Kitchen Chinese

by Ann Mah

  “What about the ravioli?” she says weakly.

  “No problem. All under control.” I reach into the grocery sack and pull out a package of premade dumpling wrappers. “It’s one of the few useful things they sell at the store downstairs.”

  Claire stares at them. “You’re going to use jiaozi skins?”

  “Why not? It’s like a Marco Polo-Genghis Khan-creamy-cheesy-Chinese-Italian-jiaozi thing. You know, fusion.”

  Silence. And then, to my surprise, she bursts into laughter. “Do you know what this reminds me of?” she says.

  I know exactly what she means and the memory makes me giggle. “That time we begged Mom to make us meat loaf?”

  “And she thought the recipe was so boring, she kept adding in her own ingredients…”

  “Minced ginger and garlic, black mushrooms, water chestnuts, curry powder…”

  “And that Lee Kum Kee chili paste!”

  “And then she threw some bacon on top, and basted it with Hoisin sauce! It was like…Asian fusion meat loaf.”

  “Yeah, she was definitely ahead of her time.” Claire laughs and wipes away a mascara smudge from under her eye. “You know, I thought that was what meat loaf was supposed to taste like until I got to college and tried it in the cafeteria. And then it was so bland, I was disappointed.”

  “Hey!” In my excitement, I brush another flurry of flour off the counter. “We should invite a bunch of people over and have a meat loaf throwdown! Mom’s fusion meat loaf versus the one on the back of the Lipton onion soup box. Geraldine and Gab would love it. We could get the recipe from Mom.”

  “Recipe? Oh, I don’t think there’s a recipe.” Claire fiddles with her cell phone.

  “Well, we should ask her about it. The next time we call home.”

  “Yeah, I suppose.” But the amusement has left her face, replaced by something that looks like annoyance. Did I say something wrong? Was it because I mentioned calling our mother?

  “Claire—” A million questions hang on my lips. What’s going on between her and Mom? Why did Claire move to China and disappear from our family? But I am suddenly tongue-tied.

  “Hmmm?” she says, distracted by her buzzing phone. “Hello? Wei?” Her face lights up. Wang Wei, she mouths at me, before leaving the room.

  I’ve promised Geraldine that I’ll arrive early to help her set up for the party, but of course the cab driver gets lost in the snarl of hutongs behind Gulou Dajie, stopping the car again and again to ask for directions with good-humored determination. We creep through the narrow lanes until we rattle to a stop at a dingy hutong intersection. A printing press fills the tight space, with reams of newsprint stacked as high as the tiny hutong dwellings, and the steady hum of industrial machinery abuzz in the air.

  “Na’r!” he points. There!

  “Are you sure?” I ask doubtfully.

  “It says!” He shakes the sheet of directions, which are a spidery mass of characters. I glance at the English: Left at the Heping Fandian, right at the dumpling restaurant, and then walk through the Beijing Daily printing press to a gate at the back.

  “Okaaay…” I pay him, gather my bags, and haul myself out of the cab.

  “Man zou,” he says. Take it easy.

  Hidden behind the printing press compound stands a high brick wall with a rusting metal door. Red lanterns bob on either side, adding a dash of color against cracked black paint. I juggle my bags so that one hand is free and ring the bell. After a lengthy pause it creaks open, revealing Geraldine in a pale blue linen sundress.

  “Welcome!” she says, simultaneously hugging me and relieving me of a bag. “Oof! What do you have in here?” she asks, drawing out a bottle. “Australian Shiraz! Iz, you shouldn’t have.”

  She steps aside to let me pass through the gate, and I nearly drop my other bags in astonishment. For behind the high brick wall and dingy gate is a secret garden, a quiet courtyard planted with patches of grass and cooled by the rustling leaves of an ancient gingko tree. A building stands at each of the courtyard’s four sides to form the traditional siheyuan’r, or four-sided house; each structure is graced with fat scarlet pillars that lead the eye upward to the fading grandeur of elaborately painted eaves. A string of colorful lanterns hangs from the trees, and a domed Mongolian yurt stands at one end of the courtyard, its flaps pinned open to reveal a swath of brightly patterned carpets and a pile of kilim cushions. Across from the yurt rests a long table already laden with food: platters of papaya and mangosteens, large bowls of potato chips, small ones of pale green wasabi peas, and tall glass pitchers of pastel-colored fruit juices.

  “Geraldine!” I gasp. “This is like…” I search for the right words. “It’s like a Chinese fairy tale.”

  “It’s charming, but the plumbing is terrible,” she says. “Come on, leave the bags. I’ll show you the rest.”

  She leads me into the nearest building and swings open a set of double doors set with diamond-shaped panes of glass. “The living room,” she says as we kick off our shoes. Rice paper screens soften the windows and a curved white sofa snakes across the room. Scarlet pillars soar through the space, while thick Xinjiang carpets, delicate with muted color and intricate patterns, cover the polished concrete floor. Geraldine’s Dirt Market treasures intimately fill the corners: a battered gramophone with a trumpet-shaped speaker sits on a nest of carved tables, a flock of jade elephants lumbers across a bookcase, silver frames display photographs of her family. Beyond, a long maple dining table is piled with mail and newspapers, stacks of magazines, and a vase crammed with fragrant white lilies.

  And everywhere there is art. Oversized paintings, abstract with bold strokes of color, hang from the white walls. A row of headless Mao busts stolidly stand guard on a bookshelf, while an enormous bright and brazen photograph of Beijing’s city sprawl leans casually against a side table. Even my untrained eye recognizes the work of Beijing’s biggest art stars, an Ai Weiwei here, a Wang Guanyi there, each selected by Geraldine’s impeccable eye.

  “It’s beautiful,” I whisper into the quiet space.

  “The rooms aren’t connected,” she says. “So we have to go outside to enter the next building.”

  “What’s that like in the winter?” I ask as we step out into the courtyard.

  “Horribly cold,” she says, throwing open the doors to her bedroom. A carved wooden headboard shines with dark varnish, and ornate red lacquer cupboards flank either side. The bed gleams with raw silk pillows in subtle shades of pale blue and celadon green, while above a swirl of mosquito netting tumbles down into a frothy mass.

  It’s like stepping back in time—or into a Shanghai Tang catalog. I wonder how she can afford such opulence on our meager Beijing NOW salary.

  “All courtesy of my ex-husband,” she says, answering my unspoken question. “This is what you get as the son of a Standing Politburo member. Don’t worry, it’s not their family home,” she assures me, seeing the surprised look on my face. “I found the house and Andy gave it to me as a wedding present. When we split up, he lost no time buying himself a penthouse condo in one of those flashy developments near Chaoyang Park. He left this death trap to me.”

  “He didn’t mind?”

  She barks a short laugh. “Hardly. He hated living here. Hot in the summer, freezing in the winter; no doorman, no wireless, no satellite TV…” She ticks off the reasons on her fingers. “Believe me, he was ecstatic to escape the clutches of his crazy American wife…and run straight into the arms of his little mistress.” She rubs her hands over her face. “Anyway, this house…my alimony…it’s all peanuts to the Zhao family. They just don’t want any mafan—any trouble from me.”

  Before I can respond, she walks out into the courtyard. “The kitchen and dining room are over here,” she calls. “They’re still pretty bare bones. I haven’t had a chance to renovate yet.”

  We squeeze into the kitchen, maneuvering between Geraldine’s ayi and an army of caterers. The room is spacious but worn, with stained linol
eum floors and an industrial-sized ceramic sink that dwarfs the gas stove. A washing machine stands between the sink and the door, but there is no dryer, and no oven. A circular dining table fills the other half of the room, its polished wooden surface shiny under the fluorescent lights.

  I offer my jiaozi-ravioli to the ayi. “Shi ni zuo de ma?” she asks, lifting out a dumpling to examine it. Did you make these?

  “Dang rang le!” calls out Geraldine.

  Of course! She whisks me out of the kitchen before I have a chance to explain that I’d like to make a special butter-sage sauce to accompany them.

  “I want to change the floors in the kitchen,” Geraldine muses as we sway gently on the wooden swing that dangles from the gingko tree. “Put in an oven, add some counter space…”

  “What’s in the fourth building?” I ask.

  “Storage,” she grimaces. “My ex-husband had aspirations of becoming a patron of the arts. We collected so much stuff I don’t have room to display all of it.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Paintings, photographs, sculptures…mostly from the early 798 gallery days. I should catalog everything but it was just a hobby. I don’t really have time for it now that I’m at the magazine.”

  My eyes widen: 798 may have lost its edge, but when the former factory-complex-turned-gallery-district first opened, it was the center of the Chinese avant-garde art world. “They could be worth a fortune by now!”

  “Ha. I doubt it.” She gets up and the swing jerks. “I should see what’s going on the kitchen. Help yourself to a drink. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I steady the swing until it rocks more gently, and watch the sun creep behind the gingko tree. As the sky deepens to indigo, I help light candles in the paper lanterns. They glow like jewels within the darkening garden, and I step back for a moment to admire them. A rattle at the gate makes me jump, and then voices call from outside. “Geraldine! Are you there? Geraldeeeeen!”

  She laughs as she throws open the door, and suddenly the courtyard floods with people who are kissing cheeks and exclaiming, “We got lost!” No kidding, I think. Corks are popped, there’s a luscious glug-glug sound as wine is poured into glasses, and the party begins. I hang back for a second to examine a sputtering lantern, but another bright object catches my eye: the full moon, which has started to rise in the sky. Gazing at its pale surface, I try to remember the myth behind the moon festival—something about a woman who flees earthly pleasures to dance on the moon. I’m trying to recall the details when I feel hands lightly touch my waist.

  I turn around. “Jeff!”

  “Hey babe,” he says, kissing both my cheeks. He smells fresh, like green grass, mixed with cigarettes. “Great party. Isn’t this a cool pat?”

  It takes me a second to figure out what he means. “Pad,” I say automatically. “Cool pad.”

  A look of annoyance flickers across his face. “Whatever.” He shrugs.

  “Would you like a drink?” I lead him to a corner of the courtyard, where Geraldine has set up the bar. “What’s your poison—er, what would you like? There’s red wine, white wine, vodka, gin…”

  The bottles clank as he searches through them, finally pulling out a heavy flask of Chivas. He pours himself a neat measure, adds ice and a generous splash of sweetened green tea.

  “Oh, you’re part of the Chivas and green tea crowd?” I tease. It’s a popular drink among Beijing hipsters, who mix high-priced bottles of Chivas with bottled green tea, swilling the mix down while belting karaoke or dancing at nightclubs.

  “Why not?” He takes a sip and grimaces.

  I pour myself a glass of red wine and take a ladylike swallow. It slides down my throat in a silky trickle and I quickly take another gulp. Jeff regards me, a tiny smile touching his full lips.

  “I don’t make you nervous, do I?” he murmurs.

  I glance up from the edge of my glass, but before I can think of a flirtatious response I am interrupted by a familiar squeal.

  “Isabelle? Hi!” Tina Chang emerges from behind the yurt and walks toward us, her sharp heels puncturing the grass with every step. What is she doing here? “And Jeff! What a surprise! Zenme yang? Do you guys know each other?” she asks. Her overly round eyes dart between us, and I wonder if she’s been watching us from across the courtyard.

  “Not really,” says Jeff.

  “Isabelle is Claire Lee’s little sister,” says Tina.

  “So I hear,” he says.

  Tina shoots me a glance and fires off a rapid sentence in Chinese. Jeff responds with a guffaw. My eyes dart between them, but the conversation quickly moves beyond my grasp. There are names: Wang Wei and Li Xiaoping (Claire’s Chinese name), the words “yesterday,” “dinner,” and “wife,” but otherwise I have no idea what they’re discussing. I feel as if I am drowning in an ocean of Mandarin, clutching at familiar words like they’re pieces of driftwood. Tina runs her fingers through her silky hair and Jeff’s gaze lingers on her chest, which is prominently displayed in a lingerie-style bustier.

  “Guys, I’m going to see if Geraldine needs any help,” I interrupt.

  They turn to me. “Oh don’t go,” says Tina. “We’ll switch to English.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Enjoy yourselves.”

  I find Geraldine in the steamy kitchen, throwing dumplings into an enormous pot of boiling water as fast as her ayi can fold them.

  “Oh, thank God, it’s you,” she says. “Can you put those salads into serving platters? And dish up some bowls of noodles?” She flaps a hand at the containers of food that crowd the kitchen counter.

  “Why is Tina Chang here?” I hiss at her.

  “What? Jesus Christ!” She swipes a hand against her sweaty brow. “She told me she couldn’t come!”

  “But why did you invite her?”

  “Are you kidding? Do you know what would happen if I had a party and didn’t invite Tina Chang? Instant shit list. She’d cut us off from Topanga Films. Or worse.” She turns panicked eyes upon me. “Did she see you and Jeff together?”

  “Um. Sort of. Well, just talking.”

  “Oh, dear God.” Geraldine puts down her long-handled kitchen strainer and reaches for her glass of wine, draining it in a gulp. “Can’t. Think. About. This. Now.” She holds her glass out to me. “Would you mind topping this up at the bar?”

  By the time I return with a full bottle (Geraldine seemed pretty stressed), the buffet line snakes around the room. In deference to her lovely, traditional home, Geraldine serves a buffet of old Beijing comfort food. We crowd into the kitchen/dining room and circle the big table, filling small bowls with zhajiangmian: doughy, hand-pulled noodles topped with a salty preserved bean sauce, studded with chunks of pork, and showered with an assortment of vegetables, from boiled soybeans to strips of cucumber. Platters of laohu cai, or tiger salad, a refreshing mix of slivered cucumber, bell pepper, and cilantro, add crunch to the meal, while thick-skinned boiled dumplings give it heft.

  I wander into the kitchen, in search of my ravioli-jiaozi. I’ll just make a quick sauce, melt some butter, sauté some sage, and serve them in a nice platter. “Have you seen my jiaozi?” I ask the ayi.

  “Nide jiaozi?” she says, puzzled. “We put them together with the others.” She gestures to the dumplings that bob within a boiling pot of water on the stove.

  Oh dear. In her haste, Geraldine has combined everything together, and the round premade wrappers mean my ravioli blend in with all the other crescent-shaped dumplings. Now they’re really fusion, cooked together with their Chinese cousins: savory pork and chive, soothing pork and cabbage, bright shredded carrot and egg. Well, meibanfa. There’s nothing to be done. Shrugging my shoulders, I slip out of the steamy room, find a plate and heap it with food, dumplings and noodles and salad, drizzle vinegar on everything and head outside. Ed and Gab beckon to me from the yurt and I join them, settling against the rough cushions to enjoy the mysterious flicker of candlelight against cloth.

  “W
e thought we’d rescue you from Jeff Zhu and his boy-band fabulousness,” says Gab with a curl of his lip.

  “Er, thanks,” I say, though I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Hey, your hair looks good tonight. A little more…clumpy.”

  “It’s been forty-two days since my last hair wash,” Gab says proudly.

  “If only people knew how you suffer for your rocker chic.” I bite into a dumpling, verdant within and spicy, like anise. “Mm! Is this…fennel?”

  “Cheers, Iz,” says Ed, raising a paper cup to me. His baggy cargo shorts reveal legs surprisingly muscular and long. I’d never noticed them before, since he’s always sitting behind a desk.

  “Those fennel and egg dumplings are really good.” Gab waves his chopsticks at my plate. “But there are some really weird ones in there. Call me crazy, but I swear there’s cheese in one of them.”

  “Huh,” I say casually.

  “And it’s kind of gross with the soy sauce and vinegar.”

  “So, how’s your gorgeous sister?” asks Ed, ignoring the foodie talk. “Is she here tonight?”

  “No, she went to Shanghai with Wang Wei.”

  “Oh.” His face falls.

  “I’m going to get some more food,” announces Gab. He picks up his plate, which is empty except for five dumplings filled with white and green that look very familiar.

  “I’ll come with you,” I say quickly, before Ed can start expounding on Claire’s beauty, wit, and unavailability, which he tends to do when he’s had a few.

  “Bring me a vodka on the rocks, okay?” Ed calls after us.

  We slither out of the tent, giggling like schoolchildren. Gab moves toward the drinks table and I go inside to look for the bathroom, passing through the empty, air-conditioned living room and down a long hallway lined with boxes and Geraldine’s Flying Pigeon bicycle. I find the bathroom, dim with candlelight and heady with the scent of lilies mixing with another, pungent, odor. A handwritten sign above the toilet proclaims: We have ancient plumbing. Please place used toilet paper in the bin. DO NOT FLUSH IT! Thank you! A trash can heaped with toilet paper stands in the corner, its quiet reek bearing testimony to the obedience of Geraldine’s guests.