The Dim Sum of All Things

by Kim Wong Keltner

  Such was the tyrannical modesty of old-school Chinese folks; parents reasoned that they had survived without any instruction, so why should their own kids need to know anything? No one ever mentioned the three-lettered s-word. Even Lindsey, her brother, and immediate cousins were still trapped to an extent, talking frequently about Disney movies and other sexless topics. God forbid they’d be watching a movie on HBO with their parents when jiggling boobies or thrusting buttocks appeared on-screen. Inevitably, either the parents or the kids would immediately have to excuse themselves from the room to avoid getting caught with their eyes popping out of their sockets. Even humping bullfrogs on the Discovery Channel would send someone scurrying to needlessly replenish their Cheetos.

  So, it had been quite a shock when Stephanie had announced she was getting married. No one had even known she was dating, and now the family was forced to face the reality of one of their little peach blossoms indulging in sins of the flesh, which they referred to as “playing hanky-panky.”

  At first, the whole family had been extremely wary of Mike, Stephanie’s white guy. That’s what everyone called him, too, as if “that White Guy” were actually part of his name. No one ever referred to him without mentioning this phrase that identified him as a separate, white human. Every time someone spoke of him it was as though they meant to say, “Don’t get too close to him, he’s That. White. Guy.”

  But after Stephanie and Mike had been married for a year or so, most of the family seemed to like him well enough. Lindsey considered his eventual acceptance to be a genuine miracle, on par with the parting of the Red Sea. How had Stephanie accomplished such a feat? Lindsey would have to investigate.

  But first, she was forced to participate in another “date” that Pau Pau had arranged. She assumed that these grandsons of the mahjong cronies were also just humoring their grandmothers by agreeing to these meetings. But she wasn’t always right.

  BACHELOR # 2, COME ON DOWN!

  Darren Gee hailed from the Outer Richmond district, where he survived on take-out chow fun and the occasional Kentucky Fried Chicken family bucket. He was an account representative for Pitney Bowes and was desperate to find a girlfriend who could cook authentic Sichuan-style dishes like his mother. He had high hopes for these arranged dates. He was forty-two years old.

  Darren picked up Lindsey and took her to the House of Prime Rib. Strapped into the seat belt of his Acura, she quietly freaked out about his age and noted that, with his prickly hair and blocky head, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Sonic the cartoon hedgehog. She reminded herself that this wasn’t a real date. Eventually, she managed to relax and settle into the upholstery. Fiddling with the radio, she was perturbed to find that all the pre-set buttons were fixed on easy listening stations.

  Once inside the restaurant and seated at their table, Darren appeared jittery and sweaty, which caused Lindsey to worry that he was serious about this date.

  “So, does your grandmother make you go out on a lot of these arranged dinners?” she asked, buttering a crust of bread.

  He straightened his conservative tie and attempted to smile but instead managed to look as if he had a gas pain.

  “Hopefully I won’t need to meet anyone else after tonight,” he replied, smiling to reveal yellowed, misshapen teeth like macadamia nuts.

  Her eyes widened with panic, and she stared at the tabletop to avoid the desperate gaze behind his bifocals. He drummed his stubby fingers on the table excitedly.

  When the waiter arrived, Darren took the liberty of ordering fish for her, even though he hadn’t even asked what she wanted. His paternalistic presumption caused her to emit a nervous laugh, which garnered raised eyebrows from both Darren and the waiter.

  After their entrées arrived, they ate in silence. Eventually, he tried to break the ice. “I don’t think our age difference is a big deal, do you?”

  She chewed her food, realizing she would have to throw dirt on this smoldering fire before it got out of control.

  “Gee, Darren…” she said, trying to think of a way to let him know she was not interested.

  “That’s my name, get it? Darren Gee!”

  Lindsey smiled weakly.

  “So what do you think?” he asked again, his fingers now drumming on the table even faster.

  “I think I need to go to the ladies’ room,” she said, excusing herself. He stood up and tried to help her out of her seat, but he fumbled clumsily. He missed the arm of the chair and accidentally grabbed her left butt-cheek instead. She shot him a dirty look and jerked away, appalled.

  “Uh, sorry,” he muttered, but she had already stormed out of hearing distance.

  When she returned from the rest room, she offered to pay for her dinner, but Darren had already taken care of the bill. She tried again, but he refused. As he attempted to help her with her coat, she jumped back, afraid of another groping.

  After driving her home, he insisted on escorting her up to the front door of the apartment.

  “You really don’t have to,” she protested, fearing being alone with him in the elevator or, worse, walking up the stairs and having him goose her.

  “What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t see you safely to your door?”

  In the elevator she backed herself into the corner furthest from him and then darted past him when they arrived on her floor. She swiftly opened the apartment door with her key and turned to say good-bye.

  But Darren wasn’t in the mood for talking. Puckered lips the color and consistency of monkfish liver were speeding toward her mouth to deliver a goodnight kiss. She had to think fast. She ducked just in time.

  She actually felt bad when she heard his front tooth hit the door.

  “Ow!” he yelped, grabbing his lip with his chunky paw.

  “Um, sorry. Thanks for dinner,” she said as she shut the door quickly behind her.

  Simmering Below the Surface…

  Who did Lindsey think she was kidding? She thought about Michael Cartier all the time. And not just every day but, like, every hour, and even every half hour. It was a problem.

  She knew there were things she shouldn’t be doing. Like looking up his address and driving by his apartment at night to see if his lights were on. She even went to work extra early one day to sneak a peek in the personnel files to check if his first name really was Miles. She didn’t locate his folder immediately and was confused that the staff names were not sorted alphabetically. Her heart beat fast as she fumbled in a panic, worried about getting caught. A few seconds passed before she noticed the cardboard flags that separated the folders by astrological sign. In the Pisces section, she found his name and pulled out a health insurance application that confirmed the bitter reality of his Christian name. Nonetheless, this horrifying truth seemed somehow inconsequential when she imagined his hands on her thighs.

  She decided to spy on Michael via the Internet. Knowing that she would be too conspicuous at work, she chose a cafe down the street from her apartment that had a couple of computer stations where she could surf the Web for free.

  She purposely went late to the coffeehouse, about 11 P.M., which left only a half an hour before closing. She ordered a latte and sat at an uneven table pretending to sketch in her Badtz-Maru notepad while she eyed a nerd packing up his stuff at one of the terminals.

  After the guy slinked out, she slipped into his chair. It was still warm from him sitting in it, and she felt slightly sickened when her rear squashed the imprint of his butt on the cushion. But she didn’t have time for her ponderings on sanitation. She was on a mission.

  She logged onto Google and typed in his name. She cringed as she typed the name Miles, but it had to be done. However, her initial search reaped nothing, so she tried Michael Cartier.

  Et voilà!

  She found eight items under this name, mostly short articles he had written for various publications. She found several pieces on travel, and she clicked open one essay about visiting distant relatives in the south of France.
She read, “My Great Uncle Benoit ran the tabac in Berre Les Alpes. He allowed me to carefully flip through the imported Sports Illustrated magazines as he prepared a simple dish of lamb kidneys, which I forced myself to eat despite my semi-vegetarianism…” She continued to read about his trip to Marseilles and traveling to Cap D’Aille near Monaco to visit his Aunt Sabine, who kept canaries. Lindsey memorized these obscure details about his family life, in case someday it might be handy to know that his cousin Didier loved endive.

  Meanwhile, in the cafe, the busboy began sweeping around the tables and flipped the Closed sign. She worried that he could tell she was spying on someone, so she quickly shut down the search engine, finished her beverage, and dashed out the door. The light from the streetlamp cast a cold flicker on the sidewalk, but she felt warm.

  She Married a Cracker and Lived to Tell About It

  Stephanie and Mike lived in a neighborhood that made Lindsey feel inadequate for not blocking the sidewalk with her own double stroller and multiple infants. Navigating through Noe Valley, she slipped past bulky ladies wearing balloony yoga pants and gardening clogs. They chatted obliviously as their hyperactive Jack Russell terriers ran in small circles, barking out of control as their leashes twisted into knots. Gray-ponytailed men wearing Guatemalan shirts and Teva sport sandals congregated by the coffeehouse and whistled as Lindsey passed. She jogged up a small hill and rang the doorbell on a glass-and-stainless-steel entryway.

  When Stephanie opened the door, Lindsey noticed her cousin’s pregnant belly, which looked like a soccer ball protruding from beneath her perfect Ann Taylor ensemble. It was a Saturday, and Lindsey wondered how her younger cousin managed to look so grown up and expertly styled even when she was just lounging at home. Lindsey, in her ratty jeans and sweatshirt, felt the twinge of inadequacy that always descended upon her in the presence of perfectly groomed people.

  Lindsey walked in slowly, taking in her surroundings. She had never been to her cousin’s home before, and she was immediately struck by its resemblance to a Crate & Barrel showroom. The place smelled like new leather and was filled with modern, expensive-looking furniture.

  “Come sit down. I just took a pie out of the oven,” Stephanie called over from the sunny kitchen nook.

  Lindsey plopped down on a chrome chair and took in all the perfection, feeling like she herself was the only flawed thing in the whole place.

  “What’s that?” she asked, looking atop the stove and scrutinizing a small plaque showing a warrior with gold chains and a mohawk hairstyle.

  Stephanie slipped off her oven mitts. “Don’tcha know? That’s the kitchen god.”

  “Oh,” Lindsey shrugged. “I thought it was Mr. T.”

  She asked where Mike was, and Stephanie said he was playing golf with her dad. Lindsey thought of Stephanie’s father, her ex-uncle Donald, whom she hadn’t seen since Auntie Vivien divorced him eighteen months ago. She wondered if his absence contributed to Brandon’s being such a jerk and Cammie’s being so hyperactive.

  Lindsey glanced over at the sideboard and saw a silver-framed photo of Stephanie and her husband on the beach. Mike looked athletic and healthy, with a sun-bronzed complexion. How strange. He wasn’t greige at all.

  Stephanie brought over a cup of coffee, and then went back to the counter to check if the pie was cool enough to slice. Lindsey took a few sips of the hot liquid, then asked, “So, how come you haven’t been killed by the Chinese mafia yet?”

  Stephanie slid a Henckels knife out of its block and rinsed it.

  “What?” she said.

  “Brandon says the mafia’s got my number because I date white guys,” Lindsey said. “So how about you? How did you get away with marrying the enemy?”

  Stephanie wiped her hands on a striped tea towel and sat down. She sipped her coffee from a mug with the logo of a now-defunct dot-com.

  “Well, what do you want to know?” she asked, kicking off her low heels and tucking her feet under her chair.

  “Did Mike have any Asian girlfriends before you?”

  Stephanie thought for a second. “Yeah, one. She was Japanese. But it was, like, four years before me.”

  Lindsey crinkled her nose. “Did you ever wonder if he only liked you because he had some Asian fetish?” She wondered if she should ask her cousin’s opinion of the name Miles.

  “I don’t know. I can only assume he didn’t keep the other girl’s underwear or anything like that.”

  Lindsey leaned forward. “How did you get the whole family to like Mike so much?”

  “Believe me, it wasn’t easy. When he used to call the house, my dad would just hang up on him. For months, Dad gave me the cold shoulder, and when he wasn’t ignoring me he’d scream about how I’d let him down. He’d say nonsensical stuff like, ‘I knew I shouldn’t have let you go to summer camp!’ or ‘You used to be so promising at your piano recitals!’ Like that had anything to do with anything!

  “Dad went crazy, saying I had no standards, even though he hadn’t even met Mike yet. He asked me, ‘How could you settle for a dirty lo-fahn?’ We went weeks without talking to each other.”

  Lindsey was mesmerized. “So how come everyone likes him so much now?” she asked.

  Stephanie smiled. “Well, let’s see. First, Mike did his time in the chores category. He went over to my parents’ house and cleared the thorn bushes, painted the whole house, and fixed some water damage in the garage. Then he and Dad started playing golf together. It’s cool, because now I get to see my dad without my mom around, when he comes over to pick up Mike. Golf, I’ve decided, is a great bonding force.”

  Stephanie sighed, then perked up. “Oh, and there was the list! My dad gave Mike this list of Chinese stuff that he was supposed to give to my parents as an engagement gift.”

  “Why?”

  “In China, the groom’s parents give the bride’s family a bunch of food and gifts to show their generosity. Of course, it kind of defeats the purpose when the bride’s family forces the groom to do it and tells him exactly what to get.”

  “So, what was on the list?”

  “Like, a whole roasted pig, a hunk of shark’s fin, those dehydrated scallops that cost, like, forty dollars a pound…freaky tea with dried silkworms. Let’s see, what else? I don’t know, just weird Chinese stuff. Genitals of extinct animals, rhino horn, gallbladders from bears, reindeer antlers, tiger noogies—who knows? I guess my dad figured that if Mike was willing to go on this elaborate hunt, then maybe he was serious.”

  “Did you worry that people would be judgmental about your interracial marriage?”

  “Yeah, but I figured that would happen no matter what. Besides, I had an ace in the hole. Right before we announced our engagement, I went to dim sum with Pau Pau.”

  “At the pink place?”

  “Yeah. She’d met Mike that Christmas when I brought him to my parents’ house. He knew that she couldn’t chew very well with her dentures, so he brought Jell-O with baby marshmallows in it especially for her. Anyway, Pau Pau and I were sitting there in the dim sum place eating wu tau goh and all of a sudden she said to me, ‘I like your boyfriend.’”

  “Really?” Lindsey asked, amazed.

  “Yeah! I said, ‘You like him even though he’s not Chinese?’” Stephanie paused, recalling the conversation fondly.

  “What did she say?”

  “Well, she chewed on a chicken’s foot, spit out a bone, and said, ‘You’re in love, so it’s okay.’” Stephanie punctuated this revelation with a simple shrug.

  Lindsey shook her head, dumbfounded. “I never would have guessed Pau Pau would say something like that.”

  “Well, you live with her—you should talk to her.”

  Lindsey was defensive. “I do talk to her. But not about guys. That would be too bizarre. I don’t think I could be anything except in ‘granddaughter mode.’ To her, I’m still only four years old.”

  “Yeah, I used to think that too, but you should try. She’s had an amazing life, you kno
w.”

  Lindsey didn’t really know. Feeling envy creep onto her cheeks like a light sunburn, she suddenly realized she didn’t know her grandmother at all. As her roommate, she shared daily life with the woman—oatmeal in the morning and dinner almost every night. She knew what kind of Ovaltine Pau Pau liked and what kind of hair rollers she used. Didn’t that mean she was closer to Pau Pau than anyone else?

  “What kind of amazing life?” she asked.

  “You should ask her yourself,” Stephanie chirped as she cleared the dishes.

  After she left her cousin, Lindsey stopped at Bell Market on 24th Street to pick up some green beans. As she stood in line clutching her baggie of Blue Lakes, the man behind her suddenly spoke. “For the restaurant, eh?” he asked.

  She was unaware that he was addressing her, and she didn’t turn around. A moment passed before he tapped her on the shoulder and repeated, “Need those for the restaurant, huh?”

  Had this man mistaken her for someone he knew from his local take-out place? Or did he just assume that a Chinese person holding a large sack of string beans worked in a restaurant? She shot him an annoyed look and faced forward again.

  The long line of customers came to a halt as the cashier stopped to change the register tape. Lindsey watched the other checkout lanes as customers moved along steadily, and she sighed. She should’ve listened to her mother, who’d once advised her to always choose the Asian cashier no matter how long the line. The Asian cashiers always went the fastest, she had insisted. Lindsey thought that was kind of racist, or supremacist, or something. So here she was now, in line at a standstill while two lanes away a middle-aged Asian man was moving his line along with stoic efficiency.