A golden scorpion skewered like a scrawny prawn— that’s something I said no thanks to. In the all-night street market—the streets still shiny from the evening rain—a guy flipped yellow-breasted buntings on a charcoal grill. “Buttery,” an Australian told me, taking two. “Melts in your mouth.” Also snakes skinned and milky white, fried beetles, a vat of lumpy horse stew. But I don’t remember sparrows—either on the grill or in the air. Were they ever re-introduced there, after Mao accused them of stealing grain and people stayed up all night banging pots and kettles to make them flit from branch to branch to branch till every tiny heart gave out?