Kitchen Chinese (17 page)

E
leven-thirty
P.M
. Oops, just upended my glass of wine all over the desk. I watch the crimson pool spread across the blond wood and drip onto the pale carpeting. Ooh, pretty, so pretty! The movement and contrast is like performance art. I try to clean it up but my body feels heavy, like it’s being pulled down by invisible weights. How much wine have I had? I slosh a bit more into my empty glass and sit down to finish off the last sentences of the review.

E
leven-fifty
P.M
. I cannot stop hiccupping! I’ve tried everything from drinking vinegar to holding my breath, but still hic! Hic! Hic! Maybe another bit of wine would help, just a smidge. Besides, I better finish the bottle, there’s only a drop left after I spilled so much on the floor—and wine spoils so quickly in this arid Beijing climate.

T
welve-thirty
A.M
. The review is a masterpiece! I didn’t know I could be so witty, so droll! Surely even Ed will be happy with this piece—it’s definitely the best thing I’ve ever written! Quickly, I log into my e-mail and send it to him. I can’t wait to hear his response!

O
ne forty-five
A.M
. When I close my eyes, everything spins. My bed feels like a boat. Ah. The floor is very solid. Much better. Much, much better. I’ll just rest here for a while.

O
h. My. God. With each rhythmic twinge of pain, I think my head is going to split open to reveal my brain, shriveled like a raisin. What on earth possessed me to drink an entire bottle of wine last night? The bright sunlight streaming into my bedroom highlights the mess of last night: the sticky spread of spilled wine on the desk, the pillow and blanket that form a makeshift bed on the floor, my laptop, still on, hurtling psychedelic shapes on its screen…

Oh, no. No, no, no! Memories are flooding back—writing the review, sending it to Ed…Quickly, I open up the document and read it one more time, my heart sinking with each sentence. “With food this terrible, who needs to diet? Empress Impressions is better than any fat farm.” I bury my head in my hands. What on earth was I thinking? There is no way I can publish this bitter, mean-spirited rant. Well, no matter. I have the entire day to rewrite it. My head throbs and my tongue feels oddly prickly, like it’s seeping pure alcohol, but I resolutely sit down at my desk.

Ack! My cell phone’s ring makes my heart race like I’ve been shocked. I peer at the display and reluctantly answer the call. “Hi, Ed!” I say with false cheer.

“Isabelle!” he booms as I wince. “I just read your review of Empress Impressions—”

“Uh, yeah. I was going to call you about that…Don’t worry. I’m definitely going to spend today revising it.”

“I think it’s bloody great! Fucking fantastic! I didn’t know you had it in you!”

“Don’t you think it’s a little…um…” I search my desic
cated brain for a suitable adjective. “…mean?” I finally say weakly.

“Are you kidding? It’s fucking hilarious! I’ve already told production to lay it out.”

“No!” I exclaim. “Don’t do that! I might…take another stab at it. Maybe soften it a little bit.”

“Don’t be such a pussy, Isabelle. It’s running. As is.” And he hangs up before I can say another word.

In the bathroom, I shake out two Tylenol and gulp them down with a sip of water. There’s no way I’ll be able to change Ed’s mind—he protects his decisions like a dog with a bone. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. Based on the previous response to my restaurant reviews—none—I’m pretty certain that no one reads my column anyway. I’ll enjoy my Sunday, nurse my hangover with a greasy egg McMuffin, take a long nap, maybe phone Jeff in Shanghai to see how his junket is going…

Except, there’s a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that just won’t go away.

A
t work, but the idea of working, of actually concentrating enough to put words onto the screen, is about as appealing as the stewed camel’s paw at Empress Impressions. The afternoon stretches in front of me, vast as the Gobi Desert. I desultorily click the Refresh button on my e-mail and watch it reload. Zero unread messages. Refresh. Zero unread messages. Refresh. One unread message. Ooh!

A flash of happiness—someone reads my column!—is instantly replaced by panic. They’re going to unmask me as a fraud. Everyone is going to know that I’ve never spent time in a professional kitchen, never trained under an established restaurant critic, never set foot in the Cordon Bleu. My credibility? Zero.

I crane my head and peer into Ed’s office where he is typing away at his keyboard, his lips bared in a strange approximation of a smile. I start to relax. Maybe he hasn’t seen it yet. Maybe he’ll get so busy that he won’t ever see it. Suddenly, he roars:
“Who is Isabelle Lee?”

Oh, dear God.

“Did you see this fucking e-mail?” he demands, covering the short distance from his office in a bound.

I take a deep breath and measure my words. “Ed, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have written such a harsh review and—”

“Sorry? It’s bloody brilliant! Fantastic!” He sees my confused face and chortles with laughter. “Aren’t you happy? Most writers
live
for controversy like this!”

“But he’s asking for my culinary qualifications! I don’t have any qualifications!”

“Do you like to eat?” Ed demands. “Do you have opinions?”

“Well…yeah.”

“Food is our common ground, a universal experience. You know who said that? James Beard.”

I gape at him.

Ed snorts. “You think I don’t know James Beard? Please. A little credit. We’ll run this letter at the top of the section,” he says decisively. “Let me know if you want to write a rebuttal.”

“I can’t believe this is happening to me!” I moan.

“Toughen up, Isabelle,” snaps Ed. “If you want to see your byline run, you have to deal with the nut jobs.”

“But—”

“You know what I saw on my way to work this morning?” He thrusts his chin in my face. “A family of migrant workers asleep on the sidewalk. The kids were so thin a gust of wind could have blown them away. So let’s keep this in perspective, shall we?”

I shut my mouth.

“Besides, this is fan-fucking-tastic publicity for us!” Ed rubs his hands together with glee and strides back into his office.

E
xcept, it doesn’t stop with one e-mail. A week later, the
Beijing NOW
online forum rages with the topic.

Subject: Who is Isabelle Lee?

Number of posts: 103

From: Pengyou

From: Splitpea

From: Joy

From: Manager, Empress Impressions

From: Blanc de Chine

From: Huangdi

The list scrolls down, covering five pages. I try to ignore them, but reading the posts is like finally hearing what the mean girls were saying behind your back in seventh grade. By the time Friday evening rolls around, checking the forum has become such an obsession that I’m late to meet Jeff for our long-awaited date.

“Where are we going?” I ask him, trying to stifle thoughts of the last post I’d read, something from a poster called Empress Orchid, who claimed I’d spent the last year working as a sous chef at Per Se.

“It’s a surprise,” he says with a smile as his driver pulls up to the neon-bright banks of Lotus Lane.

“Houhai,” I say when I climb out of the car.

He slips a possessive arm around my shoulders. “I thought strolling around the lakes would be romantic.”

Jeff looks dapper in his dark jeans and white shirt, though I want to seize his shirtfront and fasten all but the top two buttons. A soft breeze blows across our faces as we walk through the narrow
hutongs
that surround the artificial lakes (man-made in the thirteenth century), our hands casually brushing until Jeff entwines his fingers with mine.

“Look at us, out for an evening stroll around the lakes. All we need is a little Pekinese to be really Chinese,” I joke.

“What do you mean?” He looks at me quizzically. “We are real Chinese.”

We turn a corner and a rough metal door appears, with a discreet sign that reads: bed.

“Um, is this some sort of message?” I ask with a nervous laugh.

“Don’t be silly, baby.” Jeff opens the door and urges me in with a gentle nudge. “It’s just the name of the bar.”

Bed is filled with beds. Not run-of-the-mill princess-in-the-pea mattresses, but traditional Chinese
kang
, or wide platforms, piled high with satin cushions and draped with sheer curtains. Dim lighting and the heady smell of incense create a sensuous atmosphere, like a 1930s Shanghai salon—or an opium den. Peeking through the open door, I see a series of rooms and courtyards unfurling like a fan. Jeff leads me to a dark corner that holds an ornate red lacquer
kang
, and we curl up on the platform, our backs reclining against the soft pillows, the billowing curtains creating our own private nest.

“Champagne?” Jeff murmurs, and before I can answer, a waitress appears before us cradling a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

“Lovely,” I nod, because who doesn’t like champagne? Even though this date is starting to feel a bit studied, a little like Jeff has…done this before.

Two fizzy glasses later it doesn’t seem to matter quite so much. Jeff sits next to me, close enough to stroke my hand or tuck loose strands of hair behind my ear, which he does often. His attention is so focused, however, that I find myself wondering if he’s really interested in the hot pot that I ate for lunch or if he’s just faking it.

“Have you heard about the ruckus I’ve raised at work?” I try to fill the silence. “Ruckus. You know, like a controversy. An uproar,” I say, in answer to the glimmer of confusion that crosses his face.

“I know what it means.” He glances at me with mild irritation. “What happened?” He leans forward and refills our glasses, emptying the last drops into his crystal flute.

I launch into the story, and it almost feels like a relief to tell him, like I’m confessing my professional sins. When I get to the part about the online forum, he throws back his head and roars with laughter, his face flushed with amusement.

“Don’t laugh.” I poke him in the side. “They’re discussing where I went to college, if I can speak Chinese, whether I’m fat or thin, the Michelin-starred restaurants I’ve supposedly trained at, whether or not I can use chopsticks…”

“You want my advice? Ignore them. They’ll find the next big thing and move on.”

“That’s what everyone says, but—”

“Shhh. Trust me.” He lays a finger on my mouth. “From one celebrity to another.”

“I’m not a celebrity!” A giggle escapes my lips, but looking into his face, I see he’s serious.

“You’re with me, aren’t you?” Suddenly, he’s so close I can feel
his lips brush my forehead. What am I doing? Everything about Jeff screams playboy, down to his very fingernails, which are buffed to a professional gleam. But as I close my eyes, I feel the champagne weakening my defenses. Despite myself, my head tilts back. His mouth is as soft as I remember, and a shiver runs down my spine as he trails a slow finger down my neck, dipping it dangerously beneath my collar.

“Isabelle,” he murmurs. “Let’s get out of here.”

I open my mouth to protest, and he kisses me again, so deeply that my knees tremble. Who cares if Jeff is unreliable and dangerous? Geraldine and Julia are right, I do need a little fling. Jeff leans in to kiss my neck and the last of my resistance melts. He pulls me to the door, and I follow.

On the street, he unsteadily jerks his hand up to hail a cab and loses his balance, falling off the curb. “Ow! My foot!” he cries.

“Are you okay? What happened?” I ask, glancing at his face, which seems unnaturally flushed.

“I’m fine! Fine!” he exclaims, a little too loudly.

Could he be tipsy after only two glasses of champagne? That seems impossible. Shrugging my shoulders, I climb into the backseat of the cab. Jeff tumbles in after me, rolling the window down and leaning his head against the backseat. “Li Jia.” He turns bright eyes upon me. “Come sit a liddle closher…uh, closer.”

Good God, he is smashed! He lurches toward me and throws an affectionate arm around my shoulders, his head lolling against me for the rest of the cab ride. My apartment is empty, thankfully, as I’m not sure how I could explain my late night visitor to Claire. In my bedroom, I close the door behind us. The journey across town seems to have revived Jeff, and he shimmies up to me with a lopsided smile. In a flash we are kissing again and I
feel myself melting against him. Slowly, he unbuttons my shirt, pausing to stroke my skin.