by Ha Jin
“You make so much and always eat high-protein food. What else do you want?”
I didn’t answer. In my heart I said, I want a job that pays a salary. I want to be like some people who go to their offices every morning for an eight-hour rest. My father kept on: “Cowboy Chicken is so delicious. If I could eat it and drink Coke every day, I’d have no need for socialism.”
I wouldn’t argue with him. He was beside himself that night. Indeed, I did often have some tidbits at the restaurant, mainly fries and biscuits. As a result, I seldom ate dinner when I came home, but mainly it was because I wanted to save food for my family. My father, of course, assumed I was stuffing myself with chicken every day.
After the disastrous buffet, Mr. Shapiro depended more on Peter, who in fact ran the place single-handedly. To be fair, Peter was an able man and had put his heart into the restaurant. He began to make a lot of connections in town and persuaded people to have business lunches at our place. This made a huge difference. Because their companies would foot the bill, the businesspeople would order table loads of food to treat their guests to hearty American meals, and then they’d take the leftovers home for their families. By and by our restaurant gained a reputation in the business world, and we established a stable clientele. So once again Mr. Shapiro could stay in his office in the morning drinking coffee, reading magazines, and even listening to a tape to learn the ABCs of Chinese.
One afternoon the second son of the president of Muji Teachers College phoned Peter, saying he’d like to hold his wedding feast at our restaurant. I knew of this dandy, who had divorced his hardworking wife the year before; his current bride used to be a young widow who had given up her managerial position in a theater four years ago in order to go to Russia. Now they had decided to marry, and he wanted something exotic for their wedding dinner, so he picked Cowboy Chicken.
Uneasy about this request, Mr. Shapiro said to Peter, “We’re just a fast-food place. We’re not equipped to cater a wedding banquet.”
“We must not miss this opportunity,” said Peter. “A Chinese man would spend all his savings on his wedding.” His owlish eyes glittered.
“Well, we’ll have to serve alcoholic beverages, won’t we? We have no license.”
“Forget that. Nobody has ever heard of such a thing in China. Even a baby can drink alcohol here.” Peter grew impatient.
Manyou, who could speak a few words of English, broke in, “Mr. Shapiro, Peter is right. Men of China use all moneys for wedding, big money.” He seemed embarrassed by his accent and went back to biting his cuticles.
So our boss yielded. From the next day on, we began to prepare the place for the wedding feast. Mr. Shapiro called Cowboy Chicken’s headquarters in Beijing to have some cheesecakes, ice cream, and California wines shipped to us by the express mail. Peter hired two temps and had the room decked out with colorful ribbons and strings of tiny lightbulbs. Since it was already mid-December, he had a dwarf juniper and candlesticks set up in a corner. We even hung up a pair of large bunny lanterns at the front door, as the Year of Rabbit was almost here. Peter ordered us to wear clean uniforms for the occasion—red sweaters, black pants, and maroon aprons.
The wedding banquet took place on a Thursday evening. It went smoothly, since most of the guests were from the college, urbane and sober-minded. The bride, a small woman in her mid-thirties, wore a sky-blue silk dress, her hair was permed, and her lips were rouged scarlet. She smiled without stopping. It was too bad that her parents hadn’t given her beautiful eyes; she must have been altered by cosmetic surgery, which had produced her tight, thick double lids. Baisha said the woman owned two gift shops in Moscow. Small wonder she wore six fancy rings and a tiny wristwatch in the shape of a heart. With so many diamonds and so much gold on her fingers, she must be lazy, not doing any housework. From her manners we could tell she had seen the world. By comparison, her tall groom looked like a bumpkin despite his fancy outfit—a dark-blue Western suit, a yellow tie studded with tiny magpies, and patent-leather boots with brass buckles. He had a hoarse voice, often laughing with a bubbling sound in his throat. When he laughed, you could hardly see anything on his face except his mouth, which reminded me of a crocodile’s. His gray-haired parents sat opposite him, quiet and reserved, both of them senior officials.
The man officiating at the banquet spoke briefly about the auspicious union of the couple. Next, he praised the simple wedding ceremony, which had taken place two hours ago. After a round of applause, he turned to our boss and said, “We thank our American friend, Mr. Ken Shapiro, for providing us with such a clean, beautiful place and the delicious food. This is a perfect example of adapting foreign things to Chinese needs.”
People clapped again. All our boss could say in Chinese was “Thank you.” He looked a little shy, his cheeks pink and his hazel eyes gleaming happily.
As people were making the first toast, we began to serve chicken, every kind we had—crispy, spicy, barbecued, Cajun, and Cowboy original. An old woman opened a large paper napkin with a flowered pattern on it, and studied it for a long time as though it were a piece of needlework on lavender silk which she was reluctant to spoil. A bottle of champagne popped and scared the bridesmaid into screaming. Laughter followed.
“Boy, this is hot!” the groom said, chewing a Cajun wing and exhaling noisily.
They all enjoyed the chicken, but except for the champagne they didn’t like the American wines, which were too mild for them. Most women wouldn’t drink wine; they wanted beer, Coca-Cola, and other soft drinks. Fortunately Peter had stocked some Green Bamboo Leaves and Tsingtao beer, which we brought out without delay. We had also heated a basin of water, in which we warmed the liquor for them. Mr. Shapiro raved to his manager, “Fabulous job, Peter!” He went on flashing a broad smile at everyone, revealing his white teeth. He even patted some of us on the back.
I liked the red wine, and whenever I could, I’d sip some from a glass I had poured myself. But I dared not drink too much for fear my face might change color. When the guests were done with chicken, fries, and salad, we began to serve cheesecake and ice cream, which turned out to be a big success. Everybody loved the dessert. An old scholarly-looking man said loudly, “Ah, here’s the best American stuff!” His tone of voice suggested he had been to the U.S. He forked a chunk of cheesecake into his mouth and smacked his thin lips. He was among the few who could use a fork skillfully; most of them ate with chopsticks and spoons.
That was the first time we offered cheesecake and ice cream, so all of us—the employees—would take a bite whenever we could. Before that day, I had never heard of cheesecake, which I loved so much I ate two wedges. I hid my glass and plate in a cabinet so that our boss couldn’t see them. As long as we did the work well, Peter would shut his eyes to our eating and drinking.
For me the best part of this wedding feast was that it was subdued, peaceful, and short, lasting only two hours, perhaps because both the bride and the groom had been married before. It differed from a standard wedding banquet, which is always raucous and messy, drags on for seven or eight hours, and often gets out of hand since quarrels and fights are commonplace once enough alcohol is consumed. None of these educated men and women drank to excess. The only loudmouth was the bridegroom, who looked slightly retarded. I couldn’t help wondering how come that wealthy lady would marry such a heartless ass, who had abandoned his two small daughters. Probably because his parents had power, or maybe he was just good at tricking women. He must have wanted to live in Moscow for a while and have another baby, hopefully a boy. Feilan shook her head, saying about him, “Disgusting!”
When the feast was over, both Mr. Shapiro and Peter were excited, their faces flushed. They knew we had just opened a new page in Cowboy Chicken’s history; our boss said he was going to report our success to the headquarters in Dallas. We were happy too, though sleepy and tired. If business was better, we might get a bigger raise the next summer, Mr. Shapiro had told us.
That night I didn’t sle
ep well and had to go to the bathroom continually. I figured my stomach wasn’t used to American food yet. I had eaten fries and biscuits every day, but had never taken in ice cream, cheesecake, red wine, and champagne. Without doubt my stomach couldn’t digest so much rich stuff all at once. I was so weakened that I wondered if I should stay home the next morning.
Not wanting to dampen our spirit of success, I hauled myself to the restaurant at nine o’clock, half an hour late. As we were cutting vegetables and coating chicken with spiced flour, I asked my fellow workers if they had slept well the night before.
“What do you mean?” Baisha’s small eyes stared at me like a pair of tiny daggers.
“I had diarrhea.”
“That’s because you stole too much food, and it serves you right,” she said with a straight face, which was slightly swollen with pimples.
“So you didn’t have any problem?”
“What makes you think I have the same kind of bowels as you?”
Manyou said he had slept like a corpse, perhaps having drunk too much champagne. To my satisfaction, both Jinglin and Feilan admitted they too had suffered from diarrhea. Feilan said, “I thought I was going to die last night. My mother made me drink two kettles of hot water. Otherwise I’d sure be dehydrated today.” She held her sides with both hands as if about to run for the ladies’ room.
Jinglin added, “I thought I was going to poop my guts out.” Indeed, his chubby face looked smaller than yesterday.
As we were talking, the phone rang. Peter answered it. He sounded nervous, and his face turned bloodless and tiny beads of sweat were oozing out on his stubby nose. The caller was a woman complaining about the previous evening’s food. She claimed she had been poisoned. Peter apologized and assured her that we had been very careful about food hygiene, but he would investigate the matter thoroughly.
The instant he put down the phone, another call came in. Then another. From ten o’clock on, every few minutes the phone would ring. People were lodging the same kind of complaint against our restaurant. Mr. Shapiro was shaken, saying, “Jesus, they’re going to sue us!”
What did this mean? we asked him, unsure how suing us could do the complainers any good. He said the company might have to pay them a lot of money. “In America that’s a way to make a living for some people,” he told us. So we worried too.
At noon the college called to officially inform Peter that about a third of the wedding guests had suffered from food poisoning, and that more than a dozen faculty members were unable to teach that day. The bridegroom’s mother was still in Central Hospital, taking an intravenous drip. The caller suspected the food must have been unclean, or past its expiration dates, or perhaps the ice cream had been too cold. Mr. Shapiro paced back and forth like an ant in a heated pan, while Peter remained quiet, his thick eyebrows knitted together.
“I told you we couldn’t handle a wedding banquet,” our boss said with his nostrils expanding.
Peter muttered, “It must be the cheesecake and the ice cream that upset their stomachs. I’m positive our food was clean and fresh.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have gone the extra mile to get the stuff from Beijing. Now what should we do?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll explain to them.”
From then on, whenever a complainer phoned, Peter would answer personally. He said that our food had been absolutely fresh and clean but that some Chinese stomachs couldn’t tolerate dairy products. That was why more than two thirds of the previous night’s diners had not felt anything unusual.
His theory of Chinese stomachs was sheer nonsense. We had all drunk milk before and had never been poisoned like this. Three days later, a 1,200-word article appeared in the Muji Herald. Peter was its author. He wrote that there was this substance called lactose, to which many Chinese stomachs were allergic because our traditional diet included very little dairy food. He even quoted from a scientific journal to prove that the Chinese had different stomachs from the Westerners. He urged people to make sure they could endure lactose before they ate our dairy items. From now on, he declared, our restaurant would continue to offer ice cream, but also a variety of non-milk desserts, like Jell-O, apple pie, pecan pie, and canned fruit.
I was unhappy about the article, because I had thought the company might compensate us for the suffering we’d gone through. Even a couple of yuan would help. Now Peter had blown that possibility. When I expressed my dissatisfaction to my fellow workers, Feilan said to me, “You’re small-minded like a housewife, Hongwen. As long as this place does well, we’ll make more money.”
Bitch! I cursed to myself. But I gave some thought to what she said, and she did have a point. The restaurant had almost become our work unit now; we’d all suffer if it lost money. Besides, to file for compensation, I’d first have to admit I had pilfered the ice cream and cheesecake. That would amount to asking for a fine and ridicule.
Soon Peter had Cowboy Chicken completely in his clutches. This was fine with us. We all agreed he could take care of the place better than Mr. Shapiro. We nicknamed him Number-Two Boss. Since the publication of his article, which had quieted all complaints, more and more people ate here, and some came especially for our desserts. Young women were partial to Jell-O and canned fruit, while children loved our ice cream. Again we began to cater for wedding banquets, which gradually became an important source of our profits. From time to time people called and asked whether we’d serve a “white feast”—the dinner after a funeral. We wouldn’t, because it was much plainer fare than a wedding banquet and there wasn’t much money to be made. Besides, it might bring bad luck.
When the snow and ice had melted away from the streets and branches began sprouting yellowish buds, Mr. Shapiro stopped going out with the girls as often as before. By now most restaurants in town treated him as a regular customer, charging him the Chinese prices. One day, Juju, the younger part-timer, said our boss had gotten fresh with her the previous evening when he was tipsy at Eight Deities Garden. He had grasped her wrist and called her “Honey.” She declared she wouldn’t go out with him anymore. We told the girls that if he did anything like that again, they should report him to the police or sue him.
In late April, Mr. Shapiro went back to Texas for a week to attend his stepdaughter’s wedding. After he returned, he stopped dating the girls altogether. Perhaps he was scared. He was wise to stop, because he couldn’t possibly contain himself all the time. If he did something indecent to one of the girls again and she reported him to the authorities, he would find himself in trouble, at least be fined. Another reason for the change might be that by now he had befriended an American woman named Susanna, from Raleigh, North Carolina, who was teaching English at Muji Teachers College. This black woman was truly amazing, in her early thirties, five foot ten, with long muscular limbs, and a behind like a small cauldron. She had bobbed hair, and most of the time wore jeans and earrings the size of bracelets. We often speculated about those gorgeous hoop earrings. Were they made of fourteen-karat gold? Or eighteen-karat? Or twenty-karat? At any rate, they must have been worth a fortune. Later, in the summer, she took part in our city’s marathon and almost beat the professional runners. She did, however, win the Friendship Cup, which resembled a small brass bucket. She was also a wonderful singer, with a manly voice. Every week she brought four or five students over to teach them how to eat American food with forks and knives. When they were here, they often sang American songs she had taught them, such as “Pretty Paper,” “Winter Wonderland,” and “Silent Night, Holy Night.” Their singing would attract some pedestrians, which was good for business, so we were pleased to have her here. Mr. Shapiro gave them a twenty-percent discount, which outraged us. We wondered why he kept a double standard. We had a company policy against discounts, but it must apply only to Chinese employees. Still, we all agreed Susanna was a good woman. Unlike other customers, she gave us tips; also, she paid for her students’ meals.
One afternoon in late May, Susanna and four students were
eating here. In came a monkey-like man, who had half-gray hair and flat cheeks. With a twitching face he went up to Peter, his fist clutching a ball of paper. He announced in a squeaky voice, “I’m going to sue your company for ten thousand yuan.”
This was the first time I ever had heard a Chinese say he would sue somebody for money. We gathered around him as he unfolded the paper ball to display a fat greenhead. “I found this fly in the chicken I bought here,” he said firmly, his right hand massaging his side.
“When did you buy the chicken?” Peter asked.
“Last week.”
“Show me the receipt.”
The man took a slip of paper out of his trouser pocket and handed it to Peter.
About twenty people formed a half-circle to watch. As the man and Peter were arguing, Mr. Shapiro and Susanna stepped out of his office. Seeing the two Americans, the man wailed at Peter, “Don’t dodge your responsibility. I’ve hated flies all my life. At the sight of this one I puked, then dropped to the floor and fainted. I thought I’d recover soon. No, the next evening I threw up again and again. That gave me a head-splitting migraine and a stomach disorder. My ears are still ringing inside, and I’ve lost my appetite completely. Since last Wednesday I haven’t gone to work and have suffered from insomnia every night.” He turned to the spectators. “Comrades, I’m a true victim of this capitalist Cowboy Chicken. See how skinny I am.”
“Like a starved cock,” I said. People laughed.
“Stop blustering,” Peter said to him. “Show us your medical records.”
“I have them in the hospital. If you don’t pay me the damages I’ll come again and again and again until I’m fully compensated.”
We were all angry. Feilan pointed at the man’s sunken mouth and said, “Shameless! You’re not Chinese.”
