Feng Rui slapped the fish, hard, on the edge of the bath. Then he took a knife and started scraping away its scales, which flicked into the air in a glassy scatter. But the fish was still alive. It flexed violently, and jumped out of his hands. Feng Rui snorted in exasperation, seized it and then whacked it, harder this time, against the enamel. The fish, stunned, became still, allowing him to scale it clean, rip out its blood-red gills, slit its belly open and finger out the bulging slickness of its guts. By now the small bathroom was a mess of scales and slime, but, unconcerned, Feng Rui simply gathered up the debris and threw it into the bin. Back in the kitchen, he made a few incisions in the fish's side, rubbed it with salt and wine, smashed a clod of ginger and a couple of spring onions and stuffed them into its belly. Then he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. 'You know, you won't believe this, but in Guangdong they actually eat fish intestines! Imagine! How disgusting. Those Cantonese, they eat anything.' I cast my eye to the kitchen counter, where a bowlful of chicken intestines were marinating, ready for our lunch, and smiled to myself.

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