“We could share an appetizer,” he suggests; I agree. His choice turns out to be three miniature dumplings in a sauce. After we have each eaten one, I cut the third in two, take one piece, and say to my lunch companion, “The rest is yours.” “OK,” he answers, helping himself. I watch him eat. For some reason it registers with me that he uses fork, knife, and spoon — just like everyone else.

Across from me sits Vladimir Jurowski, in town to guest-conduct the Philadelphia Orchestra. Two days later, Peter Dobrin, music critic for The Philadelphia Inquirer, will write, ” … Thursday night, in his first performance since the one that stunned musicians and listeners, Jurowski absolutely established that the magic of his debut [October 2005] was no fluke.” (For the full text see the February 3 Inquirer or http://go.philly.com/peterdobrin.)

Now 34, Jurowski has been Music Director of the Glyndebourne Festival Opera for five years. He is Principal Guest Conductor of the Russian National Orchestra and, as of next season, Principal Conductor of the London Philharmonic. His biography features a mind-boggling list of appearances and appointments, and it’s no secret that the Philadelphia Orchestra is· seriously interested in him as a possible successor to Eschenbach. He likes this orchestra better than some he has conducted, but I resist probing about a possible affiliation.

I’ve only known him three hours, more than half of which was consumed with the orchestra rehearsal.

I can’t help wondering what I’m doing, offering this man the leftover half of a miniature dumpling after I’ve helped myself.

It’s my good fortune to have a friend who’s also a friend of the Jurowski family. (Vladimir is the latest in a line of four generations of prominent Russian musicians.) I owe this meeting to our friend. Per arrangement, at 10:15 a.m. I’m waiting inside the artists’ entrance at Verizon Hall, where the orchestra’s artistic coordinator, Alison (Allie) Trzaska, welcomes me. Orchestra members dribble in and in due course the maestro arrives. With a grin and a hug, he says to Allie, “Welcome back to Russia.” She introduces us and, to my delight, he accepts my invitation to lunch after the rehearsal. Thereupon Allie walks me to the Kimmel Center, whose parquet entrance is crowded with patrons attending the rehearsal. I have no ticket, but I do have Allie, at whose nod the waters part. Like a celebrity, I’m guided to a seat while ordinary folks watch.

I enjoy rehearsals more than concerts, because that’s where the real work is done. The gestures at the actual performance serve mostly as reminders. I do, of course, hear all the music, parts of it several times, but I’m not enough of a critic to analyze; I just enjoy. Among the spectacles, one surely not offered to concertgoers, is that of Jurowski jumping down from the stage (at age 34 a slender man takes such shortcuts with ease), walking backward halfway up the parquet floor, and listening to the orchestra from the audience’s vantage point. Meanwhile the orchestra plays unconducted but in perfect synchrony.

Eventually the rehearsal is over, and the weight of my predicament descends upon me. I’ve pledged myself to make conversation with a great man of music and I don’t have a thing to say. I resort to a desperate measure, as befits a desperate situation. Surely Allie is used to talking with maestros, so I invite her along to lunch. But she has too much work. I’m on my own.

The first place we go to is packed. Jurowski casually suggests another; I’m faintly embarrassed, and yet beginning to get the sense from his demeanor that there’s no need to be. When we’re finally seated in a second restaurant, I get the true measure of the man. He’s casually dressed, unlike me. Over lunch he talks about interpreting a musical score as its servant rather than its slave — a subtle distinction that I try to embrace without interrupting; intellectual and emotional musicians; performers who stand, figuratively, behind the composer and those who stand in front (naming a famous example of each); what a conductor should impose on musicians and what he should leave to them. He talks about different orchestras and their cultures; hiring and firing practices; concert hall acoustics (he’s critical of the Kimmel Center). He talks about his personal background (fourth-generation musician); long absences from home; religion; psychology; our mutual friend, whose late husband had been instrumental in facilitating his family’s immigration to Germany. Throughout, he speaks with conviction but totally without affectation. Answering my question, he tells me he is fluent in 5 languages and names others he regrets being unable to speak. He apologizes for not calling me before I called him, and he asks me about my background. I feel easier the more we talk and I have unexpectedly little trouble with my end. The conversation reminds me more of a collegial visit than an encounter of the unequals that we are. At the end he thanks me for coming to his rehearsal and promises to get in touch the next time he visits.

Two days later I see his picture and read the review in the newspaper. I realize how much more I would like to have heard, and I ask myself, shouldn’t I at least have offered him the whole dumpling?

(Postscript — In a radio interview on February 10, Jurowski talked about programming. Certain works, he said, he would not attempt until he has attained more life experience and personal maturity, which he considers vital to proper musical interpretation.)