Mr Chen, the Chinese owner of a newspaper for Washington's Asian American community, invited me to a fundraising dinner for Asian Americans in public schools. I had never met him before but had written some articles for his newspaper.

"Your mother is also a writer, isn't she?" Mr Chen had asked me on the phone. "Bring her." I thought this would be an excellent opportunity to give my mother a taste of China. I also wanted to return a book that Mr Chen had lent me.

"We have to thank Mr Chen," my mother said, tugging at my arm at the China Garden restaurant. "Is Mr Chen here?" We were shown a young Chinese man talking on his cell phone. "That doesn't look like our Mr Chen," I said skeptically. From our phone conversation I pictured him as more mature, a cross between Hu Jintao and George Clooney.

"Well, they said it was Mr Chen," my mother replied. After the young man had finished his conversation, my mother strode confidently over to him and announced: "Mr Chen, I'd like to introduce you to my daughter, Tamara." She handed him the bag with the book. The man looked baffled.

"Mom," I whispered, "that does not look like our Mr Chen." My mother was unperturbed and led me into the restaurant. "We are guests of Mr Chen," my mother told the hostess. Once we were seated, we were greeted by some of Mr Chen's other freelancers - Jackie from Vietnam, a Mr Wang and Rita, who was from the Philippines.

Then Mr Chen's wife and daughter joined us. His wife was from southern China. Her hair was elegantly done up in a chignon and she was wearing a dress with a Laura Ashley pattern. His daughter, Lily, was dressed in black and looked like the Bond girl Michelle Yeoh. But no sign of Mr Chen.

Meanwhile, the bag had been smuggled back to our table after the wrong Mr Chen realized this had been a case of mistaken identity. "Where is our mystery man?" my mother asked impatiently. She loved playing detective.

Then, finally, another visitor. "Hello!" It was the real Mr Chen, exactly as I had pictured him - tall as a pagoda, graying hair and glasses. A serious, simultaneously sunny mien. Beijing-born but acclimatized to American ways. This was the man who had sent us a Holiday card with goldfish on them. The goldfish had American girths and looked as if they had been force-fed on French fries. The generous checks he sent his writers arrived in envelopes decorated with dangerous-looking dragon stamps to commemorate the lunar New Year.

"It's our mystery man!" my mother announced, rising to greet Mr Chen. I followed suit.

"So you are Nicki Shoe," Mr Chen replied, turning to me.

"You are Nicki Shoe?" the table chorused. I explained that I was the writer behind the book review for the February edition; hence my mission to return it to Mr Chen. I had decided to use a pen name because, as my mother's daughter, I liked an aura of mystery.

I chose the pen name Nicki Shoe because Shoe sounded slightly Chinese. Nicki was inspired by the brand of Nike sneakers. No gumshoe would be able to figure that out, I had reasoned.

"Welcome, mystery writer!" Mr Chen boomed. "Chi-fan ba! (let's eat!)"