by Ann Mah
“We’re not going to eat those koi, are we?” demands Mrs. Keeg as a bright fish streaks by her left foot.
“Don’t offend them, Ma! They’re probably an ancient Chinese delicacy! Cut off a man’s balls and let him eat goldfish!” Dwayne’s laugh is like a donkey’s bray. Eeeh-heee, eeeh-heee, heee!
I offer a polite smile and turn my attention to the menu. “Is there anything you don’t eat?” I ask.
“Oh, we eat everything,” says Mrs. Keeg breezily. “Except shellfish. Dwayne’s allergic. Or peanuts. I’m allergic. That goes for peanut oil too. I just blow up like a balloon! And no MSG.”
“Allergic?” asks Claire, and I’m afraid to catch her eye for fear we’ll both start giggling.
“Chinese food syndrome,” explains Mrs. Keeg. “I get terrible headaches just thinking about MSG.”
“And no carbs,” inserts Dwayne. “South Beach Diet. Trying to lose a few pounds,” he says, patting his bulging waist.
I leaf through the menu, a hefty tome filled with page after page of the slimy triumvirate of fancy Chinese gastronomy: shark’s fin, abalone, and sea cucumber. Imperial cuisine is meant to impress with its array of dishes, all laden with rare and expensive ingredients, each more complex than the last, but in reality it’s my least favorite genre of Chinese food. In my heart, I guess I’m a peasant. Give me mapo doufu over shark’s fin soup any day.
Our waitress glides to the table, pen poised. “We’d like to start with this,” I say, pointing to the characters for cabbage in mustard sauce. “And this.” I point at tofu skins filled with pine nuts and spinach.
“Dui bu qi, jintian meiyou,” says the waitress. Sorry, we don’t have that today.
“Okay,” I say cheerfully. “Cold chicken in sesame sauce.”
“Meiyou.”
“Flat mung bean noodles tossed with cilantro and shredded pork?” I ask hopefully.
“Meiyou.”
“Pan-fried cod fillets with chili Mandarin sauce?”
“Meiyou.”
“Hold the meiyou, please,” murmurs Claire.
I flip desperately through the menu, trying to locate other dishes among the thick pages. But the jumble of English words and Chinese characters make my eyes slow. Beside me, the waitress shifts edgily, and finally emits an impatient sigh.
“What do you recommend?” I ask.
“The abalone is delicious,” she replies, pointing to the most expensive item on the menu.
I manage to order a few of Cixi’s favorites that are peanut-and shellfish-free and, most importantly, available. The waitress leaves and I turn back to the table.
“Did you order any dumplings?” asks Dwayne, licking his thin lips.
“Oh no, I didn’t. I thought you were avoiding carbs—”
“We’re in China. Gotta have dumplings,” declares Dwayne.
His mother nods vigorously. “Oh yes,” she says. “We just love dumplings.”
The waitress returns with our cold dishes and I add an order of pork and chive jiaozi before sampling the pickled cabbage in mustard sauce, sweet and sour and drizzled with a wimpy mustard that tastes like French’s, completely lacking in nose-tingling buzz.
Lackluster, I scribble in my notebook.
“Ooh! Spicy!” gasps Mrs. Keeg, fanning her face with her hand. “Be careful, honey!” she says, moving the dish away from Dwayne. “He can’t eat spicy,” she says, leaning in close. “Ulcers,” she whispers.
“Mo-ther!” Dwayne’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down like a fishing lure.
“Well, it’s best to be up front about these things, Dwayne.” She leans back in her chair and surveys us. “I think it’s so exciting that you girls have come back to China!”
“Back to China?” I say faintly, but she ignores me.
“Such a wonderful thing, to return to your roots,” she gushes. “Now, tell me, I’m so curious. How does it feel to be back in your homeland?”
My eyes widen. “Well, I wouldn’t quite call it our homeland. We were born in the States, and so was our father,” I remind her. “Chinese people often find it difficult to understand that we’re American because of the way we look. But if anything, living in Beijing has made me feel more culturally American. I don’t look different from the local population, but I feel different and my reactions to things are different. Though, of course, people constantly question our ethnic identity, and wonder if we feel more American or Chinese.” I’ve explained this so many times, I can rattle off the words without thinking about them.
“So, do you feel more American or Chinese?” she asks.
“Um…” Didn’t I just answer this question? “American,” I finally reply. “When I close my eyes and think of home it’s definitely not China!” I laugh apologetically.
“How interesting,” she says in a tone that indicates she’s disappointed that I haven’t found ethnic salvation. “Which one of you girls is more like your mother?”
“Oh, neither of us,” says Claire, her voice brittle. “We’re both dilettantes, I’m afraid.”
“Really?” Mrs. Keeg looks surprised. “Isn’t one of you a lawyer?”
“Claire is a partner with White, Shaw and Knorr,” I insert swiftly, before Claire can come up with another flip comment.
“Oh, I’d love to have a lawyer in the family!” Mrs. Keeg clasps her hands together and gazes at Claire intently. “Are you the Harvard daughter?”
Silence.
“She is indeed,” I reply. “Yale for law school.”
“Dwayne is an Ivy Leaguer himself,” says Mrs. Keeg, nodding vigorously. “Cornell. He graduated summa cum laude.” Her eyes dart between Dwayne and Claire and I can see her picturing them side by side at the dinner table, their brood of brilliant little Keegs crowding around. “Family values are so important to Dwayne,” she says, her eyes still fixed upon Claire. “Do you want a big family?”
A strange expression comes over Claire’s face. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it looks almost like grief, but that doesn’t make sense.
“No, not a big family,” I answer for her finally. “Just a couple of kids.” I have no idea if this is true.
“Oh, yes,” exclaims Mrs. Keeg. “I don’t understand this fad of having large families these days.”
I can practically hear the wedding march trumpeting in Mrs. Keeg’s head. Before I can disabuse her of the notion, a flock of waitresses arrives with the rest of our food, setting the dishes gently upon the table and removing the silver domes with a coordinated flourish.
“Um, would you like some tea-smoked duck, Mrs. Keeg?” I pass the plates around in an effort to dispel the awkwardness that’s flooded the table. Dwayne unloads half the dumplings on his plate and pours a river of soy sauce over them.
I carefully seize a wobbly cube of imperial-style tofu and lift it to my mouth. The clear sauce is bland to the point of tasteless, and the tofu is cold. I circle my plate, sampling a bite of everything: the sweet and sour ribs, anise beef stew, a dumpling that I’ve managed to wrest from Dwayne’s acquisitive chopsticks. Everything is ice cold and dully flat.
We eat the food, the silence punctuated only by the clink of chopsticks on our plates. Suddenly, Mrs. Keeg leans forward in her chair. “Remind me again,” she says. “Which one of you girls is…divorced?”
My heart starts thumping in my chest. Claire’s divorce is a taboo subject, something that no one talks about. Ever. Ever.
Ever.
I glance fearfully at my sister, but she’s arranged her features into a smooth mask. “That’s me!” she says before I have a chance to speak. “I took him for every penny he had. Bastard never knew what hit him.” Her mouth stretches into a tight-lipped smile. “You’re right, Mrs. Keeg,” she says. “It is good to have a lawyer in the family.”
Mrs. Keeg presses her lips together into a thin line. “There’s no need to be nasty, dear. There’s nothing wrong with a little matchmaking. You’re not going to be young forever, you know.” She takes a bite of anise
beef and the corners of her mouth turn down as she chews.
“You’re right.” Claire puts her chopsticks down and pushes her chair back from the table. “But I’m old enough to know I don’t want to waste my time here.” She grabs her purse. “Sorry, Isabelle. I’ll see you later.”
“Wait!” I call as she stalks from the table. “We still have three more courses!” But she doesn’t turn around as she leaves the restaurant.
“More food for us!” mumbles Dwayne, shoving an entire dumpling into his mouth.
I push the food around on my plate, unwilling to take another bite, even if it is my job.
Mrs. Keeg’s voice pierces the silence. “So, tell me, Isabelle,” she says, regarding me with new interest. “Where did you go to college?”
Nine forty-five P.M. Back home in our apartment, I pour myself a glass of wine and take a healthy sip. So this is what it’s come to. Drinking alone. On a Saturday night. My stomach growls and I add a bag of potato chips to the bottle of wine that I’m carrying into my room, firing up my computer as I settle into my desk chair.
Actually, it’s not really that depressing, working on a Saturday night. After all, I have deadlines to meet, articles to write, magazines to put to bed. I bet Charlie works on Saturday nights all the time. Granted, he’s saving the world from some sort of North Korean nuclear attack and I’m just writing restaurant reviews. But, never mind, food is important too. Sometimes I really wonder if the whole Middle Eastern conflict could be resolved through distribution of free falafel.
I contemplate the empty screen as I take pensive sips of wine. Mmmm…delicious wine. Really smooth and luscious. I’ll just pour myself another little bit.
A little booze would have improved tonight’s dinner by one thousand percent. Aided by a few more sips, I start composing my review.
Ten-fifty P.M. Ooh, writing a bad review is kind of fun. “Better bundle up before dining at Empress Impressions, because the icy food and haughty service will definitely cause a shiver. If this is how the Empress Cixi dined, no wonder she was such a bitch.”
Eleven-thirty P.M. Oops, just upended my glass of wine all over the desk. I watch the crimson pool spread across the blond wood and drip onto the pale carpeting. Ooh, pretty, so pretty! The movement and contrast is like performance art. I try to clean it up but my body feels heavy, like it’s being pulled down by invisible weights. How much wine have I had? I slosh a bit more into my empty glass and sit down to finish off the last sentences of the review.
Eleven-fifty P.M. I cannot stop hiccupping! I’ve tried everything from drinking vinegar to holding my breath, but still hic! Hic! Hic! Maybe another bit of wine would help, just a smidge. Besides, I better finish the bottle, there’s only a drop left after I spilled so much on the floor—and wine spoils so quickly in this arid Beijing climate.
Twelve-thirty A.M. The review is a masterpiece! I didn’t know I could be so witty, so droll! Surely even Ed will be happy with this piece—it’s definitely the best thing I’ve ever written! Quickly, I log into my e-mail and send it to him. I can’t wait to hear his response!
One forty-five A.M. When I close my eyes, everything spins. My bed feels like a boat. Ah. The floor is very solid. Much better. Much, much better. I’ll just rest here for a while.
Oh. My. God. With each rhythmic twinge of pain, I think my head is going to split open to reveal my brain, shriveled like a raisin. What on earth possessed me to drink an entire bottle of wine last night? The bright sunlight streaming into my bedroom highlights the mess of last night: the sticky spread of spilled wine on the desk, the pillow and blanket that form a makeshift bed on the floor, my laptop, still on, hurtling psychedelic shapes on its screen…
Oh, no. No, no, no! Memories are flooding back—writing the review, sending it to Ed…Quickly, I open up the document and read it one more time, my heart sinking with each sentence. “With food this terrible, who needs to diet? Empress Impressions is better than any fat farm.” I bury my head in my hands. What on earth was I thinking? There is no way I can publish this bitter, mean-spirited rant. Well, no matter. I have the entire day to rewrite it. My head throbs and my tongue feels oddly prickly, like it’s seeping pure alcohol, but I resolutely sit down at my desk.
Ack! My cell phone’s ring makes my heart race like I’ve been shocked. I peer at the display and reluctantly answer the call. “Hi, Ed!” I say with false cheer.
“Isabelle!” he booms as I wince. “I just read your review of Empress Impressions—”
“Uh, yeah. I was going to call you about that…Don’t worry. I’m definitely going to spend today revising it.”
“I think it’s bloody great! Fucking fantastic! I didn’t know you had it in you!”
“Don’t you think it’s a little…um…” I search my desiccated brain for a suitable adjective. “…mean?” I finally say weakly.
“Are you kidding? It’s fucking hilarious! I’ve already told production to lay it out.”
“No!” I exclaim. “Don’t do that! I might…take another stab at it. Maybe soften it a little bit.”
“Don’t be such a pussy, Isabelle. It’s running. As is.” And he hangs up before I can say another word.
In the bathroom, I shake out two Tylenol and gulp them down with a sip of water. There’s no way I’ll be able to change Ed’s mind—he protects his decisions like a dog with a bone. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. Based on the previous response to my restaurant reviews—none—I’m pretty certain that no one reads my column anyway. I’ll enjoy my Sunday, nurse my hangover with a greasy egg McMuffin, take a long nap, maybe phone Jeff in Shanghai to see how his junket is going…
Except, there’s a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that just won’t go away.
At work, but the idea of working, of actually concentrating enough to put words onto the screen, is about as appealing as the stewed camel’s paw at Empress Impressions. The afternoon stretches in front of me, vast as the Gobi Desert. I desultorily click the Refresh button on my e-mail and watch it reload. Zero unread messages. Refresh. Zero unread messages. Refresh. One unread message. Ooh!
To: Editorial Department, Beijing NOW
From: Gourmet in China
Subject: Who is Isabelle Lee?
Dear Editor,
I was shocked by Isabelle Lee’s cruel review of Empress Impressions in this month’s magazine. Who is Isabelle Lee? Does she have some sort of culinary degree? How is she different from a typical customer like me or say, my neighbor Mr. Wang?
I think the food at Empress Impressions is a wonderful representation of Chinese gastronomy. Isabelle Lee clearly has no taste.
Sincerely,
Gourmet in China
A flash of happiness—someone reads my column!—is instantly replaced by panic. They’re going to unmask me as a fraud. Everyone is going to know that I’ve never spent time in a professional kitchen, never trained under an established restaurant critic, never set foot in the Cordon Bleu. My credibility? Zero.
I crane my head and peer into Ed’s office where he is typing away at his keyboard, his lips bared in a strange approximation of a smile. I start to relax. Maybe he hasn’t seen it yet. Maybe he’ll get so busy that he won’t ever see it. Suddenly, he roars: “Who is Isabelle Lee?”
Oh, dear God.
“Did you see this fucking e-mail?” he demands, covering the short distance from his office in a bound.
I take a deep breath and measure my words. “Ed, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have written such a harsh review and—”
“Sorry? It’s bloody brilliant! Fantastic!” He sees my confused face and chortles with laughter. “Aren’t you happy? Most writers live for controversy like this!”
“But he’s asking for my culinary qualifications! I don’t have any qualifications!”
“Do you like to eat?” Ed demands. “Do you have opinions?”
“Well…yeah.”
“Food is our common ground, a universal experience. You know who said that? J
ames Beard.”
I gape at him.
Ed snorts. “You think I don’t know James Beard? Please. A little credit. We’ll run this letter at the top of the section,” he says decisively. “Let me know if you want to write a rebuttal.”
“I can’t believe this is happening to me!” I moan.
“Toughen up, Isabelle,” snaps Ed. “If you want to see your byline run, you have to deal with the nut jobs.”
“But—”
“You know what I saw on my way to work this morning?” He thrusts his chin in my face. “A family of migrant workers asleep on the sidewalk. The kids were so thin a gust of wind could have blown them away. So let’s keep this in perspective, shall we?”
I shut my mouth.
“Besides, this is fan-fucking-tastic publicity for us!” Ed rubs his hands together with glee and strides back into his office.
Except, it doesn’t stop with one e-mail. A week later, the Beijing NOW online forum rages with the topic.
Subject: Who is Isabelle Lee?
Number of posts: 103
From: Pengyou
I’m curious about her background. Is she from Beijing? Is she Chinese, foreign or what?
From: Splitpea
With a name like Lee she must be Chinese. No wonder she has no idea about Western standards of cuisine.
From: Joy
Don’t you have to train as a professional chef to be a restaurant critic?
From: Manager, Empress Impressions
I challenge Miss Lee to test her palate against mine. We will taste the same dishes together and offer our opinions. Only in this manner will she learn the difference between good and bad food.
