Sunday brunch

At the edge of the backyard frontier between Cambridge and Somerville, the lush leaf-fall swept up against pavements, there's one of those faintly sullen, dowdily-decorated Chinese restaurants. We are served bitter, rank tea in small cups; the reedy synth cycles pop melodies over a square, drowsy beat. Early winter afternoon sunlight through a waterstained window. There are photos of socialist high-rises and back alleys festooned with damp laundry from some smog-choked third-rate urban dump. Faded casts of concrete and stained plaster. We have some doughy pork dumplings waddling in a pool of vinegar and chilli oil, a plate of chive pie, sliced pork belly with braised salted cabbage, scalded eggplants in red sauce laced with garlic. In the corner there is a shelf with stacks of cheap, crinkled paper napkins, forks with unwashed dishwater crud-stains, small jars with spouts for black vinegar. The tablecloth is convincingly beginning to fray.