The shophouse in Jiuzhaigou town is small. Spare. Walls which were once in the ballpark of white bear the scungy marks of accumulated cooking stains and grime.

The tables are small and greasy, and the 'chairs' are blue plastic stools bearing cartoon character decals where you plant your butt.

The tiny dumplings - made from scratch - are sinfully good.

We first visit with two new friends we've made that day - Brooks and Bond. Brooks is American, and Buddhist, the latter meaning that he cannot eat meat. Bond, his Chinese friend, orders up four bowls of vegetarian soupy dumplings for us all.

Rural-fresh eggs are beaten by the shophouse husband. He dresses like most of China's ordinary populace: in a battered, all-purpose dark suit. It's slightly scuffy, dirt-edged, and a bit bespattered with flour, but worn with an air of personal flair that no Armani can touch.

Eggs slide into wok-hot oil. They're slashed about and cooked, before being thrown into a bowl containing green shards of tasty veg - perhaps flowering chives today? Liberal applications of msg for flavour, and a quick dusting with some other seasonings from bashed-in carboard packets.

Then, the shophouse wife puts a deft fingerful into each tiny dumpling skin she's just fashioned from scratch like it's no big deal. She works with the verve of a prizefighter and the lightness of a playwright.

Soup is made with a dash 'o this and a pinch 'o that. The dumplings bob and sway in the liquid as they cook.

The rolling boil is met, the heat cut off. Dinner is served.