Turning up the collar of my overcoat, I stepped into the freezing Beijing night. All around me lights flashed, bicycles whirred, laughing Chinese faces bobbed toward me, then away—yet in this shining darkness, this shouting, glimmering mirage, I, the expat, was alone. I needed food. A thin burger, just unfrozen, with a wilting pickle and too much pepper; hollow cardboard fries and a gritty milkshake. Yet the food of my people was elusive as the memory of home, no golden arches springing from the shimmering darkness. Then out of the night I saw it. A tiny storefront, tucked into the corner of a little shopping center. The colors were wrong and the symbol; no arches but an overturned M. But I knew. This was the food of my people, the food of my homeland, and the sign bore my name and my state: Michael Alone. In a frozen city, in a strange country, I had found a fragment of home.