by Cleo Coyle
“Maybe if you speak Cantonese,” Dante said. “It’s a family-owned kitchen in Chinatown. That means the family doesn’t hail from Kansas, you follow?”
“Too bad they aren’t from Kansas,” Esther said. “We could call Nancy down to translate.”
“Look, you two, we’re New Yorkers, in the food-service industry, the language barrier is an obstacle we live to overcome.”
“Okay, I’ll do it,” Esther said. “On one condition. I want one of those knockoff Coach bags we saw around the corner—and a Buddhist ceremony. It’s my dream wedding, and I am the bride.”
Dante stroked his chin. “I don’t know. Mom would be heartbroken if I didn’t have a Catholic wedding.”
“Do we need to rehearse?” I asked, a little worried.
Dante and Esther exchanged glances then shrugged.
“I’m good,” Dante said.
“Me too,” Esther affirmed before slipping me a crafty little smile. “After you, Mother Dear…”
SEVENTEEN
“OKAY, here we go…”
With a deep breath, I led Esther and Dante through the unmarked archway and up the steep staircase. As we climbed, the clang of metal pots and trays grew louder, then the buttery, nutty smell of baking pastry hit us, and I knew Dante’s intelligence had been spot-on.
At the top of the landing, I expected to find a locked door with a buzzer to ring, but the long, narrow L-shaped kitchen sprawled right up to the staircase with commercial-sized stainless steel refrigerators and a sink deep enough to float a tugboat.
I heard voices speaking in Cantonese. The sound came from around the corner, and I assumed the mixers, pantry, and ovens were located there. I also reasoned, given the open nature of the space, that this kitchen ran 24/7.
Sweet scents wafted over us, and I recognized the source. Dozens of Chinese almond cookies were cooling on a stainless steel table. These weren’t your average egg-washed hockey pucks brought to your table after a quickie restaurant meal. These weren’t even the more delicate almond rounds that were essentially an Asian cousin to the French sable or Scottish shortbread. These almond cookies were über crispy, baked so amazingly thin they were practically caramelized into nut brittle.
Beside those fragrant treats, I recognized a tray of bite-sized walnut cookies (Hup Toh Sow in Cantonese). Baked beautifully golden, they looked as crunchy as biscotti, like little nuts themselves, which was likely how they got their name since traditional Chinese walnut cookies didn’t actually contain walnuts. I sniffed the air, curious whether this bakery actually went the old-school route or added the advertised ingredient. (After all, a walnut cookie without walnuts, though traditional, would be difficult to explain to many Western-thinking customers.)
Continuing to check out the baked goods, I swooned at the site of warm, fresh coconut tarts. They looked like fancy macaroons, all dressed up in their formal pastry shells for a night on the town (or in my mouth, thank you very much) with a bright red cherry literally on top.
Finally, I felt a rush of relief when I spied a pair of baker’s carts next to the wall. Each rack was stacked with trays of colorfully frosted cupcakes that looked a lot like Kaylie’s product line, all ready for loading onto her giant truck—or that elusive white service van.
Not far from those racks sat a gangly teen in a denim skirt and a purple tee embroidered with a glittery pink kitten. Nose buried in a textbook, she wiggled a pencil between two pink-tipped fingers. A fall of dark hair obscured her face, so she hadn’t noticed our arrival.
I moved forward. “Excuse me…”
The teen looked up, blinking at us from behind knockoff Vera Wang glasses. When she spied Dante Silva, her jaw quite literally dropped.
“Hello, ma’am. May I help you?” The girl was addressing me, but her gaze stayed glued to my artista barista.
Dante took it in stride, tossing her a friendly little wink. She blinked, thunderstruck, and dropped her pencil.
“The coed magnet strikes again,” Esther cracked before I gently elbowed her into silence.
Our boy’s appeal could work to our advantage here. It certainly did at our coffeehouse. On a daily basis, Dante served a smile, a wink, and a warm cuppa welcome to the female student bodies of NYU.
So, okay, the boyfriend experience lasted only as long as the espresso pull, but that was an Italian barista, a guy who served you like a boyfriend, even if he wasn’t—about as traditional in my culture as serving up Chinese walnut cookies without the walnuts.
Clearing my throat, I stepped closer to the girl. “Yes, you can help me. My daughter and her groom are planning their wedding, and they want to serve egg custard tarts.”
The girl nodded excitedly. “Oh, sure! Let me get my—”
“You want custard? You came to right place!” The plus-sized woman in a white chef’s jacket barreled around the corner. Her sleeves were rolled up, her meaty, flour-speckled arms outspread in greeting, her jovial smile expansive.
“Mrs. Ping make the best. Ask anyone in Chinatown. And custard very lucky for wedding. Very, very fortunate.”
“Are you Mrs. Ping?” I asked.
“I am Mrs. Li,” she clarified. “Mrs. Ping was my yeh-yeh… grandmother. I am the youngest woman of her most distinguished line of bakers.”
The teen cleared her throat, loudly.
Her grandmother folded her arms. “Yes. The youngest woman who is not a lazy student who refuses to study.”
The teen rolled her eyes, but Mrs. Li was not moved.
“Go now. Bring custard for our guests. Then you get back to homework.”
The teenager retrieved her fallen pencil, gathered up her work, and scurried around the corner. Mrs. Li turned back to us.
“Where were we?”
I smiled. “You were telling us about Mrs. Ping?”
“Yes, Mrs. Ping was very young when she worked at Jimmy’s Kitchen.”
“Jimmy’s Kitchen in Hong Kong?” I asked, impressed.
Jimmy’s was one of the first restaurants to bring Western cuisine to what was then a British colony. Why did I know this? Two words—Matteo Allegro.
Well over a decade ago, he’d called me from a Hong Kong hotel room. After three hard weeks trekking Indonesia for the best cherries in Sumatra, he was craving Western food. On a layover in HK, an old friend treated him to dinner at Jimmy’s.
There was escargot to start, soft and succulent, with a perfect balance of garlic and parsley. Then came the tenderloin with goose liver, a fusion of beef and fried foie gras that was crunchy on the outside and buttery on the inside. For dessert, steamed ginger pudding with hot custard sauce. As I recall, our entire conversation consisted of the flavors, textures, and aromas of that meal. It bordered on phone sex. (I thought it best not to mention that part.)
“You must be proud to have such a grandmother,” I said, keeping it simple—while wondering if I could get that custard sauce recipe.
Mrs. Li nodded once more. “Yes, Mrs. Ping’s cakes, pies, and custard were the very best. One day Mr. Ping tasted her custard and he liked it very much. They married and came to America, where they had big family.” She nodded sagely, adding, “So you see, egg custard truly is lucky for weddings. Very, very fortunate.”
The teenage girl returned, carrying a tray with six tarts, each nestled on a bed of waxed paper, along with three foam cups containing slightly sweetened oolong tea. She placed the tray on the folding table and departed with a final, longing gaze at Dante.
Mrs. Li put her hands together and smiled. “Please taste.”
When it came to eating, you never had to ask Dante twice. His first bite consisted of half the tart, which he devoured with unabashed yummy sounds.
Esther, proud of her pickiness, bit tentatively into hers, and a moment of rare silence followed as our typically talkative wordsmith slipped into a food trance.
I picked up the pastry and quietly considered it. Still warm, just as tarts are traditionally served in Hong Kong, the custard was sunny y
ellow and unblemished; there was no dark caramelization on the top (like the very similar yet different Portuguese version).
My first bite revealed a buttery crust—tender, crisp, and flaky. With only a hint of sweetness, the pastry complemented rather than upstaged the silky eggy-ness of the custard. Like a classic Hong Kong egg custard tart, I detected no nutmeg or other spices, nothing to take away from the purity of the experience. Before I realized it, I’d consumed the entire thing.
“Wonderful,” I declared. “The crust is flaky without being dry. The custard is creamy—velvety smooth as mousse—yet baked enough to hold its shape. So humble yet so elegant! I’m very impressed!”
Mrs. Li’s smile broadened even more, if that was possible.
“Mother is right,” Esther said. “And since I’m planning a traditional Buddhist ceremony, I think these would look spectacular on my dowry tray.”
Dante, who was already on his third tart, nearly gagged. “Dowry tray? Who said anything about a dowry?”
Esther faced the grinning baker. “You do know about dowry trays, don’t you, Mrs. Li?”
“Of course!” she replied. “A lovely tradition. The groom presents you with two candles. Each of you will light one during the ritual as a symbol of the union between your two families.”
“That sounds easy,” Dante said.
“The groom must also provide trays with incense to burn, and more trays containing wine and rare tea,” Mrs. Li began counting with her pudgy fingers. “And to eat there are trays bearing fruits, meats, grain or rice, and sweet cakes, too. And finally there is a tray of fine jewelry.”
“Sadly, I have to keep costs low, so I’m only going to have six dowry trays.” Esther hiked her thumb in Dante’s direction. “Let’s face it, there’s no shaking jewelry out of this loser.”
Dante frowned. “Hey, I’m no loser. If you want, we can have seven trays, or even eight.”
Mrs. Li suddenly paled, as if those gasping catfish at the seafood monger fell into a fresh vat of her sweetest moon cake filling.
Esther exploded. “Zip it, Baldini! Do you want to curse our union before it even starts? In Buddhist tradition it’s either six trays, or nine trays. Seven and eight are unlucky.”
Mrs. Li’s expression turned grave. “You must respect tradition, Baldini. Seven is bad. Very bad.”
Okay, I thought, we’ve really sold this nice lady on the bride and groom act. Time to steer the conversation in the direction of a certain Kupcake Kween.
“I see you bake cupcakes, too,” I said, gesturing to the fully loaded bakery carts. “Those goodies look delicious. Are they spoken for?”
“No, no, not my work,” Mrs. Li explained. “They are baked by another; she is not from our family. She pays to share our kitchen. Something my grandson arranged.”
“Your grandson? Is he a friend of hers then? Or more of a boyfriend?” I lowered my voice, giving Mrs. Li a look that said, you can confide in me, mother to grandmother. Let’s dish!
“They met last year,” Mrs. Li replied, taking the bait. “Jeffrey owns a restaurant truck called the Dragon Fire. Very good food. The Kaylie girl owns one that sells sweets. Now they are sweet on each other!” She laughed with gusto. “And now she shares our kitchen. Maybe they will get married like you two young ones, maybe not. We will see!”
“What a romantic story,” I replied. “So romantic that I really do think we should add cupcakes to the menu. Is this girl coming here today? Was that her van we saw out front? You know, I’m pretty sure I noticed a police officer giving that van a parking ticket? Did you see it, Esther?”
“Oh, yes! Tickets are a pain in the bumper, aren’t they?”
“Maybe we should call her driver,” I suggested.
“No, no! Not her van!” Mrs. Li interrupted, waving her arm. “Her van is broken, in the shop. The girl cursed about it this morning…”
I glanced at Esther and Dante. They looked as stunned as I felt. The van was in the shop? That was too much of a coincidence! Did Kaylie actually think she could get the thing repaired and repainted? Remove all evidence of the hit-and-run? Well, it wouldn’t work. We were on to her!
“You buy cupcakes, she will deliver, no problem,” Mrs. Li continued to assure me. “I have another grandson. He is my youngest. He works for Jeffrey and also for the girl. Billy always makes deliveries on time— Ah! Here he is now! He will tell you…”
“Yeh-yeh! What is going on here?! Why are you talking to these people?”
The furious voice came from behind us, startling Mrs. Li and cutting off my next query. I turned to find my nightmare had come true. I stood face-to-face with Mrs. Li’s youngest grandson—and he was one angry dragon.
EIGHTEEN
CLAD in black, Billy Li sneered at me and my baristas. His muscles rippled under tight Speedos. The only bit of color on him, from his ebony topknot to the dark Nikes on his feet, was a bloodred splash of lettering across his formfitting tank—a logo for his cousin’s Dragon Fire truck.
This was the boy with the dragon tattoo, the one I’d seen last night on Kaylie’s Kupcake Kart, the one who’d heard me threaten police action.
Sure, dozens of witnesses had seen Billy and Kaylie drive away from our coffeehouse. But had they really gone? Or had Billy slipped out of that food truck, circled the block, and gotten behind the wheel of the white cargo van parked at our corner? Had Mrs. Li’s Dragon Boy run down Lilly Beth Tanga?
In this High Noon moment, I should have been yelling in fury. Instead, Billy was the one shaking his angry fist, his expression as twisted as the creature snaking around his sinewy arm.
“Why are you here?!” he shouted. “To spy? To sabotage our business?” Suddenly, the kid rushed me.
“No, no!” I heard Mrs. Li cry.
Dante leaped between us, shoving me out of the way. Then he straight-armed Billy, pressing the flat of his strong artist’s hand against the boy’s narrow chest. “Back off,” he warned.
A martial arts sweep knocked Dante’s hand aside and Billy punched forward, aiming to connect with Dante’s chin. Esther yelled out as Dante reared back, and Billy missed his target.
Cursing, the boy raised his fists to strike again.
Now Esther jumped in, pummeling his Dragon Fire logo. “Leave my fiancé alone!”
Billy froze, clearly distracted by Esther’s bouncing bustier. She wasn’t doing much damage—but she was confusing the heck out of our opponent, giving Mrs. Li enough time to sweep in.
Employing a martial arts technique known only to elderly Chinese yeh-yehs, she gripped her grandson’s earlobe between two fingers and tugged hard. Dragon Boy yelped like a startled puppy, and the fire went out of him.
Using her prodigious weight advantage, Mrs. Li hauled her helpless grandson to the other side of the kitchen.
Esther and I took the opportunity to beat a hasty exit—no easy task, since we were forced to push a protesting Dante down the stairs in front of us. Sputtering and cursing the three of us blew through the green archway and onto the sidewalk.
“Why did you pull me off?” Dante cried. “That’s the bastard who ran over Lilly Beth! He deserves a beat down!”
“It’s not our job to beat anyone down,” I said. “We’re not above the law. We tell the police what we found out here. Got that?”
“But he must—”
“We tell the police,” I repeated, trying to cut through Dante’s adrenaline-fueled fury. “Listen to me: There’s a difference between working to see justice done and exacting your own.”
“Yeah, Baldini, calm down,” Esther said then yanked his arm. “I’ll help. Come with me…” She pulled him across the street, through a curtain of hanging plastic weather strips, and into his favorite hole-in-the-wall dumpling shop. “Eat some pork buns.”
“That kid was ready to tear our boss apart!” Dante cried, pointing back across the street. “How is eating pork buns going to help?!”
“Eating pork buns always helps.”
“Lowe
r your voices,” I scolded.
The little dumpling shop was packed with customers. Okay, so most of them were speaking Cantonese, stuffing their faces, and ignoring us, but the last thing we needed here was a scene. Still, I wanted Dante to know—
“I did appreciate your help. Thank you for jumping in.”
Esther pouted. “And what am I, re-steamed milk?”
“Thank you, too, Esther. You were very brave, the way you busted in.”
