Kitchen Chinese (5 page)

“Do you eat everything?” says Geraldine.

“Yes,” I say with relief.

“Okay,” she says, without even a glance at the menu.
“Women lai yi fen’r mayi shang shu, yi fen’r mapo doufu, yi fen’r di san xian
…that’s probably enough,” she muses.
“Liang wan mi fan
.
Gen can jing zhi’r, cha shui.”
She bestows a sweet smile upon the waitress.
“Xie xie.”
Thank you.

The waitress writes it all down, her expression impassive, and shuffles away “What did you order?” I ask with admiration. “You didn’t even look at the menu!”

“Oh, it’s easy!” Geraldine laughs. “The food is the same at every home-style joint.”

Ah!
Jiachangcai
. Home-style food. The simple, comforting dishes that people eat every day.

“Chinese cuisine is like poetry—everything has a beautiful name,” she continues. “Ants on a tree. That’s just ground pork and cellophane noodles.
Mapo doufu
—you probably know—it means pockmarked tofu, but it’s actually just tofu in a spicy sauce. And
di san xian
is my favorite. Earth’s three fairies—eggplant, potato, and bell pepper combined in a brown sauce form a magical flavor.”

My mother never translated the names of dishes; she simply cooked and we ate. I feel suddenly excited by the idea that such unadorned fare could be entwined with poetic charm. “Your Chinese is so fluent!” I marvel at her ease.

“Well, after six years in China, I should at least know how to order my dinner.” The waitress slaps down a pot of tea and a stack of dishes still wet from the sink.

“You should dry everything.” Geraldine hands me a paper napkin. “Germs,” she explains.

“So, what brought you to China?” I ask as we busy ourselves with dripping, doll-sized plates and teacups that are chipped and stained with age.

“I came on a Fulbright scholarship with the firm intention of only staying a year,” she says, and laughs. “But then I fell in love and we got married…six years later, I’m divorced and still here.”

“What happened?”

“Culture clash. He was too Chinese, I was too American.” Her smile is wry. “How about you?”

“Me? Oh, I just wanted to discover my roots,” I say lightly, hoping she’ll drop the subject.

“Really? A returnee? You don’t seem the type.” She eyes me shrewdly, but the waitress returns with our food, plunking everything down in the middle of the table, and the moment passes.
“Dong kuaizi,”
says Geraldine, unwrapping her chopsticks and placing a tiny paper napkin in her lap. “Move your chopsticks—it really just means, dig in!”

The food, fresh from the wok, glistens with oil. But the cellophane noodles are spicy, savory with ground pork and laced with chili flakes, and the tender vegetables in earth’s three fairies are salty and sweet with a rich, brown sauce. I alternate bites before piling cubes of tofu into my rice bowl, allowing the fiery chili oil to seep into the fluffy grains and then scooping everything into my mouth in a hot, delicious bite.

If I’ve had food like this before, I can’t remember. It’s peasant fare, simple and cheap, spicy and salty, filling and delicious, and we eat it as such, with no pretensions of daintiness. Geraldine tells me about her courtyard home, which sounds like a dreamy relic of old Beijing, and I confide that Claire’s vast apartment seems icily cold.

“I think I’ve met your sister,” says Geraldine, selecting a slice of eggplant. “Tall, thin, great clothes…sort of looks like an Asian Nicole Kidman?”

The thought has never occurred to me, but now that she’s mentioned it, I realize that Claire and Nicole Kidman are a cross-racial ringer for each other.

“Yep, that’s her.” I help myself to another scoop of tofu and try to think of how I can change the subject. It’s not that I want to avoid talking about my sister, I’m just not sure I have much to say. In the weeks that we’ve lived together, I’ve watched Claire whirl from work, to cocktail parties, to art openings, to charity benefits, to dinners with clients and colleagues. Her phone rings constantly, heralding laughing conversations that are peppered with “darling,” and her bedroom sees more clothing changes than the fashion tents at Bryant Park.

She’s always inviting me to go with her, and I did once, tagging along to a cocktail party hosted by one of her friends. From the moment the elevator doors opened directly into the duplex penthouse apartment, I felt uncomfortable. When I went to lay my handbag in the guest room, my knockoff Miu Miu looked decidedly forlorn next to its couture counterparts. In the living room, the conversation revolved around charity balls and overnight jaunts to Hong Kong.

“But you have no reason to go!” exclaimed Vanessa, a tall Chinese woman with jutting cheekbones. She entwined her arm around her Italian boyfriend, Marco.

“Oh, but I’d love to see Hong Kong!” I exclaimed.

“We don’t go to sightsee,” she reassured me. “We go for Botox!” She laughed and her face remained immobile.

I glanced at my sister, but she seemed more amused than surprised—or maybe she’d had one too many treatments herself. Ten minutes later I told Claire I wasn’t feeling well and left. I
couldn’t explain that the party made me feel even more isolated than staying at home. Lately, I’ve been dodging her invitations and hiding out in my room.

Across the table, Geraldine regards me with a hint of sympathy in her clear eyes. “Hm. Living with Claire must be—” She hesitates, then seems to change her mind. “I know moving to Beijing can be really scary, Isabelle,” she says. “So if you need anything, please don’t feel shy about asking me.”

“Thanks.” And suddenly, sitting in the litter-strewn restaurant, with Chinese voices rumbling around me and my belly filled with warm food, I begin to relax, despite the heads that still turn around to stare.

W
atch out,” whispers Lily as I slip behind my desk at the office. “Da Wang is in a bad mood this morning.” After a month at the magazine, I’m already familiar with Ed’s volatile moods, which can slip from jovial to irate at the sight of a typo. The staff calls him Da Wang, or Big King, behind his back, and, indeed, visiting his office is a little like being a royal consort: you’re either fondled and adored—or your head is chopped off.

I lean under the desk to turn on my computer, and as I struggle to my feet, Ed looms over my desk looking pointedly at his watch. “How nice of you to turn up this morning.” I try not to cringe at the ooze of sarcasm. “All right, mates,” he roars. “Meeting now!”

After we’ve settled ourselves in the conference room, he snaps,
“Let’s hear some ideas!” I glance discreetly around the table. Lily seems absorbed in examining her new manicure, magenta with pale pink heart decals. Gab is nursing a hangover, his skin sallow, eyes bloodshot, probably the product of another eardrum rattling night hanging out post-set with his favorite rock band, SUBS.
Long night?
I mouth at him.

Very,
he silently replies, running hands through his tangled mat of hair. Geraldine sips a hot glass of green tea with a pensive look on her face. Winston, Ed’s assistant, who always seems to pop up whenever we start complaining, scribbles streams of Chinese characters—minutes, I suppose, though no one is talking.

“Come on, mates! What am I paying you for?” Ed glares at us.

Silence.

“Okaaayy. Let’s try something new. Obviously, none of you bothered to prepare for this meeting, and obviously I have to hold your hands like lit-tle ba-bies.” When Ed gets angry he over-enunciates. “So, we’re going to sit here for ten minutes, and at the end of the ten minutes you will each have five ideas. Or you’re fired.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see Geraldine roll her eyes.

Ed glances at his watch and the six of us sit in the silent room. Despite my best efforts to concentrate, I find myself gazing sleepily out the window. The sky looks bright, free of its usual coat of pollution, and above the whir of the air conditioner, I can hear the shrill thrum of cicadas. My eyes grow heavy, only to pop open at the snap of Ed’s fingers.

“Time’s up,” he barks, appraising us with a challenging gaze. We hunker down in our seats, each doing our best to appear invisible. “Let’s see…I think we’ll start with…” I keep my eyes fixed on my notebook. “Gab.”

The rest of us exhale silently, shooting sympathetic glances toward Gab.

“Let’s hear it, punk man,” barks Ed. “What’s new on the local music scene?”

“I’ve been working on a preview of this year’s Midi Festival—” Gab begins.

“Bo-ring!” snaps Ed.

Gab’s skin seems to grow three shades paler as three days of work get dismissed. “How about a profile on Cui Jian?” he suggests weakly.

“Are you living in 2005? We want new
new
new. Cui Jian is so over he’s considered Chinese rock history. Do you have any brain cells left in your head or have you killed them all smoking hash?” A long silence descends while Ed glares at Gab’s bowed head. “Actually, what
is
going on with your head? Your hair looks like a wombat’s nest.”

“I’m…trying to grow dreds,” Gab mutters.

“Dreds?
Dreds?
Can Asian hair even
do
dreds?”

“I saw them on this guy at the Chaoyang Rock Festival last year. You can’t wash your hair for months…I have to wear a cap in the shower, this big flowery plastic thing like a fucking grandma.”

Silence hangs over the room. Ed’s face turns bright red before he bursts into laughter. “And there, ladies and gents, is a feature story,” he gasps. A few of us chuckle tentatively. “A-thousand-words-on-how-Chinese-people-grow-dreds—I-expect-it-on-my-desk-Monday,” he says in a single breath. “Next! Geraldine.”

She launches into a string of ideas, each featuring a chain of incongruous words I didn’t even know could be linked together. “There’s an exhibit of post-eighties generation neobaroque social realism…”

My mind starts to wander. Outside, I watch a crowd as they gather around a storefront window, eager to buy myriad breads and pancakes, all called
bing,
that make up Beijing street food. Geraldine claims there are more types of
bing
in a Beijing street
food stall than there are bagels in a New York deli. She’s probably right; the assortment, which ranges from giant
laobing
that resemble tortillas, to savory, meat-filled pockets called
xian’r bing
, to flat, fried egg-filled pancakes called
jidan guanbing
, could rival the poppy seed, plain, sesame, and everything at H&H’s counter any day. So far I’ve only sampled a few of these street treats, though they beckon from every corner with greasy allure.

“And then, I thought we could do a Venn diagram showing the proportion of neoclassic brush calligraphers versus the cynical realists and Eastern mystics,” Geraldine says smoothly.

“Uh, sure. That sounds great, Ger.” Ed’s eyes look slightly boggled. “Er, who’s next? Isabelle.”

Shit. I consult my notebook and find an empty page. “Uh…” I shift in my chair and will an idea to pop into my brain.

“Yes? Let’s hear it Ms. I-lived-in-New-York-and-I’m-full-of-good-ideas.”

My eyes wander back outside to the street food vendor. A young man walks away from the window, swinging a heavy sack of food with one hand, while hungrily biting into a pancake with the other. “How about something on…”
Think, Iz
,
think…
“Street food!”
Yes!
“A piece on Beijing’s famous street food—what is it, where do you find it…We could interview local movers and shakers about their favorite snacks…” I babble away, the ideas coming thick and fast.

“Hmmm…” Ed frowns. “Not bad. You’ll need a better angle, of course, but it’ll do.” He makes a note. “You’re off the hook for now, Isabelle,” he adds. “But don’t think you can fly by the seat of your pants in this office. Next. Lily.” He turns away and I sigh with relief.

The meeting continues but my mind wanders. Six months ago, if someone had told me that I’d be sitting in a bilingual meeting in Beijing contemplating street food, I would have laughed.
Back in New York, I dreamed of Sancerre-soaked dinners in the south of France, not discovering northern China’s wheat-based cuisine. My lack of curiosity about China dated back to—well, as far as I could remember, really.

“You’re a banana,” my college roommate, Karen, herself Korean American, once said. “Yellow on the outside, white on the inside.” It was our freshman year at NYU and I just confessed that I’d never seen a Bruce Lee movie. Maybe she was right, but her accusation stung.

Karen fit almost every Asian stereotype—she majored in engineering, wore glasses, grew red when she drank alcohol, was obedient and filial toward her parents—and I both envied and scorned her. Part of me wished I could be so comfortable in my own skin, so willfully oblivious to Barbie dolls and blondes, and all the other icons of beauty that little American girls measure themselves against. But the other half of me wanted to rebel against the model minority stereotype, to be adept with words, not numbers, to be creative and carefree, not parceled into a bland, white-collar career.

On weekends, Karen would hang out with friends from the Korean Culture Club. They’d pile in a car and head to K-town, where they’d buy Seoul’s latest top-of-the-charts CDs and feast on barbecue. She invited me to come along once, and I spent the evening hanging on the edge of every conversation, not understanding their mix of Korean and English, not comprehending any of their inside jokes.

Later that night, Karen encouraged me to join the Chinese Students Association. “I can see how much you want to be in touch with your cultural roots,” she said, her eyes wide and solemn.

When sorority row threw open their gracious, white-columned houses to potential rushees, I’m not sure who was more surprised that I joined—Karen, who couldn’t understand why I’d want to
call seventy frivolous young women who shared little more than a penchant for bulimia and booze “sisters,” or me—I couldn’t believe they wanted me. The next year I moved into the confines of the sorority house, and though I soon discovered that wearing Greek letters across my chest didn’t guarantee glamour, popularity, or even happiness, I was still thrilled that I had infiltrated their world. Karen and I still met for lunch sometimes, but after I moved out of the dorm, we no longer had much to talk about. She treated me with a grave formality, as if I had become a stranger. I could feel disapproval in her quiet gaze, but I’m not sure if she sensed the guilt in mine.

S
treet food day, 5:15
A.M
. The alarm shrieks but I’m already awake, my mind racing while my body struggles to catch up. As I scramble out of bed to splash cold water on my face and slip contact lenses into my bloodshot eyes, I try to work up my courage. Breakfast on the streets awaits me and though I’m excited to sample the fare, I’m nervous about asking too many questions. Chinese people can be decidedly unfriendly to outsiders. I’ve practiced the Mandarin vocabulary over and over but I’m still afraid the words will stick in my throat.

I pull on my clothes and tiptoe from my bedroom toward the kitchen, which is already flooded with light. The rubber soles of my running shoes pad silently over the marble floor, and so there’s a moment when my sister doesn’t know that I’m watching her gulp sweetened green tea with greedy thirst. When she sees me, Claire jumps, almost dropping the bottle on the floor.

“Jesus, Iz! You scared me!” she says, replacing the bottle’s cap with a sharp twist.

“I’m sorry.” I gesture to the bottle of tea. “You must really like that stuff.”

“Not really. I just…drink it for the antioxidants. It’s really good for you. Prevents cancer.” She examines me, taking in my crumpled clothes and unwashed hair that’s scraped back into a ponytail.

In contrast, Claire looks crisp and powerful in her dark suit, her hair shining, her makeup smooth. But as I peer at her face, I see the red and puffy eyes that her carefully applied foundation can’t hide.

“Is everything okay?” I try to keep my tone light to hide my surprise.

“Of course! Just a touch of allergies.” She swiftly changes the subject. “Why are you up so early?”

“I’m working on an article on street food…and you know what they say about the early bird…it, um, catches the fresh street food!” I feel clumsy and tongue-tied, but she seems too distracted to notice.

For a moment we stand together in an awkward silence. Claire’s eyes are focused on the floor and her posture is painfully tense, as if she’s holding back a flood of tears.

“Claire—” I reach out, but at my touch she pulls away, glancing at her watch.

“Oh my goodness! I’m late for work!” She snatches a heavy stack of manila folders from the counter and hefts a soft suede bag across her shoulder. “I have to go.”

I glance at the kitchen clock as its hands creep to five-thirty.

“I have a conference call to New York,” she says swiftly.

“Let me get my bag and I’ll walk down with you.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m already late.” The sharpness in her voice fades as she moves toward me. “I’m sorry, honey. There’s just so much going on right now…” She puts her arm around my shoulders and squeezes, enveloping me in a cloud of scent. “I’ll give you a call later, okay?” She throws me a smile, which
reveals a mouthful of dazzling teeth before hurrying out of the room.

I lean against the counter and listen as the front door slams behind her. Claire and I have never been close, but when she moved to Beijing she snipped the familial ties with a swiftness that surprised me. I missed her during the holidays and on my weekend visits home, missed the spark in her eye when Aunt Marcie would tipple too much mulled wine at Christmas, the calculated way she would whip us all at Scrabble.

Now, I turn on the stove to heat the kettle and heave a sigh. It took me a while to figure it out, but this morning has confirmed my suspicions: Claire is unhappy. She puts up a good show, but despite the constant swirl of parties and drinks dates, gallery openings and late night karaoke, she seems to be struggling to keep a smile on her face. Every time her cell phone rings, her eyes light up with hope, followed more often than not by a cloud of disappointment when she checks the caller ID.

She hasn’t volunteered any information and her face closes like a slammed door every time I ask her about her love life. Nevertheless, the whispered wee-hour conversations, frequent weekend absences, and manic mood swings seem to point one direction: an unhappy relationship. I wish I could help her, but I know better than to offer her advice. I learned that lesson the hard way, years ago.

When I was eleven, my best friend was a girl named Shannon Lee. My mother actually picked her out, one late summer afternoon, the day before I started sixth grade. “Oh, look,” she said, her finger running down the list of names that composed the class roster. “Shannon Lee! Another Chinese girl for you to be friends with.”

I rolled my eyes—even then I was conscious of not selecting my friends by race—and ignored her. But thanks to alphabetical
seating, Shannon Lee and I were placed next to each other the next day in homeroom. Imagine my surprise when a red-haired girl showed up, her nose dusted with copper freckles. Shannon didn’t have a drop of Asian blood in her. Sure, her name was Lee—as in Robert E. She was a direct descendent of the Confederate general.

Shannon and I soon became BFFs. She lent me Sweet Valley High books—banned by my parents—and taught me all the words to “Like a Prayer.” I introduced her to the Hello Kitty aisle at our local Japanese grocery store. We pretended we were sisters.

Shannon had an older brother, David, the tall, blue-eyed captain of the high school volleyball team. He wore checkered Vans and a letterman’s jacket, but his distinguishing feature was his niceness. There’s no other word for it. He always smiled, said hello, opened doors, and was pleasant and helpful—not only to grown-ups but to us, two preteen girls. Needless to say, I wished he was my brother.