The day my dog died I had kung pao at Mr. Fong’s. Sharing the tray with the modest bill was a
cookie who said Good things come in invisible packages. Cocky prick! I lost my dog and this
cookie seems to believe that a free pastry that tastes of nothing with a bit of sugar is all I could
wish for. Besides, the plastic wrapping is everything but invisible. I can clearly read allergen
warnings and some fancy characters that would make me marvel in some parallel universe at
how genuinely Chinese everything at Mr. Fong’s Mandarin Eatery is. Here, I don’t have many
items that are not authentic, if authentic means first and foremost “Made in China.”

When I buried my dog in the backyard, I threw the crumpled wrapper into the pit to make sure
that many centuries from now, when my grandkids and their grandkids have long joined the dog,
archaeologists digging up our city will find something that lasted.