When I was living in Adelaide, I would often buy packets of dried "Long Life Noodles" from a little shop in Chinatown, near the Central Market. They were a pantry staple of mine and I would use them as a standby in case I couldn't get fresh noodles for a dish I was making.

It wasn't until recently when I took my wife, Ellen, on holiday to Adelaide that I found out they weren't called "Long Life Noodles" for their excellent shelf life, but for their use in celebrating birthdays in China!

Last week marked my fourth birthday in China - although I'm actually 10 times that age. Turning 40 was something of a milestone to me, so I intended to celebrate it in style.

So, as well as the usual steaming hot bowl of noodles in a spicy broth, we enjoyed something a little different.

In Adelaide, every two years my birthday would coincide with the Writers' Week Festival that was held in a park by the River Torrens. This year, friends of mine in Beijing invited me to attend some of the events at the Australian Writers' Week Festival being held there.

These sorts of events serve as a bridge to my past, and give me a unique opportunity to see China through a different perspective - a sort of cultural link between the East and West, something I'm always keen to explore where possible.

While in Beijing, I wanted to take the opportunity to eat duck. Beijing Roast Duck, to be more precise.

Although I've had Beijing duck quite often here in Tianjin, it just isn't the same. The idea of eating a dish in the city it's been named after adds a subtle depth to it, imbuing it with a richness of time and place that makes eating it elsewhere pale in comparison.

Picking and booking a restaurant was no easy task, as I wanted to make sure that the one we ended up at was a complete experience. I was finally swayed in my choice by an on-line video made by an adventurous gourmet, which showed the restaurant's chef carefully blowing into the fresh duck carcass, to force the skin to separate from the fat, before placing the bird on a hook in a huge wood-fired oven.

This causes the skin to puff and dry, while the fat drains away, leaving the meat succulent and moist, and the skin crisp and crunchy. A team of chefs wearing what looked like surgical gowns served the duck, carefully sliced the bird into fine strips and arranged it carefully so each piece on the plate had an equal balance of skin and meat. It was delightful when wrapped in a thin pancake with some cucumber, spring onion, and a dab of hoi sin sauce.

Ellen ordered a cake, using a heavily discounted coupon from a group-buying site. It was meant to be a surprise, but she rather gave the game away when she asked me to pick out which one I wanted! On the other hand, it did save me from having to bake my own.

As for the noodles, we visited Ellen's parents. Her mother made a rich, piquant soup from a homemade stock that would be the envy of any fancy chef, and piled the bowl high with freshly hand-made stretched noodles.

So, as I slurped them down, trying desperately not to bite into them, and thus curtail my own longevity. All I wished for is many more happy birthdays to come here in China.