbours in my area expected it, and gossiped no end if I were to disobey it. It was just the way things were back then. It was a different time.

What I'm saying is that I'm just not used to being completely honest about people. I'm used to just smiling and being polite and deferential, as I was expected to be as a child. I'm not even used to having my opinion asked in conversation, let alone having that opinion taken seriously and acted on. 40 years on, society has changed its mind about what I'm expected to do, say and be. Suffice to say, it has taken a lot of getting used to.

Chang seeks me out a lot of the time for my opinion when he cooks. He asks me if I'm partial to Hēidòu jiàngyóuor if I think we should have our beef rare or well-done.

"Well, from what I've heard you French like your meat on the bloody side," he tells me. "And, while I'm the cook I'm going to make something we can all benefit from."

When he said that we were in a supermarket in London. He flitted between loudly despairing at the lack of available ingredients in British supermarkets (gaining him a dangerous glower from the young man behind the till) and becoming inspired by what actually was there. He just couldn't decide what to cook and in the end we bought enough ingredients to be able to feed all ten of us for three or four days. He dismissed Jet's comments about not having enough space in the fridge with a wave of his hand.

My mother would have called it "artistic temperament". She spent her free time in art galleries and normally managed to cajole my father and brother into joining me and her in our monthly trips to the theatre or the opera. To her, everything from broody fits of pique to manic fits of creativity were crucial to any artist and were the welcome price to pay for whatever works of genius would follow. I think my mother would have liked Chang, if she could get over the fact that he was foreign.

Of course, when I told Chang about the "artistic temperament" he just snorted. He explained shortly (but not impolitely) that a true artist would never have to wait for their creativity.

"Pah! 'No inspiration' is just a fancy way of saying 'I'm too lazy to create' or 'I'm too scared of criticism to do anything'! Any idiot can self-proclaim as an artist but in my book you've got to have something to show for it."

Not surprisingly, Chang is something of a volatile man. He's not very good at just sitting still and doing nothing. When he's not cooking he's cleaning the kitchen. When he's not cleaning the kitchen he's re-organising the shelves and when he's not re-organising the shelves he's probably on rota with the team, where he talks endlessly. I think he's taken it on as his mission to try and inspire the rest of the team with food, with somewhat mixed results. He picked up on the fact that I love Salmon Niçoise and Lemon Mousse for dessert and that G.B (much to Chang's chagrin) thinks that Macaroni Cheese is the single best food on the planet, but, for some of the others it's not so easy. Although I was on the other side of the building at the time, I couldn't help but overhear a certain conversation between Chang and Albert while they were both chopping vegetables in the kitchen.

"Come on, 004, you've got to have a favourite food."

"No, I really don't. I really, honestly don't mind one way or another."

"You can't expect me to believe that...! Everyone has a favourite food, period."

"Apparently not. When I was growing up, it was either eat what you're given or don't eat at all. Not much room for personal preference."

"Even so, you have to have had a favourite...!"

"Anything but boiled potatoes."

"What, seriously?"

"Yes, seriously. Can't stand them."

"And that's it?!"

"Hey, you asked."

"There's got to be more than that."

And so on. The entire conversation started just with a simple discussion about whether or to have rice or noodles with dinner and ended with a very bizarre discussion about the merits (or lack thereof) of boiled potatoes in a meal. I don't quite to know how to phrase it right without making it sound odd, but, the man is a chef through and through. He takes his work seriously.

That being said, there is more to him than just food. He's brave in the battlefield and is a surprisingly good listener. Once, just out of curiosity, I approached him in the living room of Mr Kosumi's apartment and asked him, in Chinese, if he was feeling homesick. Without even blinking, he replied to me in French, saying that currently he was enjoying being away from home, although doubtlessly at some point his feet would take him there again. We ended up sitting on the sofa, speaking together for over an hour over a pot of tea, talking about how Paris and Hangzhou look in the snow, the weather in Japan, the debatable merits of learning trigonometry in school when one plans to be either a ballerina or a chef after leaving and the handful of films we had both seen and could actually remember. (Cleo de 5 à 7, les tontons flingueurs, Harvey, Breakfast at Tiffany's... My father was a bit hooked on American films and said they were refreshingly frank compared to ours.) Chang also ended up recommending some films for me, both from China and the rest of the world. At some point I will actually get around to watching them too.

What really surprised me was how that particular conversation ended. After I made a few hollow but well-intentioned comments about having a lot to catch up on in the modern world, Chang's expression suddenly changed. He seemed to be caught somewhere between pity and affection but it was just such a sudden change. He took both my hands in his and spoke quietly.

"Don't be scared, 003," he said. "I can't even imagine how lost you feel sometimes, but, please, don't let it get to you. We're all here for you."

It was a nice gesture, without a doubt, but at the same time it did reveal a lot to me. I saw the man behind it all. The man who gets up at 3 in the morning on clear nights to watch the moon and who keeps a small notebook hidden under the mattress of his bunk, filled with half-finished poems in his neat, precise handwriting. He shows the same love and creative flair in every dish from scrambled eggs on toast to slow roasted duck with hand-pulled noodles. He pats me on the arm when I peel vegetables and attempts to make conversation with everyone over dinner, regardless of what has happened in the day. And yes, he makes a delicious Salmon Niçoise.