Comfort Me with Apples

by Ruth Reichl

  “Will you give me a recipe?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he replied. “One of the old ones. I will write it down for you. I will give it to you when I give you the reply for Chan.”

  * * *

  Had I been observed passing the letter to Mr. Chen? Mr. Lee did not allow us any more time alone together, and he was vague about my request to visit the kitchen at the Overseas Travelers’ Hotel. In the meantime, we were trotted off to schools, ceramics factories, kindergartens. We went to the farm commune too, although our experience of rural life was brief. After a short tour of the rice paddies and tea in the home of the wealthiest farmer, Mr. Lee abruptly herded us back onto the bus.

  “I thought we were spending the night,” I protested.

  “No,” said Mr. Lee, “we are not.”

  “You are obviously too dangerous to be allowed to corrupt the farmers,” said Ed as we stepped back onto the bus. “Have you been having unauthorized discussions again?”

  “Honestly,” I said, “this is not my fault.” Still, I couldn’t be certain, and I felt guilty. I felt that something mysterious was always going on just below the surface, that nothing was what it appeared to be. Even the most mundane activities seemed to have layers of hidden meaning.

  Curious, I took the seat next to Mr. Lee for the trip back to Taishan. “Why did we have to leave?” I asked. “Why were we not able to spend the night in the commune?” He stared at me and said only this: “What kind of birth control do you use?”

  Did he really want to know? Why? He seemed so unembarrassed that I simply told him. When I was done he said casually, “By the way, I have arranged for you and Professor Chen to visit the hotel kitchen tomorrow.”

  Dear Dad,

  The kitchen was dark but fairly cool, with windows looking out onto the lake. Three huge woks were set over coals, with running water just above them. Big, puffy golden sheets were strung across the room. Mr. Chen said that they were fried pig skin. I asked him what they were for and he turned to the chef, who was wearing a Mao cap, and asked. Apparently we will have it tonight for dinner, cut into squares and served in sweet-and-sour sauce. Then he pointed to some other sheets hanging nearby. “See those?” he asked. “That is unfried pig skin. That will be used for poorer customers; the chef will cut it into thin, thin strips and weave it into imitation bird’s nest.” Only in China do pigs turn into bird’s nests.

  The chef showed us the tank where he kept the fresh fish. He pointed to the stuffed bitter melon, which was for our dinner, and mountains of pork ready to be cooked in different ways. As we passed a small forest of broccoli waiting to be washed, the chef said something to Mr. Chen and smiled at me, the gold tooth in the front of his mouth shining very brightly.

  “He would like you to take his picture in the dim sum kitchen,” said Mr. Chen. The chef led us into a smaller kitchen and very proudly showed off his array. I got out my camera and the chef picked up a dumpling, a curious yeast-bread filled with roast pork, rolled in coconut, and deep-fried. He smiled. The light flashed. Then we followed him back to the main kitchen.

  The chef went back to cooking, tossing squid in a wok with celery. He added a ladle of golden liquid and with one swooping gesture scooped the food out of the wok and onto a platter. A second later it was sitting on the chopping block, the squid scored like a pinecone and gleaming white against the pale green celery.

  Mr. Chen told me to taste it and then asked if I could guess the secret ingredient. I felt as if it was a test, so I tried really hard. There was an indefinable richness to the dish, and I thought of that golden liquid, and guessed chicken fat. Mr. Chen was delighted with me. I had passed! “Chicken fat,” he said, “is the secret of Cantonese cooking.” See how much I’m learning?

  Then I spied a small, strange animal that was skinned and ready to be steamed. I didn’t recognize it, so I asked Mr. Chen what it was. He said he didn’t know the English word, but that it is covered with hard feathers. I couldn’t imagine what hard feathers might be, so he went off and returned with a sort of armor.

  It was an armadillo! According to Mr. Chen they are very good for you. He assured me that armadillos prevent cancer. Apparently we’re having that for lunch too. I don’t imagine that this group will be too thrilled when they find out.

  “You must let me know their comments,” he said. I promised that I would.

  It’s hard to believe that this trip is almost over. But I can’t wait to see you. Mr. Chen has given me a wonderful recipe for shrimp with scallions; I’m going to make it for you the first night I’m home.

  “How did the Americans like the animal with hard feathers?” Mr. Chen asked at our farewell banquet.

  “I liked it,” I hedged. “It was very tender, and the flavor was mild. It tasted sort of like chicken.”

  “But the others?” he insisted.

  “To be honest,” I said reluctantly, “they refused to taste it.”

  “Why?” he wanted to know.

  “Most Americans aren’t very adventurous about tasting new things,” I admitted. “The people I am with won’t eat frog, or jellyfish, or bird’s nest.”

  He shook his head sadly. “But they eat Chinese food in America, don’t they?” he asked.

  My impulse was to give him a half-truth. But I was exasperated by the cloudy mystery of China, and I felt that I owed him an American answer. “Mr. Chan was right,” I said slowly. “The food in America is not real Chinese food. I don’t think that Americans are ready to appreciate your cooking. I’m not sure we would understand that shrimp peeled in ice water taste better.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He drew himself up very tall and said, with great dignity, “You have helped me. Please tell my old friend Chan that I will be staying. Tell him that life here is better.”

  “Is it?” I asked. But I remembered that cool, dark kitchen with its view of the lake. And then I thought of Mr. Chan’s face behind the mountain of laundry in the hot streets of New York.

  * * *

  My own mountain was waiting for me. A big, white paper mountain sitting on my father’s desk. A mountain of letters, all unopened. “No!” I cried, wanting to tear my clothes and put ashes on my face. I began ripping up the letters, which offered some sort of physical relief. “How could you keep this from me?” I sobbed.

  “Your father made us promise,” said Doug. “He didn’t want to cut your trip short. He loved thinking of you in China. We couldn’t refuse.” He held me as I cried. “Be happy for him,” he whispered into my ear. “It was what he wanted. Think of the alternative.”

  “Dad would have hated being stuck at home,” I admitted, but it did not make me feel less forlorn.

  * * *

  When the tears were finished, I walked down to Chinatown. My face was still red and swollen, and I thought of my father as I bought shrimp and scallions, scrutinizing all the shops before making my selection. At home I rinsed them under the coldest water I could stand, until my fingers burned.

  “Dad would have loved this,” my mother said. She was being generous. I smiled, grateful. She had so much to do now—the estate to settle, lawyers to see—that she had forgiven me for leaving. “Maybe I’ll go to China myself,” she said, rather wistfully. “I’ll have the time now.”

  * * *

  There was no reason to stay in New York, but before leaving I tried to deliver Mr. Chen’s message. Mr. Chan had disappeared. He was not in the Fluff and Fold Laundry, and the people there disclaimed all knowledge of a man called Chan. Mr. Bergamini was gone too, and the Chinese grocer who had taken over his store could not tell me where to find him.

  Standing in the street, in the gray New York November, I tried to imagine Mr. Chen in Taishan, but I could not conjure him up. I began to wonder if he was real. From here Mr. Lee and his endless suspicions seemed equally fantastic. Had old ladies really searched my suitcase? I had traveled to China to please my father; I had spent my time collecting stories for him. But my letters were unread and my stories untold.
How could I possibly make sense of the trip?

  * * *

  When I went home to Berkeley the mystery deepened. I was having lunch with Marion Cunningham and Cecilia Chiang at Cecilia’s restaurant, The Mandarin, telling them about the food I had eaten in Taishan. Cecilia nodded when I talked about frogs and broccoli and bird’s nests made of pig skin. But when I got to the armadillo she became very still.

  “How was it cooked?” she asked.

  “In a rich sauce with cinnamon,” I said.

  “Did you like it?” she asked. She was looking at me with an expression I could not fathom. “Not much,” I said. “But Mr. Chen assured me that it prevents cancer, and if you think of it as medicine it’s not bad.”

  “Ruth,” said Cecilia, “I think there is something you should know.”

  “Yes?” I said.

  Cecilia took a deep breath and said, “I am sorry to have to doubt you. But there are no armadillos in China.” She stared at me and said sharply, “Are you all right?”

  It was a small thing. It was everything. Armadillos did not roam China; I could not believe anything I had been told. My father was dead.

  Suddenly I heard his voice. “Everybody changes,” he had said. Had he been aware that he was dying? I would never know. What I did know was that I had traveled farther than I had anticipated, and that everything had changed. And that without my father the world was going to be a very different place than the one that I had known.

  DRY-FRIED SHRIMP

  I can never cook this dish without imagining my father by my side. I wish he could have tasted it; he would have loved its classic simplicity.

  Because Mr. Chen’s recipes are so unadorned, they will reward you for using the very best ingredients. If you can find shrimp that have not been frozen, you’ll be startled by the taste and texture of this dish.

  3 scallions

  2 tablespoons vegetable oil

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  1 1/2 pounds large shrimp in shell

  1 tablespoon soy sauce

  2 tablespoons chicken broth

  Accompaniment: Cooked rice

  Thinly slice enough of the green part of the scallions to make 1/4 cup. Cut the white part of the scallions into 1/2-inch-long pieces.

  Wash the shrimp in cold water and pat them dry. Heat a large wok (about 14 inches in diameter) over high heat until hot but not smoking and add the oil, swirling the wok to coat its sides with oil. Lower the heat to moderately high and add the salt and shrimp. Stir-fry the shrimp until almost cooked through, about 3 minutes. Add the white parts of the scallions and the soy sauce and the chicken stock and stir-fry until the shrimp is cooked through, about 1 minute. Remove the wok from the heat and add the green parts of the scallions, tossing to combine. Serve with rice.

  Serves 4 to 6.

  SOY SAUCE CHICKEN

  One of the easiest ways to track changes in the world is to watch the availability of ingredients. Twenty years ago, when Mr. Chen gave me this recipe, most of these ingredients seemed impossibly exotic. It took serious research to find out about galangal, a member of the ginger family that is an important ingredient in Thai cooking. Today many of these roots and spices can be found in supermarkets, and the rest can be easily ordered over the Internet. Still, for me part of the fun of cooking this dish is going to Chinatown to search out the ingredients; the other part is the wonderful aroma that your kitchen acquires as it cooks.

  10 cups water

  20 whole star anise (about 1/2 cup)

  1/4 cup (about 1 ounce) anise seed

  1 ounce dried galangal

  2 ounces dried licorice root

  10 cups soy sauce

  8 cups sugar

  1 large piece dried mandarin orange peel

  1 (3-inch) cinnamon stick

  1 (1-inch) piece peeled fresh ginger

  1 free-range chicken (about 3 1/2 pounds)

  Accompaniment: cooked rice

  In an 8-quart pot, boil the water with the star anise, anise seed, galangal, and licorice root, uncovered, for 1/2 hour. Pour the liquid through a fine-mesh strainer set over a large bowl and, reserving the spices in the strainer, pour the liquid back into the pot. Transfer the spices to the middle of a 12-inch square of cheesecloth. Gather the cheesecloth up and around the spices and tie it closed tightly with a piece of string to form a purse. Add the soy sauce, sugar, orange peel, cinnamon, and ginger to the pot and bring the liquid to a boil. Put the cheesecloth bag into the pot, along with the chicken, and simmer, covered, turning occasionally, until the chicken is cooked through, about 1/2 hour. Use tongs to transfer the chicken to a platter, and discard the cheesecloth bag. Pour the sauce through a strainer set over a bowl, discarding the solids, and keep warm.

  To serve the chicken, remove the wings and legs with a sharp knife. Split the chicken lengthwise down its back with a cleaver or kitchen shears, then cut crosswise into 1-inch-wide pieces. Serve the chicken over rice with some of the sauce.

  Serves 2 to 4.

  COOK’S NOTE

  This recipe makes a lot more sauce than you will need. But it’s delicious over rice, roasted meats, or poultry, and it makes a great dip for Asian dumplings or pot stickers. It will keep in the refrigerator for 4 days, or in the freezer for up to 2 weeks. Boil it for a minute before using it again.

  7

  THE SAGE OF SONOMA

  Ordinary people become depressed by the loss of a beloved spouse. My mother was not ordinary. “I keep expecting the black cloud to descend,” she said in a kind of wonder, “but it hasn’t. I wake up every morning grateful to be alive. I know I’m going to get depressed again. But in the meantime, I have to try to enjoy every minute.”

  She went on a music tour of Vienna with the philharmonic. She visited Moscow and made reservations for Japan. “My doctor says I’d better travel while I’m feeling good,” she said. “One never knows how long it will last.”

  “Very wise,” I said, surprised as always by my mother’s moods.

  “Young people are such good company,” she said as she invited an NYU student to move into my old room. She had a decorator redo the apartment. She dashed off to every play that opened in New York, stayed up all night writing letters, attended lunches and dinners and teas. Mom seemed to have achieved a permanent high. She was like a runner when the endorphins kick in or a drinker after the first martini. She was happy.

  I knew I should be grateful. The year I was seven Mom became so depressed she took to her bed and spent months eating candy bars and thumbing through the same book, reading the pages over and over as the mail piled up in front of the door. Now I tried to be happy for her and struggled not to interpret this mood as a betrayal of my father.

  But Mom did not make things easy. “Oh, PussyCat,” she announced one day, “I forgot to tell you. I’ve joined a video dating service.”

  “A what?” I asked, more loudly than I had intended.

  “Don’t shout at me,” she said. “A video dating service. They come to your house and film you talking about who you are and what you’re looking for in a date.”

  Groping for an appropriate response, I came up with, “How much does this service cost?”

  “It’s quite expensive,” she said, “but I think it will be worth it. I can’t tell you how much I miss having a man around. Some days I feel as if I would like to just go out on the street, find the nearest man, drag him home, and make him get into bed with me.”

  I found this revelation so embarrassing that I could feel myself blushing. I repressed my first reply and merely asked again how much she was spending on this service.

  “Well,” my mother said in a tone I can only describe as defensive, “a few thousand dollars. I told you it was expensive.”

  “It’s your money, Mom,” I said lamely, and then thought to ask, “Have you had any results?”

  There was a sort of silence and then she said, “The problem is that most people are looking for someone younger. Even the older men seem to want young w
omen.” Making a valiant attempt to change the subject, she asked, “Don’t you get lonely?”

  “I’m married, Mom, remember?” I said, taking the bait.

  “It’s none of my business,” she replied, “but it seems to me your husband isn’t home very much. Dad loved Doug so. He was thrilled by his success. But if he were here I know he’d be worried.”

  “I’m not,” I said. It was a lie. Doug was very supportive during my father’s illness, and for a time we’d crawled back into the familiar comfort of our relationship. But now Doug was concentrating on his career again, traveling more than ever. These days even when he was in Berkeley, he hardly seemed to be home.

  My response was to throw myself into my work. Metropolitan Home had liked the China piece and asked me to become a contributing editor, and the food magazines were beginning to call. But my greatest triumph was the interview assignment from Ms.

  “Do you know who M. F. K. Fisher is?” the editor asked.

  “Doesn’t everyone?” I replied. Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher was my hero, and I had read every word she’d ever published. I was a Fisher encyclopedia, and I went off to the interview with a catalog of questions. What did her first husband, Al Fisher, do after she left him for the great love of her life? Had she grown arugula in her garden in Switzerland? Did the extraordinary waitress in “Define This Word,” my favorite Fisher story, actually exist? “That was fifty years ago!” she replied indignantly. And then graciously answered every one.

  Unfortunately, it turned out that the editor’s interest in America’s most famous food writer was very different from mine. The magazine considered Ms. Fisher the model of a single working mother, and they wanted stories of her struggle. “Oh, pooh!” she said when I showed up a second time with a list of feminist questions to which Ms. required answers.

  She was very vague about the way she had managed her money, and even vaguer about her second divorce and raising her two daughters on her own. “Of course women are different than men,” she said crossly when I hauled that one out. Although she clearly considered these questions annoying, she offered a few answers, and I dutifully worked them into the article. But the editors were not fooled: They sensed that I lacked the requisite gravity to be one of their writers, and they did not offer me a second assignment.