Kitchen Chinese

by Ann Mah

  From: Blanc de Chine

  I heard she’s the granddaughter of Mao’s English teacher.

  She must have major guanxi.

  From: Huangdi

  A friend of mine knows her and says she’s gained at least 10 kilos since starting the job!

  The list scrolls down, covering five pages. I try to ignore them, but reading the posts is like finally hearing what the mean girls were saying behind your back in seventh grade. By the time Friday evening rolls around, checking the forum has become such an obsession that I’m late to meet Jeff for our long-awaited date.

  “Where are we going?” I ask him, trying to stifle thoughts of the last post I’d read, something from a poster called Empress Orchid, who claimed I’d spent the last year working as a sous chef at Per Se.

  “It’s a surprise,” he says with a smile as his driver pulls up to the neon-bright banks of Lotus Lane.

  “Houhai,” I say when I climb out of the car.

  He slips a possessive arm around my shoulders. “I thought strolling around the lakes would be romantic.”

  Jeff looks dapper in his dark jeans and white shirt, though I want to seize his shirtfront and fasten all but the top two buttons. A soft breeze blows across our faces as we walk through the narrow hutongs that surround the artificial lakes (man-made in the thirteenth century), our hands casually brushing until Jeff entwines his fingers with mine.

  “Look at us, out for an evening stroll around the lakes. All we need is a little Pekinese to be really Chinese,” I joke.

  “What do you mean?” He looks at me quizzically. “We are real Chinese.”

  We turn a corner and a rough metal door appears, with a discreet sign that reads: bed.

  “Um, is this some sort of message?” I ask with a nervous laugh.

  “Don’t be silly, baby.” Jeff opens the door and urges me in with a gentle nudge. “It’s just the name of the bar.”

  Bed is filled with beds. Not run-of-the-mill princess-in-the-pea mattresses, but traditional Chinese kang, or wide platforms, piled high with satin cushions and draped with sheer curtains. Dim lighting and the heady smell of incense create a sensuous atmosphere, like a 1930s Shanghai salon—or an opium den. Peeking through the open door, I see a series of rooms and courtyards unfurling like a fan. Jeff leads me to a dark corner that holds an ornate red lacquer kang, and we curl up on the platform, our backs reclining against the soft pillows, the billowing curtains creating our own private nest.

  “Champagne?” Jeff murmurs, and before I can answer, a waitress appears before us cradling a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

  “Lovely,” I nod, because who doesn’t like champagne? Even though this date is starting to feel a bit studied, a little like Jeff has…done this before.

  Two fizzy glasses later it doesn’t seem to matter quite so much. Jeff sits next to me, close enough to stroke my hand or tuck loose strands of hair behind my ear, which he does often. His attention is so focused, however, that I find myself wondering if he’s really interested in the hot pot that I ate for lunch or if he’s just faking it.

  “Have you heard about the ruckus I’ve raised at work?” I try to fill the silence. “Ruckus. You know, like a controversy. An uproar,” I say, in answer to the glimmer of confusion that crosses his face.

  “I know what it means.” He glances at me with mild irritation. “What happened?” He leans forward and refills our glasses, emptying the last drops into his crystal flute.

  I launch into the story, and it almost feels like a relief to tell him, like I’m confessing my professional sins. When I get to the part about the online forum, he throws back his head and roars with laughter, his face flushed with amusement.

  “Don’t laugh.” I poke him in the side. “They’re discussing where I went to college, if I can speak Chinese, whether I’m fat or thin, the Michelin-starred restaurants I’ve supposedly trained at, whether or not I can use chopsticks…”

  “You want my advice? Ignore them. They’ll find the next big thing and move on.”

  “That’s what everyone says, but—”

  “Shhh. Trust me.” He lays a finger on my mouth. “From one celebrity to another.”

  “I’m not a celebrity!” A giggle escapes my lips, but looking into his face, I see he’s serious.

  “You’re with me, aren’t you?” Suddenly, he’s so close I can feel his lips brush my forehead. What am I doing? Everything about Jeff screams playboy, down to his very fingernails, which are buffed to a professional gleam. But as I close my eyes, I feel the champagne weakening my defenses. Despite myself, my head tilts back. His mouth is as soft as I remember, and a shiver runs down my spine as he trails a slow finger down my neck, dipping it dangerously beneath my collar.

  “Isabelle,” he murmurs. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I open my mouth to protest, and he kisses me again, so deeply that my knees tremble. Who cares if Jeff is unreliable and dangerous? Geraldine and Julia are right, I do need a little fling. Jeff leans in to kiss my neck and the last of my resistance melts. He pulls me to the door, and I follow.

  On the street, he unsteadily jerks his hand up to hail a cab and loses his balance, falling off the curb. “Ow! My foot!” he cries.

  “Are you okay? What happened?” I ask, glancing at his face, which seems unnaturally flushed.

  “I’m fine! Fine!” he exclaims, a little too loudly.

  Could he be tipsy after only two glasses of champagne? That seems impossible. Shrugging my shoulders, I climb into the backseat of the cab. Jeff tumbles in after me, rolling the window down and leaning his head against the backseat. “Li Jia.” He turns bright eyes upon me. “Come sit a liddle closher…uh, closer.”

  Good God, he is smashed! He lurches toward me and throws an affectionate arm around my shoulders, his head lolling against me for the rest of the cab ride. My apartment is empty, thankfully, as I’m not sure how I could explain my late night visitor to Claire. In my bedroom, I close the door behind us. The journey across town seems to have revived Jeff, and he shimmies up to me with a lopsided smile. In a flash we are kissing again and I feel myself melting against him. Slowly, he unbuttons my shirt, pausing to stroke my skin.

  “You’re so beautiful, baby,” he murmurs, simultaneously sliding the shirt off my shoulders and easing me onto the bed. His hands move up to my bra, but as he touches the clasp, my doubts rear up again. Does it matter that he’s not boyfriend material? And, if I sleep with him, will Tina Chang kill me?

  “Wait,” I whisper, but he’s kissing me and it comes out more like, “Eh.” I pull away from him. “Wait.” He gives me a questioning look. “Hi, I, um, I’m just going to the bathroom to freshen up for a minute.”

  “You seem fresh to me, baby,” he murmurs. But he untangles his fingers from my hair and doesn’t protest when I pull my shirt back on.

  In the bathroom, I wipe away a mascara smudge and run cold water in the sink. The cold, fluorescent light turns my skin sallow, and suddenly my jitters seem neurotic. I’m a modern woman. I’m allowed to have confidence-boosting sex. No strings attached. Although, Jeff is awfully cute. And the weekends would be less lonely with a boyfriend. And I wonder what it would be like to date a pop star…No, no no! I wrestle with my expectations, finally pinning them down. Okay, just sex, that’s it.

  I slip my shirt halfway off my shoulders and glide back into my room. “Sorry about that—” I murmur, but the words freeze on my lips. Jeff is on his back, arms outstretched, mouth slightly open, deeply asleep. I gently nudge his shoulder, but he simply turns to his side and emits a soft snore.

  Great. While I dithered in the bathroom, he passed out. I stare at the even rise and fall of his chest. What the hell do I do now?

  Buttoning up my shirt, I lie down next to him, flipping from my back, to my side, to my back again. I try to sleep, but thoughts keep thundering through my mind, like eighteen-wheeler trucks on a highway. How could Jeff just pass out? Does he find me that boring? Or unattractive? Or could he rea
lly be that much of a lightweight?

  I toss and turn, but my jeans are digging uncomfortably into my stomach and, anyway, it seems kind of weird to go to sleep fully clothed in my own bed.

  Maybe I should change. But I don’t want Jeff getting the wrong message from my sleepwear, an extra-large NYU T-shirt that’s not quite long enough to cover my butt.

  Except, I’m really uncomfortable.

  Oh, for God’s sake.

  What I really need is a pair of cotton pajamas, crisp and modest, the sort of thing Doris Day would have worn. Except, I don’t own any pajamas. But I know who does.

  I slide off the bed and tiptoe out my door, down the hallway to Claire’s room. A flick of the switch and the room is flooded with gentle light. I kneel at the drawers in her walk-in closet. Let’s see, socks and tights in the first drawer, T-shirts in the second. Enough yoga pants to outfit an entire studio in the third. Finally, at the bottom, a whole drawer of cotton pajamas, organized by color. I dig to the bottom to unearth a pair in pale blue and quickly change into them, fastening the buttons up to the top.

  Tiptoeing out of Claire’s room, I can’t help but linger in the cool, white space. Unlike the rest of our apartment, which is outfitted in bland, birch wood furniture that’s included in the lease, Claire’s bedroom bears her personal touch. Dove gray curtains shield the windows, tumbling to the floor in a pool of shimmering raw silk. The rest of the room is in shades of white, from the thick, textured carpet underfoot, to the cloudlike duvet on the bed, to the cream-colored chaise longue by the window. The room is a pale, calming retreat from the hustle of Beijing.

  On the mirrored Art Deco dresser stands a small flock of photographs in silver frames, and I pause to examine them. There is Claire in a Chinese water village, standing near a canal lined with weeping willows and lines of fluttering laundry. Our father’s black and white high school graduation photo, his mortarboard dipping down onto his pale forehead, the shape of his eyes startlingly similar to my own. There are others—Claire and her expat girlfriends clinking slender flutes of champagne, Claire on a white sand beach, Claire in a kelly green dress with a bevy of identically attired bridesmaids, surrounding the beaming bride, who I recognize as Claire’s roommate from law school.

  Standing at the back of the photo frames is a bright snapshot, a picture of our family taken at Epcot Center, outside the China pavilion. Mom and Dad have their arms around each other, clutched together like they are survivors at sea, which, considering they’re at Disney World, makes sense. I’m eight years old, grinning broadly at the camera, my mouth and teeth stained red with cherry Popsicle. The picture neatly fills the frame, but as I peer closely at it, I realize that’s because Claire has trimmed the photo, cropping herself out of it.

  Why would she snip herself out of the photo? I think back to that vacation. If I was eight, then Claire was fourteen and in that awkward tween-teen period with braces, glasses…you name the nerd accessory and she had it. It was the summer between Claire’s freshman and sophomore years of high school, and I remember my mother nagging her about signing up for Science Club instead of writing for the school literary magazine. I stare at the photo, which is perfectly surrounded by an elaborate silver latticework frame. Did she remove herself because of unhappy memories? Or only because the photo fits so flawlessly within the frame without her?

  I hear a rustle from my bedroom and hurriedly replace the photo, switching off the lights as I leave. But in my room I find only Jeff, curled on his side. Throwing a blanket over him, I examine his face, but nothing—not even an eyelash—twitches. I try not to sigh as I crawl under the duvet, listening to his snores, before finally falling asleep.

  The next morning, I awake early and lie in bed watching a thin line of sunlight stream in through the gap in the curtains. Jeff sleeps beside me, the even rise and fall of his chest testimony to his calm. Unlike me. My thoughts feel scrambled, beaten like egg whites into an inconsequential fluff. Memories of last night creep back. Oh no, we didn’t…I glance down. No, still fully clothed in my pajamas, thank God. Okay, we were kissing and then…oh yeah, he fell asleep!

  I tiptoe into the kitchen and start spooning coffee grounds into the percolator. Claire must have spent the night at Wang Wei’s penthouse, thank goodness. We’ve never discussed her overnight guest policy and I’d prefer not to start now, not with Jeff here. The coffee drains nosily into the pot and I pour two mugs and stare at them. How does Jeff drink his coffee? Does he even drink coffee? I reach for the sugar bowl but stop when I hear a musical blast coming from the living room. In the foyer, I find Jeff’s cell phone, blaring Christina Aguilera. It must have fallen out of his coat pocket last night. I reach for the throbbing, flashing phone, and as I attempt to switch it to silent, the display catches my eye. The caller ID reads tina, and the accompanying photo is of a leggy, Asian woman, stark nude. Jesus! Is that Tina Chang? The face is blurry, but those perky breasts seem familiar. I hear a sound from the bedroom, hastily tuck the phone into Jeff’s coat and dart back to the kitchen.

  In my bedroom, I place a mug on the bedside table and pat Jeff on the shoulder. “Good morning!” I say cheerily. I’m suddenly anxious to get him dressed and out the door before Claire gets home.

  “Coffee? No thanks…Sleep. More sleep.” He rolls over and pulls the duvet over his head.

  I whisk the curtains open and sit next to him. “Are you hungry? I could make us some breakfast.”

  “Owwww, too much light,” he groans. “What time is it?”

  “Almost ten,” I say, pulling the covers off his head.

  He opens one eye. “Nice pajamas.” His hand darts out and fingers my lapel. “What do you have on underneath—”

  Quick as a flash, I move off the bed. “Uh, do you want to take a shower? I put out some clean towels.”

  “Only if you’re coming in with me.” He grins at me.

  “Er, maybe next time…I, um—I’m going to the gym soon. Do you have any plans this morning?” I ask pointedly, hoping he’ll get the message.

  “I’m meeting up with my manager…I should probably get going.” He rolls over lazily. “Unless you want me to stick around…”

  “No!” I exclaim. “I mean, no thanks. My sister’s probably going to be home any minute…” I allow my voice to trail away.

  “Ah. Gotcha.” He starts pulling on his clothes, groping for his socks, yanking his half-buttoned shirt over his head. Suddenly, he stands and throws his arms around my waist. “I had a fantastic time last night,” he murmurs huskily.

  Pressed against his chest, I feel my knees start to weaken. “So fantastic that you fell asleep!” I tease, but my voice is unexpectedly shaky. “I can’t believe you were that tipsy after only two glasses of champagne!”

  He flushes. “I hadn’t eaten all day…Must have been the empty stomach.” He kisses my lips softly, oh-so-softly. “You know I think you’re special, Li Jia. Most Chinese girls are so formal and stiff, it’s boring. But you—you’re different. You’re so open and relaxed…”

  “I’m not Chinese,” I point out, but it’s hard to keep up the witty banter with his grassy, clean scent filling my consciousness.

  “That’s what I’m trying to say, baby. You American girls are so liberal.” He plants a kiss on my mouth, which is slightly open with astonishment. “Mmmm…It’s…” Kiss. “…very…” Kiss. “…sexy.” Kiss. He pulls me with him toward the front door. “Thanks for going to bed with me.” He cocks an eyebrow.

  “Well, considering how you fell asleep, I hardly think—Oh! You mean the bar.”

  He grins. “I gotta run, babe. I’ll call you later, okay?” The door clicks sharply behind him, and I lean against the wall, torn between desire and something that feels a lot like relief.

  PART II

  The South

  Taiwan

  “A huge change occurred in 1949, when the Chinese government forces, defeated by communists on the mainland, retreated to Taiwan. This brought in hundreds of thousands of i
ncomers, including at least some from all the various regions of mainland China, bringing with them their own cuisine…The various cuisines of China thus dominate the culinary scene.”

  —THE OXFORD COMPANION TO FOOD

  The rest of the weekend drifts by in a confused blur. I can’t stop thinking about Jeff, but my thoughts are edgy, not dreamy.

  I keep replaying our date over and over in my mind. Curling up against Jeff’s hard shoulder at Bed. Lovely. The sparkling glasses of champagne. Delicious. The tingle I felt when his lips brushed my neck. Yum. But then it all comes screeching to a cringeworthy halt. Why did he fall asleep? Why does he have a photo of Tina’s naked body in his cell phone? Obviously, not sleeping with him was the correct decision, right? I mean, how could getting involved with Jeff lead anywhere but down a path of heartbreak, sorrow, and too much Cracker Barrel cheddar (which I can’t even find in China, anyway)?

  Now it’s Sunday night. Jeff hasn’t called. I know I shouldn’t care. In fact, I don’t care. But…those worries are starting to creep through my brain again—the fears that I’m going to spend my life alone, taking in stray cats and practicing traditional Chinese medicine. Jeff and I didn’t make any plans to see each other again, but I thought he might fancy me. But then again, what was that he said about American girls being open and carefree and…liberal?

  “What was he implying? That American girls are easy?” My voice rises above the tinkle of new age chimes. Geraldine and I are at the Taipan Spa getting foot massages, yet despite the dim lighting and lingering scent of lavender, I feel far from calm.

  “A lot of Chinese people do seem to think Americans are sluts,” Geraldine says thoughtfully.

  “Great. Nothing even happened and now I’m a floozy,” I huff. “Who is Isabelle Lee? Oh, she’s American so she must be loose.” I squirm as the masseuse presses down on a ticklish spot in my arch.