by Jennifer Yen
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
First published in the United States of America by Razorbill, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2021
Copyright © 2021 by Jennifer Yen
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library of congress cataloging-in-publication data
Names: Yen, Jennifer, author.
Title: A taste for love / Jennifer Yen.
Description: New York : Razorbill, 2021. | Audience: Ages 12+. |
Summary: Both high school senior Liza Yang and her mother share a love and talent for baking but disagree on the subject of dating, especially when Mrs. Yang turns her annual baking contest into a matchmaking scheme.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020049702 | ISBN 9780593117521 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593117545 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593117538 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. | Baking—Fiction. |
Taiwanese Americans—Fiction. | Asian Americans—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.Y48 Tas 2021 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020049702
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
pid_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0
For those who still dream in secret.
It’s never too late to be brave.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a mother in possession of great wisdom, must be in want—nay, in need—of a daughter who will listen.”
The neon letters mock me from the plaque’s smooth black surface. Surely, Mom hasn’t twisted the words of one of my favorite authors. My jaw swings open, but the curse never quite leaves my lips. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut and wish for the words hanging over my desk to disappear. I pry one eyelid open.
Nope. It hasn’t changed.
Jane Austen, give me strength.
The corner of Mom’s mouth twitches as I swivel to look at her.
“So, what do you think? Sharon was running a sale, and I thought this would be the perfect addition to your room.”
Of course it came off Etsy. I wish I’d never introduced her to that hell site. It’s like Pinterest for people with insomnia and money.
“It’s clever, right? I came up with the quote myself,” she continues, eyes glinting. “By the way, I don’t know why you love that story so much. If I were Mrs. Bennet, those girls would have been married off in half the time.”
I cringe. If fictional characters aren’t safe from her meddling, what chance do I have? I can’t even remember a time when Mom wasn’t bossing me around. I’m pretty sure Jeannie and I were barely out of diapers when she taught us the two most important things to have in life:
1. A useful college degree, so we can take care of her when she’s old.
2. A good husband, so he can take care of us.
Not one to leave things to chance, the minute we hit puberty, Mom also gave us her cardinal rules for dating:
1. No dating while you’re in school.
2. Only Asian boys allowed. The more traditional, the better.
2.5. The best type of Asian to date is Taiwanese, then Chinese. There are no others.
3. He must be tall. At least three inches more than you.
4. He has to be smart and choose a stable career like doctor or engineer.
5. He must be Asian (this point is so important, it’s stressed twice).
Jeannie, my older sister, is the poster child for obedient Asian daughters. She followed all but the first rule to the letter, something Mom easily forgave. To make matters worse, everyone loves her.
“She’s so graceful and well spoken!”
“Jeannie is the nicest person! She’s always smiling.”
“I love her style. I’m always stalking her Insta to see what she’s wearing!”
Jeannie’s so pretty a modeling scout chased after her for weeks to sign her. In fact, we have one of her first pictures sitting on the mantel. Whenever we have guests, Dad always jokes it’s the one that came in the frame.
As for me?
I’m the rebel—or if you ask Mom, the troublemaker.
“Watch where you’re going, Liza! I can’t believe you just walked into a parked car.”
“Why did you have to say that in front of Mrs. Zhou? I’m so embarrassed!”
“Stop slouching. It looks lazy.”
And let’s not forget one of Mom’s favorites:
“You act too smart. Boys don’t like girls who are smarter than them.”
She had a million of these—advice for how to make a boy like me. Not any boy, mind you. Only the ones who fit her list of rules. It didn’t take long for me to realize what she really wanted was for me not to be . . . me.
Like that was going to happen.
So I broke her rules. Not to annoy her, though it was an added bonus. I just didn’t see the point. Why make myself something I wasn’t just to convince a boy to date me? Especially when there were guys out there who already wanted to.
I hid it from her, of course. I didn’t have a death wish.
The first time Mom caught me, I was at the movie theater with my first real boyfriend, Jeremy. We met shortly after he moved from Ohio with his family. He had sea-green eyes and a mop of chestnut curls, and I was convinced we’d be together forever. My cousin Mary spotted us two rows ahead of her. By the time I got home, Mom was livid. A two-hour lecture on boys and the only thing they all want followed. I also got a bonus lecture on why all non-Asian boys should be avoided.
Three hours of my life I’ll never get back. I still have nightmares about it.
After six straight months of house arrest, Mom decided I’d been punished enough. So long as I followed her rules, I could hang out with my friends again.
Did I
turn into a law-abiding citizen?
Not even close.
She still wanted me to date only Asian boys. I was going to give her everything but. Jeremy was just the first. He turned out to be a total weeb, by the way. We broke up when he found out I wasn’t Japanese. Mario, I met in gym class, but it didn’t last long. He got tired of how clumsy I was. After Isaiah, who dumped me because I hated sports, there was Mason, who obsessed over being shorter than me.
Eventually, Mom changed tactics. Suddenly, I was subjected to a never-ending string of matchmaking attempts. Some were blatantly obvious, like the time I came home and found a complete stranger sitting at our kitchen table.
“Liza! I want you to meet Zhang Wei! He’ll be staying with us for the next two months as our new foreign exchange student!”
Mom put him in our guest bedroom. Every morning, he paraded past my door in nothing but tighty-whities and a grin. He couldn’t leave fast enough.
Then there was Wang Yong. He was her coworker’s nephew. We ran into him at the pharmacy where he was shadowing for the summer. Mom had smiled innocently as she pointed in his direction.
“Go ask him where the tampons are.”
“But we could just check the aisles . . .”
“Go. Now!”
It was the most cringeworthy convo ever. I left with burning cheeks and the determination to never go back.
Other times, it was a crime of opportunity. Like Tony, the delivery boy who worked at our family’s restaurant.
“He was studying chemistry, Liza. He’s probably going to be a doctor one day.”
Let’s not forget the son of Mom’s best customers, who happened to attend my school—Li Qiang.
“Doesn’t his name remind you of that captain in Mulan? You like him, don’t you?”
Yeah, well, Li Shang was hot. Li Qiang reminded me of a dumpy tree frog. Hard pass.
It’s been two years, and Mom hasn’t let up. It’s become like a game between us. She sets me up with a snobby jerk or fobby nerd. I dodge them with an excuse or two. I’ve leveled up so much, I could take on the big boss.
At least, I hope so.
Recently, Mom’s found other things to focus on. She’s pressured me about college, which is fine with me. Scholarship deadlines and class rankings are ideal distractions to keep her from finding out about Brody. We’ve been dating for two months, but my heart still pounds every time I see him. Tall, blond, and with the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen, Brody is the definition of all-American. He’s the captain of the basketball team and has a full scholarship to play for UT–Austin next year. He’s also everything Mom hates about the guys I date. If I can make it to graduation without another one of her well-meaning matches, I’ll be set.
Now Mom clears her throat, drawing me out of my thoughts.
“Just remember. Life is the sum of your choices.” She glances pointedly at the plaque. “And it’s my job to teach you how to make good ones.”
With that, she walks off toward the kitchen. I go back to staring at the abomination on my wall.
That’s not a reminder.
It’s a declaration of war.
Chapter 2
Whoever said “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” was obviously thinking of Mom’s famous buns. Her steamed buns, that is. Every time our customers bite into the soft, white dough, their mouths sing her praise. Some like the savory ones filled with Chinese barbecue or vegetables and vermicelli. Others prefer the sweetness of red bean or custard cream. Even I can’t resist. I’m always getting caught sneaking a fresh bun off the oven tray.
Like today.
“Aiya! How many times have I told you not to touch them when they’re hot?”
I can’t answer Mom. My mouth is already stuffed with red bean and dough, the flavor unmatched even by the buns from the bakery we used to live down the street from back in Taipei. It takes a second for my tongue to register the heat, and I’m forced to puff out my cheeks like a chipmunk until it stops burning.
She cocks an eyebrow. “I told you.”
“Sorry, Mom,” I mumble automatically. “I’ll remember next time.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it, Liza. Now go help Tina out front.”
I stay in the back until the last bite of the bun makes its way down to join the others in my stomach. Then I wash my hands before stepping out to greet the customers.
I kind of wish I hadn’t promised to help out today. It’s Saturday morning, and we’ve already got a line out the door. When I woke up earlier, the moon was still flirting with the horizon. Two hours and endless batches of pastries later, the bakery brims with activity. Mom’s bustling about, answering this question and that while restocking the perpetually empty shelves. At least a dozen people browse the display cases, their shopping trays weighed down with buns and bread. Tina, our neighbor and two years younger than me, is busy bagging the latest batch of bo luo bread in cellophane sheets.
I walk over to the cash register and wait for the first purchase of the day. Soon, a woman in her forties steps up to the counter holding a tray laden with breakfast items.
I smile politely. “Are you ready to check out?”
She glances at the case of neatly decorated cakes and points to the chocolate cake with strawberry filling. Each slice is topped with a single berry, delicately carved so it fans out atop the airy brown frosting.
“Are the strawberries fresh?” she asks in Mandarin.
“Yes, they are,” I answer immediately.
“Then I’ll take one, please.”
I wrap it in a square paper box, the flaps on top twisting together to form a paper bow.
“Anything else?”
She shakes her head. I ring up each of her items and hand over the bag with her receipt.
“Thank you. We hope to see you back soon.”
The line for the register continues nonstop until lunch. By then, we’ve sold hundreds of dollars’ worth of pastries, and I’m ready to take a nap right there on the counter.
This is a far cry from when our family first immigrated to the States twelve years ago. Mom spoke very little English, so she’d sell her buns to our neighbors for spare cash. Word spread about how good they were, and soon, she had enough orders to start her own baking business. Right before my freshman year, Mom and Dad decided to open the bakery along with the restaurant. They found a spot tucked in the corner of a giant shopping plaza in Chinatown. It was half hidden behind a pillar holding up the second floor. You’d think that would make it easy to overlook, but her talent has kept our little shop constantly packed with hungry customers.
Mom taps me on the shoulder. “Liza, why don’t you go ask Dad to make us something to eat?”
“Okay.”
I remove my apron and walk into the Chinese restaurant connected to the bakery. Each has its own storefront, so customers are often startled to walk in and find one big room. Only our regulars know the truth. The two are actually halves of a whole, with Dad running the restaurant while Mom bakes.
My favorite part about the family business is the name—Yin and Yang Restaurant and Bakery. It sounds like a marketing gimmick, but it’s not. Mom bakes using secret Yin recipes passed down from her mother and grandmother. Dad, the oldest of the Yang clan, has never met a dish he can’t replicate and often puts his own spin on it. Therefore, Yin and Yang.
“That’s how I knew your father was the one,” Mom likes to joke. “Although I suppose I could have just married another Yang.”
The dining area is filled with wooden tables of various sizes and shapes, and the clamor of customers and plates fills my ears. I bypass the front counter as Danny takes down a phone order. A junior at Bellaire High School, he started working for Dad last summer. I nod hello and head toward the cloth curtain separating the kitchen from the front.
I duck through just as Dad
tosses some sliced eggplant into the wok. Garlic perfumes the air as he throws a pinch of it into the mix. I take a deep breath and smile before moving over to stand quietly beside him. He works the fire like a bullfighter, the wok bobbing and weaving over the flames with each flick of his wrist. Dad then moves on to an order of pepper steak, followed by salt and pepper shrimp and mapo tofu. By the time he pours the last dish onto a plate, I’m drooling.
He pauses to look at me. “Is it lunchtime already?”
I nod. “It’s almost two o’clock.”
“You want anything special?”
My eyes drift over to the eggplant.
He laughs. “All right. One fried eggplant with chili salt for you, and one stir-fried with no salt for Mom. Anything else?”
I purse my lips. “Sesame chicken?”
“That’s too much fried food, Liza. I’ll make you some chicken with brown sauce instead.”
I sigh. Why ask me if he’s going to veto it anyway? I head back out to our usual table. Tina is already waiting, and she pats the seat beside her. The dining room has emptied out quite a bit, save for a table of businessmen having a late lunch. A few minutes later, Danny stops by to drop off the first of our dishes.
“I’ll be back,” he says.
An errant lock of black hair tumbles across his brow as he smiles at Tina. She flushes pink, her eyes never leaving him as he heads back inside. I suppress a grin. Mom better not catch her staring, though. She tried setting Danny up with me a few weeks ago after running out of the usual candidates. Thankfully, since I warned him this could happen, he lied and said he had a girlfriend.
Once he’s done cooking, Dad joins us in the dining room. He and Mom eat quickly, always with one eye pinned on the doors. Barely fifteen minutes later, they’ve scurried back to their respective kitchens. Tina, Danny, and I can take our time, as long as we tend to any customers who walk in.
As luck would have it, today’s stragglers all belong to the bakery, which means I’m the last one to finish and get stuck with cleaning duty. Not that it surprises me, of course. Dad’s cooking definitely packs a room, but it’s Mom’s savories and sweets that keep them coming back time after time. Those tempted away by the shiny new bakeries in Chinatown invariably return with their heads hung low. Some of our customers even swear her treats changed their lives.
