Double Cup Love

by Eddie Huang

  Intuitively Mei Mei picked up on what was going on.

  “Get the fried sticky rice dessert with black sugar syrup! It is famous here.”

  “Yes, yes, we does that, too.”

  Then Fish jumped in.

  “We should order fish, too!”

  “Why do we order fish?” asked Rabbi.

  “Because I am here! Right?” Fish said, looking around to see if anyone understood his joke.

  “Oh my God, DYING,” said Dena, laughing.

  “Ha ha, you a goon, Fish,” I said.

  “We are not ordering fish at hot pot!” said Rabbi.

  Fish slumped for a second and played sad. He knew what time it was.

  We rounded out the order with beef tripe, fatty beef wrapped around enoki mushrooms, pig’s blood, river eel, and wai jui bai jioh.

  “This is Eddie favorite bai jioh, Dena. Have you had this before?” asked Rabbi, holding up a bottle of wai jui bai jioh.

  “No! I haven’t ever had bai jioh.”

  “Really? We have the Moutai at home.”

  “No, it smells so crazy when you open it, so I never tried it.”

  “Well, here we go, gan bei!” said Rabbi.

  Dena picked up her glass with trepidation but under the pressure of cultural exchange, she took it down. It was a thing with us. If I asked her to try something, she’d do it for me, but I wanted to see the culture stand on its own two feet in her eyes.

  “OHHHHHHH, that burns good,” said Dena.

  “Let’s do it again!” said Rabbi.

  “Are you sure?” said Dena.

  “One more, Dena, Rabbi’s hosting,” I said.

  We took down one more.

  “Ahhh, that was good. Ready to eat,” said Rabbi, satisfied. I think he felt the same way. This wasn’t just meeting my girl. For Rabbi and Fish and Mei Mei, this was meeting America. Just like I represented Taiwanese-Chinese culture in America with everything I did, it was Dena’s turn.

  —

  I hear a lot of people talking about Chinese hot pot like it’s Japanese shabu-shabu or Korean barbecue, assuming that it’s all about the quality of meat. Of course, you’re going to have better hot pot with better meat, but there’s really a lot of skill to hot pot. Very few people make a good broth. The problem is that hot pot is pretty fucking good, even if you just boil meat in chicken soup and dip it in sesame paste with garlic and cilantro, so most heads aren’t discerning. For me, good hot pot is all about the broth, and a good broth tastes like Chinese medicine.

  If you’ve taken Chinese medicine soup, you’re familiar with the homies Amomi Fructus Rotundus, the god Fructus Jujubae, Citri Reticulatae Pericarpium, or Glehniae Radix. Hot pot is probably the closest thing in strategy that Chinese cooking has to offer to, say, curry. It’s a concatenation*6 of herbs and spices that create something totally brand new, even if they make no sense when looked at as parts. It’s the dissonance and conflict and difference between the spices that makes great hot pot. Everything fits because it doesn’t.

  “Cot damn, this is good,” said Dena.

  “Yeah, better than the joint by the Fung Wah station, right?”

  “So much better. I can’t explain it. It’s just so much louder and complex. It’s not even the same. Totally different thing.”

  “You can’t even get Sichuan peppercorns that smell this good in America. Their regular peppercorns smell fresh, like green peppercorns in America, and the green ones are just outta here.”

  “Here! Try the duck intestine, Dena. It is Chengdu specialty,” said Rabbi earnestly. He did the same thing with me when we went out for hot pot. He was all about the duck intestine.

  “Take like this, Dena,” he said, holding up one strand in his chopsticks as he dropped them into the broth.

  “And shake, shake the whole time, only like ten seconds, then pull out before overcooked and taste!”

  Dena took her chopsticks, picked up the intestine, shook it in the broth, and waited. After a few seconds, she took it out, blew it cool, and took a bite.

  “That’s incredible. It’s snappy, but not chewy, and it just picks up the flavor of the broth without any funkiness. It’s super clean.”

  “Yes! Yes! This is it, you got it, Dena,” said Rabbi.

  Dena was off to the races. Everything Rabbi offered her, she absorbed. After the first hour, everyone eased up and there was less trepidation on both sides. It became less of a tit-for-tat cultural exchange and we just played. Dena tried everything and then settled on her favorites, Rabbi kept drinking bai jioh, and I smiled. Who needs a home when you have the diaspora?

  Other people are bright; I alone am dark.

  Other people are sharper; I alone am dull.

  Other people have a purpose; I alone don’t know.

  I drift like a wave on the ocean, I blow as aimless as the wind.

  I am different from ordinary people.

  I drink from the Great Mother’s breasts.*7

  The next morning Dena and I woke up together and started packing for our trip to Emei Shan, but something was wrong. Every time I bent over to pick up a pair of socks or squatted to fold clothes into my duffel bag, there was a sharp pain in my back and a rumbling in my stomach.

  “Oh boy, is that you?”

  “Yeah, my stomach is on fire.”

  “Is it from last night?”

  “It has to be. I didn’t really eat anything but hot pot yesterday and there’s a cool hot sensation like I ate a tube of BenGay.”

  “Did you poop already?”

  “Yeah, I had to shower, it was so bad.”

  “When are you going to start wiping sitting down, dude?”

  “I did it after you told me, but I felt like the human little teapot about to fall over. I like standing up.”

  “You’re a psycho.”

  “Leave wiping sitting down to quadrupeds; bipeds should wipe standing up and then shower after.”

  We got all our stuff together and left Hakka Homes.

  Before heading to the bus station, Dena needed to exchange her money, so we went to the bank on the corner. As soon as we walked in, there was a thirtysomething Chinese guy with a shaved head and a messenger bag barking us over.

  “Hey! Hey, buddy! You trying to exchange money?”

  We ignored him, figuring he was a hustler.

  “Hey! Come on, man, I’m asking you a question. Are you exchanging money for this American girl?”

  When we approached the exchange counter, the bank tellers were all giggling.

  “Hi, we need to exchange money.”

  As soon as he heard me say it, he rolled up next to me, calculator in hand, with a duffel bag of cash.

  “Look! Look! I’m telling you, man, if you are exchanging money for this girl I will give you a better rate than the bank! Trust me. I do good business!”

  “Hey, do you know what this guy is talking about?” I asked the teller.

  “Ha ha, he is telling you the truth!” said the teller.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He gives better rates than we can.”

  “Is it real money?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then why do you let him in the bank? Isn’t this hurting your business?”

  The teller covered her mouth and laughed, then gathered herself and answered my question.

  “We don’t ‘let’ him. We try to get him out every day, but he always comes back. He’s just trying to make a living. And he gives better rates. Why should we care?”

  For a second, I felt like I was an agent for The Man, but I had to point something out.

  “Because you work for the bank!”

  “Who cares about the bank! The bank rips people off,” said the teller, laughing.

  “I love this,” said Dena.

  “Do you understand what’s going on?”

  “I mean, I can’t understand what you’re saying but I can see that this dude is trying to exchange my money and those girls are laughing but don’t care.
Does this guy just undercut the bank every day?”

  “Yeah! They said that they try to get him out, but they can’t, so they just let him stay.”

  “That’s fucking awesome,” said Dena.

  We exchanged our money with the dude and booked it to the bus station. I was bracing myself for the worst bus ride of all time, figuring that if Chinatown buses in America were bad, the O.G. actual China buses would be exponentially shittier, but they weren’t. The bus station was crowded and loud and full of people with panda hats taking buses to meet real pandas, but it was just nice enough that Port Authority hung on to its title as the undisputed worst place on Earth.

  On a wall of the bus station, there was a picture map of the Sichuan bus routes with photos and arrows pointing to Emei Shan, the Giant Buddha in Leshan, and the Panda Reservation, among other things, which made it really easy to navigate our way toward Puxian’s mountain.

  About twenty minutes into the ride, I got hungry, since I hadn’t eaten breakfast, so I broke out a Quest Bar that Emery had given me. He figured that if I was having stomach problems, I should stick to things that were easy to break down, like protein bars. I got cookies and cream flavor because once a chef, always a chef, and even protein bars should come in late-’80s, artisanal, suburban mini-mall flavors. I opened the wrapper, took a bite, and within five minutes, it happened.

  “Fuck me.”

  “What?” asked Dena.

  “I think that was a wet one,” I said sheepishly.

  “Oh, boo. Did you just poop your pants?”

  “No. Just a little bit.”

  “I mean, if I was you, I’d say something like ‘Dena…there’s no such thing as pooping your pants a little bit. It’s like sucking a dick. Either there’s a penis in your mouth or there’s poop on your pants, so did you poop your pants?’ But I’m not you, so I’m going to be my nice self and let you think that you pooped your pants just a little bit.”

  “Oh my god, I hate you.”

  “A lot or a little bit?” she said, laughing.

  I was hurting so bad that I had to squeeze my glutes and sit up to force the gas back up into my stomach like some sort of tai chi ass master. I’ve never had to shit so bad in my life, so I looked at the wrapper to try and figure out what just happened. I hadn’t eaten anything all day, so it shouldn’t have been this bad.

  I turned the wrapper of my Quest Bar over and realized that it had eighteen grams of fiber, which normally I would appreciate, but not today. The fiber entering my belly full of hot pot BenGay combined to create a Chinese New Year fireworks extravaganza.

  “Should I ask the bus driver to stop?”

  “NO! We have to get to Emei Shan. I’ll make it to the rest stop.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “POSITIVE. I GOT THIS,” I said with every muscle in my face clenched.

  But I didn’t got this. I didn’t got this at all. When we pulled into the rest area, the bus wasn’t even at a full stop by the time I was halfway down the aisle elbowing anyone who tried to get up and get off the bus before me. I booked it to the bathroom running with my legs together tightening my ass and holding up my pants. Once I got to the bathroom, I just went for the first open stall, bracing myself again for the terrors of municipal Chengdu.

  Despite being totally prepared to sit on a piss-frosted toilet seat, the gods relented and offered me a pristine throne with toilet paper and the delightful smell of mothballs. I was in diarrhea heaven.

  I plopped my ass down and unleashed a string of duck intestine hot pot feces that would have disgusted the creators of The Human Centipede. Angry at myself and without a shower, I thought about what Dena would say and begrudgingly wiped my ass sitting down when I heard a loud honking sound.

  HAAAAAAAANNNNNNHHHHHHH!

  Not sure what it was, I took my time wiping my ass and relaxed for a minute when I heard it again.

  HAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNHHHHHH!

  I looked down at my phone and realized I’d gotten three texts from Dena.

  Hurry up! The bus is leaving you!

  Are you OK? That’s the bus honking!

  They’re leaving! Should I get off?

  Quickly, I threw on my drawers, pulled up my pants, and ran out of the bathroom, back out toward the parking lot where the bus was pulling away and Dena was walking toward the door. I chased the bus a few feet just as it was about to turn back on the highway and finally the bus driver opened the door after Dena frantically waved her arms like an inflatable air dancer.

  “What the heck, man? You made the whole bus wait twenty minutes! What the hell were you doing in there?” said the bus driver.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I ate hot pot last night and have diarrhea,” I said, bowing my head in shame.

  “Half this bus ate hot pot last night, but you’re the only one with diarrhea! Maybe you should stop eating hot pot,” said the bus driver.

  “OK, OK, sorry.”

  We walked back to our seats.

  “I didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t understand me, but I kept waving my arms at him to stop.”

  “Thanks, I just had to rest for a second after taking that shit. I couldn’t move.”

  “It’s cool…just DON’T eat again.”

  Once we got out of Chengdu City, it was the China you’ve seen in every Maoist propaganda poster since the Revolution. Dark-skinned Chinese people with homemade sandals and conical hats tending fields, leading water buffalo and chasing chickens all along the highway. This region is where my father’s family is from, one province over in Hunan.

  Every time I’d been back to China or Taiwan, I saw these scenes and got emotional, thinking that that could have been my life if my grandparents hadn’t fled to Taiwan. I saw people trying to sell boiled peanuts along the side of the road, just like my grandpa would. For overseas Chinese kids going home, riding these roads can feel like watching your ancestors under the big top, like the circus animals that never got free.

  “This is beautiful,” she said.

  “It is. It’s beautiful until it’s you working that paddy.”

  “I know….Why do you have to ruin everything, panda?”

  “I’m not. I’m just being realistic. I don’t want to indulge myself in ruin porn.”

  “It’s not ruined, though. I get it, no one wants to wake up and go work a rice paddy, but it’s still beautiful, what they are doing.”

  “Yeah, but the people that glorify and romanticize this are trying to get these people to keep doing it. It’s cultural coercion.”

  “I just want to pay respect to it and honor it because somebody has to do it.”

  “But that sentiment is to justify our roles. It’s for us to feel pain and derive pleasure from that pain and tell ourselves that somebody has to do this. It’s us ‘remembering,’ but they don’t have to ‘remember’ ’cause they live this like Groundhog Day.”

  “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

  “I think we have to pay them more.”

  She always seemed to ask me the right questions. We’re always told to pay homage to the farmers. Pay homage to the workers. Lay our treasures up to whatever country we’re in, but when are we going to actually pay the farmers and workers?*8

  —

  I enjoyed talking to Dena about these things.

  She was one of the few people I talked to who wouldn’t blink when I mentioned the Matrix—and would then agree that there is actually a global mechanism that perpetuates the dominance of the few over the many.

  She saw the strings at the puppet show, and it was this ability more than anything that made me feel like we were part of something more important than race or country or city. She was always ready to reconsider everything she’d been told, without any fear of having to erase everything she knew. Even before she met me, the world was melting before her eyes.

  Her perception of Scranton, her family, her career, and music all devolved into a puddle of processed Cheez Whiz. For too long Mr. Fusco had
shielded her by draping her in dominant culture. But when he finally set her free, the visions were paralyzing.

  Dena wanted to act, but everything that sounded like a good idea Monday, she’d talk herself out of by Wednesday. Whether it was singing or cooking or designing, she was looking for one action or one work or one profession that could contain her entire purpose, do it, and be done. Eager to give herself to this purpose, it eluded her. Whatever she wanted to do with her life, she was probably already doing. She just had to keep going.

  Thoughts about Dena rushed through my head as the landscape unscrolled around us. I’d never been happier with anyone in my life, and as our lives continued to change, Dena clung tight; she made me her everything. It was surreal that another human voluntarily attached herself to me, but I also needed her to love herself. By proposing, I felt like I could put her fears to rest: I’m committed. I’m here for you, but it’s time for you to be here for yourself.

  I suddenly thought about proposing to her right there on the bus. But I wasn’t about to appropriate a poverty landscape as the backdrop for my own romance. Still: I felt one with her at that moment because she was seeing the motherland.

  I don’t believe in country.

  I don’t believe in race.

  But I do believe in the power of place.

  Our spirits have a connection to place that is undeniable. When I arrive in New York on the red-eye and spill off the Manhattan Bridge in a yellow cab, I get chills. When the door to my parents’ home opens and I smell the scent of my family, it reconnects me. And when I cruise rural southwestern China—the land of my ancestors—it settles me.

  Until Dena came to see this land, too, I felt like I had hidden something from her. I’d seen her family in Scranton; I’d had the Seven Fishes Dinner, Thanksgiving, and Easter. But my roots were something she had to see and love before we would be for real.

  I watched her look out the window soaking in everything about the ride and appreciating it.

  “I gotta learn Chinese,” she said.

  “You ain’t lie.”

  —

  We got to the Leshan bus stop and walked up the mountain to the hot springs. Fish was going to show us around since it was his hometown, but he had to take care of some things first. While we waited, we waded around in hot springs flavored with honeydew, chocolate, passion fruit, and Chinese herbs. There was red water, purple water, and even an exfoliating hot spring where little minnows nibbled at your dead skin. Never doubt China’s ability to make something organic and natural like hot springs super fucking weird.