Read by Rebecca Yeo
“I’ve ordered char siu pao,” Mum said. “Your favourite.”
We were sat at a table upstairs in a busy restaurant in London’s Chinatown. The ‘pao’ she'd ordered were white steamed buns with a filling of pork in salty-sweet red sauce. They were a food from my childhood, when I would eagerly devour the fluffy outsides to get to the treasure within, at some point reaching the perfect ratio of meat to dough. I hadn’t stopped then to consider possible spellings of the word, which could shapeshift all three letters, sliding from pau to pao to bao. For me, the buns would arrive with a ‘POW!’ like a hearty blow in a Batman comic.