We met at the gate of our residential area. There were about 15 or 20 students there when we arrived. Looking over the gathered crowd, the boys were initially indistinguishable; a sea of bodies with dark framed glasses wearing murky grey pants, navy blue jackets over V-neck sweaters, and all sitting on beat-up bikes. Seeing them together reminded me of that Marx Brothers movie where everyone is dressed like Groucho in identical nightshirts and painted-on mustaches.

But as their faces came in focus I began to recognize many of the regular attendees from our weekly English Corner, and some whose attendance was more sporadic. I was surprised to realize that in this latter group, rather than a few students who attended occasionally, there were many students who attended rarely. They all looked so alike; I never saw any of them frequently enough to have remembered them specifically.

Of the regulars, there were two that I knew well; Bill (who never uses his Chinese name) and Xiao Tang (who doesn't have an English name.) Bill is notable for several reasons, not the least of which is that he wears a light sports jacket. People don't have a lot of clothing here, and what they have they wear frequently. A well dressed woman here has a smaller wardrobe than the average man in the United States, and the average Chinese man has correspondingly less. In practical terms, most guys will have a second pair of pants to wear while they wash the first, and not much more. Your clothing becomes a uniform, by which you are recognized and characterized. Most people look the same; Bill does not.

Bill is also notable for his frank and often shrewd explanations of Chinese customs. He is the one who pointed out the way that the tradition of giving children gifts at Spring Festival has been twisted to subvert the laws against bribery. You can't give 1000 yuan to a government official without raising eyebrows, but if you give his son an equally large New Years gift, well, people look the other way. When the subject of bank loans for home purchases (a new option in China) came up at an English corner, Bill saw this as a way for the government to prop up the finances of the overextended real estate developers, who are building new high-rise luxury apartments much faster than they can be sold.

He chose his name in recognition of the two Bills he admires: Clinton and Gates. He recognizes what it takes to get ahead and he has the will to get there. I don't share his role models, but I admire his determination.

Xiao Tang is considerably meeker. I might never have noticed him at English corner if he had not faithfully attended every week and unfailingly sat at my side. He speaks English well, but is often quiet, and spends most of his time furiously writing into his notebook, recording every new English word he hears . When he does speak it is often to clarify for me the indecipherable utterances of his less fluent classmates. He does not have Bill's flamboyance, he dresses much like everyone else, but he is persistent and dedicated, and equally determined to succeed.

Bill had missed a few English corners near the end of the semester. Xiao Tang explained that he had been in an automobile accident, so I asked Bill about this. He told me that he was OK now, except for a lip injury that continued to interfere with his eating. I looked at his face more closely; he had something that looked like a cold sore, but nothing disfiguring. It made me think of Miss Pi taking antibiotics to dissolve the fish bone that she believed to be stuck in her throat. Maybe Bill needed to enter a program of chemotherapy to take care of that lip.

I hoped that his affliction would not interfere with the day's events, which promised to include much eating. While we were talking, another 15 or 20 students were off in the market buying up provisions. There were already suitcased-sized boxes strapped to the racks of a few of the bicycles. By the time the shopping expedition returned, it seemed that each bicyclist was carrying a week's supply of food.

When the designated leader of the group arrived we started off towards the Golden Temple, high on a hill just outside the city. Initially, we rode as a pack, but gradually the group spread out. Deb not surprisingly kept a speedy pace, often riding ahead of the leader. I ending up drifting to the end of the pack, idly chatting and pacing myself for the long climb. At one point, we turned a corner, and saw our leader stopped and talking at a pay phone. The rest of the group was still pedaling up the road, well ahead of him. I enjoy a good conversation as much as anyone, but we were kind of counting on this guy to get us to our goal. It turned out that he didn't know how to get where we were going either, and was calling around to find out.

Luckily Deb and I had been to the Golden Temple once before and knew the way. It's a pretty popular tourist attraction; there are beautifully landscaped grounds with ancient towers and brightly painted pavilions. When we were almost there, the students led us to an area we hadn't seen before; the basin of a now dry reservoir. It looked about as picturesque as it sounds. The sloping banks of the pit were covered with concrete, the bottom was filled with scrubby weeds and a drainage ditch. But hey, we were here to eat, not sightsee.

Along the rim of the pit, which would have been the shoreline had there been any water, there were several restaurants and about a dozen saddled horses. All of this was for the benefit of any tourist who might pass this way, and as we constituted a big mass of tourists, the merchants got very excited. I did my best to resist their entreaties, but I found out later that Bill took a very brief, very unexciting horse ride for 10 yuan, a pretty stiff charge. He justified it by explaining that he had never been on a horse before; the look of letdown on his face led me to believe that he would not be doing it again any time soon.

We set up camp at the restaurant tables. We were not going to be eating the restaurant food, but the students did need to bargain with the owners for the stools, tables and grills we would use for our picnic. This was turning into a major production. What they ended up with were stools and table/grills, a unique hybrid in China. These low, square tables have a hole cut in the middle, like a four sided donut. The hole is covered with a rough galvanized steel mesh; directly underneath is a metal basin where you build the fire. In effect, you sit around the grill and have an oversized ledge on which to both prepare and eat the food. It's about as unsanitary as you can imagine; the mesh is caked with ancient grease and the tables are forever coated with dust, but this is China, we can't be too fussy.

We played mahjong (a story in itself) while the students moved the rented equipment onto the reservoir floor and foraged for firewood. When it was time to eat they called us down from the "shore." The bank leading to the bottom was steep, I had visions of us descending into a pit from which we would never return. But by now it was 5 or 6 hours after my skimpy breakfast and I was too hungry to exercise good judgment.

Xiao Tang led us over to his group's table. Bill was grilling bite-sized scraps of meat that had the look of very expensive dog treats. Up to this point, we had never mentioned that we were vegetarians, which was probably an oversight when you think about what makes up a standard barbecue. But we had nothing to worry about; the students had brought piles of fresh vegetables and an assortment of grain and bean products beyond the scope of anything we could have imagined. And perhaps beyond anything we'd have cared to imagine.

Did you know that rice can be transformed from its pristine white state into a mud-brown brick that is dense enough to challenge the cutting ability of a meat cleaver? Have you ever drunk the lukewarm juices of three-day old fermented rice? What exactly does it take to turn tofu brown and leathery? We were exploring all-new territory on the vegetarian trail.

There was a familiar and achingly fresh box of vegetables on the scene too. Looking at these, it was easy to imagine turning the assortment of lettuce, Chinese cabbage, mushrooms, leeks, and cilantro in to a luscious salad, but this was not to be. It all ended up on the grill.

As the lettuce sat wilting on the fire, Deb could not resist commenting. Sounding at once wistful and diplomatic, with the patient tone that one uses when speaking to a complete idiot, she said, "Usually in the United States, we eat this raw." She knew full well that we, in fear of disease, would never eat raw vegetables in China, and the Chinese, who think of raw vegetables the same way we think of raw flesh, would never either. But still, it was odd seeing lettuce and later cilantro and fresh mint, slathered with oil, sprinkled with salt, and grilled to a crisp. It was also remarkably delicious.

There is some truth in the cliche that all food tastes better when cooked and eaten outdoors. That, along with extreme hunger, must explain why we wolfed down serving after serving of food which looked like it was on its way to, or from, the dumpster. As the rice mud sat smoldering on the grill, darkening like an overcooked hot dog, Xiao Tang pointed to it and asked me "What do you call this?" I wasn't sure if he meant the process (grilling), the appearance (toasted), or the food itself (beats me!) As my pause became increasingly uncomfortable, and the brick slice became blacker and blacker, I could think of nothing better to say than "Burnt." But I ate it greedily just the same. Diplomacy was evident on both sides when Xiao Tang told me that according to his mother, burnt food is good for you.

Finally it was time for dessert, or at least fresh fruit. The students had bought a very popular fruit from at our local market, paying, as Deb overheard, slightly more than the price she can negotiate. The fruit looks like a big grapefruit, but it is much sweeter. It has a soft, thick peel that is easily removed (and keeps the edible part germ-free.) As the pieces were passed around, we were a bit disappointed to find that their purchase was not especially juicy or tasty. Xiao Tang was the first to vocally pass judgment; "Not enough water." I corrected his word choice, and he dutifully recorded "juice" in his notebook, but I had to agree with his assessment.

It occurred to me that in the absence of foreign tourists, students are the suckers of choice for the enterprising entrepreneur. They pay too much at the market and get the least desirable produce, they fall for the sales pitch of the local cowboys and take the disappointing horse ride. It gave us something in common and made me like them all the more. I could see that being taken advantage of was part of the Chinese experience, and maybe even part of the Christmas experience too. But in the spirit of Christmas, there was too much good will in the air to let a little greed spoil the scene. The best food in the best restaurant in Cambridge could not have made us happier; it was a Christmas party we will never forget.