Kitchen Chinese (21 page)

Our waitress approaches our table and sets down one more dish, a chunk of braised meat in a dark sauce.

“Did we order this?” Claire looks confused.

“Wo dianle. Wo yao ni de meimei shi shi.”
Wang Wei’s gaze finds mine and I repress a shiver. Something about his thin face intimidates me. Now he’s ordered up a dish, especially for me to try.

“What is it?
Shi shenme cai?
” I swallow. Claire insists Wang Wei’s English is word perfect, but I haven’t had a chance to find out. So far, he’s insisted on speaking to me only in Chinese, seeming to relish my bad accent and halting replies.

“Kong rou.”
He pushes the dish toward me, leans over and scoops a chunk onto my plate, where it glistens slightly, the slivers of meat lost in the stripes of solid fat.

“Uh,
xie xie
!” I poke at it with my chopsticks. “What’s
kong rou
?” I make a fruitless attempt to separate the meat from the fat.

“Ni pa fei rou ma? Ni kan! Hao chi!”
Wang Wei stabs at the meat and eats a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “You Americans are too afraid of a little fat,” he says. Scorn compels him to finally speak in English.

My cheeks flame as I reluctantly take a bite. The fat squishes in my mouth and I quickly swallow. “Tastes good!
Hao chi!
” I say politely. “What kind of meat is it? Pork?”

“Gou rou.”
Wang Wei’s chilly smile stretches his thin mouth.

I blanch. “Dog?” I push my plate away. “That was dog meat?”

The table erupts in laughter.
“Kai wan xiao!”
says Wang Wei. “Just kidding! It’s pork.” He wraps an arm around Claire. “I told you she wouldn’t eat it,” he snorts.

Claire shifts uncomfortably and takes a sip of tea. “What did you think of the Taiwanese food, Iz?” she says, clearly trying to change the subject. Her eyes, when they meet mine, are beseeching.

I gaze at my sister, her face aglow in Wang Wei’s presence. This isn’t some casual, expat fling, I realize. Claire is in love. I resist the urge to fling a protective arm around my sister. I can understand why she would be attracted to Wang Wei’s keen good looks, his undeniable intelligence, his high-profile lifestyle. But part of his allure is a carelessness that makes me fear for her. Swallowing my irritation, I take a deep breath and try to inject some warmth into my voice. “It was Taiwanese? It was good—like fancy
jiachangcai
. I can’t tell how it’s different from regular Chinese food, actually.”

“Why would it be?” Wang Wei says in Chinese, leaning forward and crossing his arms. “Taiwan
is
a part of China.” His eyes flash.

“
Bu shi.
Not really.” Chloe pushes her bowl of rice away impatiently. “In Taiwan, we have a democracy. And a free press. You don’t have that on the mainland.”

“Well, according to our government, there’s only one China,” Wang Wei says testily, echoing the official view.

In the months since I moved to Beijing, I’ve become increasingly aware of the tensions between mainland China and the tiny island on its southeastern coast, Taiwan. The two governments have harbored ill will since 1949, when the Kuomintang lost the civil war to the Chinese Communist party and fled to the island, founding the Republic of China. Since then the issue
of whether Taiwan represents all of China (as claimed by the Republic of China), or is an inalienable part of the motherland (as claimed by the Communist party) is a topic so pitted with mines, just thinking about it could set off an explosion.

My mind drifts to Max Zhang and his bitter Taiwanese childhood, colored by the chaos of political instability and debilitating poverty; about his twin sister, left behind on the mainland in 1949, who was beaten to death in a struggle session during the Cultural Revolution. His feelings about China—whether one China, or more—are more complex than I could ever hope to understand.

“Come on, guys,” Jeff says soothingly. “Let’s not argue about politics. We’re so lucky—China is booming, changing so fast.
Yi ri quan qiu
. One day is equal to a thousand autumns. Who cares about Taiwan?”

Wang Wei shrugs carelessly. “You’re right. As long as I’ve got my iron rice bowl…Prada in the closet, the Benz in the garage, what else really matters?”

Jeff leans back in his chair and smiles. “More importantly, let’s talk about where we’re going next. Babyface?”

Everyone groans. “Only if we can get a VIP table,” says Pearl.

“Yeah,” says Jeff. “Last time we had to sit next to the dance floor and people kept bothering me all night.”

“Oh, you loved it.” Hu Jia throws a crumpled napkin at Jeff. “All those teenage girls asking for your autograph…”

I watch them banter and force a smile to my lips. I’ll go to Babyface and drink Chivas and green tea and feel the loud techno beat vibrate against my sternum. It’s better than sitting at home, contemplating Taiwan, wondering if I’m part of something or tied to nothing at all.

F
or as long as I can remember, everyone has gathered at my parents’ house for Thanksgiving. Easter, Christmas, and Chinese New Year are spent at Aunt Marcie’s (except for one terrible year, when we all went to Las Vegas and Aunt Marcie lost a thousand bucks shooting craps), but on the last Thursday in November, my parents’ ranch-style house drifts with the cozy smell of roasting turkey and crackles with the voices of my mother and her sister. Only three years apart, they are alike in their slight figures, bouffant hairstyles, sharp tongues, and unrestrained curiosity—especially when they’re together. For me, Thanksgiving is traditionally a long weekend filled with food, TV, and difficult conversations.

Take last year. When Aunt Marcie arrived, she made a beeline for me in the kitchen, where I wrestled with a can of Ocean Spray cranberry sauce. “Don’t you have a boyfriend yet?” she asked, gazing at me unblinkingly before sighing. “Aiya…I should introduce you to my plastic surgeon. It’s such an easy
operation now…not like in my day! Just a quick procedure and you’ll be home in a couple of hours.”

She meant blepharoplasty, of course, the cosmetic surgery that widens the eyes from single-lidded to double. My mother and her sister worshipped the surgeon’s knife, both boasting eyes more marble-shaped than almond. The summer before she started Harvard, even Claire endured the procedure. Only I refused, and my resistance quickly became a bone of contention between me and Aunt Marcie, who could never see me without placing a manicured index finger on my lid and raising the skin, “Just to see what you’d look like, sweetheart.”

It’s not that I was opposed to the surgery, which is common and quick, and done in an outpatient clinic in just a few hours. It was so accepted among Chinese American families that my mom and her sister spoke of it in a normal tone of voice, unlike so many other topics that shouldn’t have been considered shameful but were, like sex, or breast cancer, or being gay. Plenty of Asian women did it—including some whom I admired, like Connie Chung, and some I didn’t, like Tina Chang. I just couldn’t imagine having
my
eyes snipped. I didn’t believe in changing my features so I could assimilate to an American ideal of beauty, and—remarkably, considering how vulnerable I am to other people’s opinions—I thought my eyes looked fine.

Yet the more I refused to consider the surgery, the more frustrated my mom and Aunt Marcie grew, until their suggestions had rocketed from coaxing to coercion. They began to equate my single status with my single eyelids. Aunt Marcie even tried to bribe me into seeing her plastic surgeon by offering to buy me a handbag she knew I coveted—Gucci with bamboo handles—if I would just agree to a consultation.

“It will make you more confident,” she urged. “I know you want to look pretty. Just meet with him.
Please
.”

It pained me to turn her down, knowing I’d never be able to purchase the handbag myself (and it’s so beautiful, not to mention iconic), but I summoned up some hidden strength and said no. Aunt Marcie didn’t talk to me for month.

After the Gucci purse incident, Julia suggested that I sit down with my mother and Aunt Marcie and tell them that under no circumstances would I ever consider eye surgery, and could they please stop asking me, because their insistence was damaging our relationship. “Just be calm and firm,” she said.

I choked on my martini. “Are you kidding?” I gasped, after I’d finished coughing. “They’re Chinese. They don’t talk about their emotions. They repress them and tell you some obscure Chinese story about peacocks and the emperor. And then, months later you realize that was a metaphor and they were actually furious with you.”

And so, I didn’t confront my mother and Aunt Marcie. Instead, I moved to China, where the distance and twelve-hour time difference makes it difficult for them to badger me. I may be a dating disappointment, a single-lidded romantic failure, but at least I’m no longer reminded of my shortcomings every other weekend and national holiday.

And this Thanksgiving I’ll finally be free of Aunt Marcie’s probing fingers. I’ll invite my friends, and we’ll eat at 7:00
P.M
. instead of three in the afternoon, the turkey will be stuffed with bread instead of rice, and no one will care if I have a boyfriend.

I’ve ordered the turkey from Jenny Lou’s and already made pie crust and frozen it. Geraldine is bringing green bean casserole, and Ed mentioned something about a pitcher of Bloody Marys. It’s going to be an ideal Thanksgiving, just the way the pilgrims imagined it. Except in China, not America, obviously.

In fact, I’ve been so busy dreaming about pumpkin pie and sweet potatoes that I hardly had time to think about all those
pesky doubts crowding the back of my mind. Like the hollow feeling I get when Geraldine teases me about Jeff being my boyfriend, even though he clearly is not. Or the frostily polite tone in Charlie’s voice at the Marine Ball—not to mention his conspicuous silence (I thought I saw him in the lobby the other day, but when I called his name, he didn’t turn around). Or the dead-end path my career seems to be taking, ever since my piece on Max Zhang got censored (I love
Beijing NOW,
but it can make
People
look like Pulitzer material).

I know I should have pitched the Max Zhang story to a few American publications. But as the days slipped into weeks, my ambition felt more and more like a fantasy that had drifted too far from reality. So, I was more than a little surprised when Ed brought it up over lunch one day.

“Isabelle.” He raised his voice over the roar that filled our neighborhood noodle joint, shifted his bulk on the tiny chair and clutched at the table, nearly sending a bottle of vinegar into my lap. The waitress set down large, steaming bowls of soupy noodles, and Ed immediately dove in, slurping up a mouthful before turning to me. “Wha da fuck ish goin’ on wi’ dat Mash Ang piece?”

I allowed a spoonful of salty broth to slide down my throat. “Sorry—I didn’t catch that?”

He finished chewing, swallowed, and sighed. “The Max Zhang piece. What’s happening with it? I thought you were going to pitch it.”

“Oh, yeah, well I’m still thinking about where to send it.” I avoided his eyes and tried to pile noodles into my porcelain spoon.

“Why?” He slapped his hand on the table and soup slopped over the edge of our bowls. “What the bloody hell are you waiting
for?” He glared at me before twining another bunch of noodles around his chopsticks.
Ssslurrp, ssslurrp, ssslurrp.

“I’m still doing some research on the Internet…trying to figure out the best way to pitch it…”

“The longer you sit on it, the harder it’s going to be to sell.” He reached for his tea and took a long sip. “Look, I’ll give you the names and e-mails of some editors, but only if you promise to pitch it by the end of the week.”

“Really?” I felt my face grow pink. “You’d do that for me?” It was such a kind, generous act…in fact, totally unlike Ed. I crossed my arms and fixed my eyes on him. “Why?” I asked.

“Come on, Iz. Don’t look at me like that.” He shrugged, his eyes wide. “I’m not a
monster
. I’ve been known to
help
people.”

“Please, I know you better than that. Now,
why
?”

He toyed with his noodles and then rested his chopsticks on the edge of his bowl. “Honestly?” He continued in a rush. “Life is pretty good here for us…we eat at all the best restaurants, hang out at the hippest clubs, get pissed at the coolest bars, the magazine keeps us busy, we’re surrounded by beautiful women…” He caught my baleful stare. “Okay, erase the beautiful women part. Anyway, my point is, it’s easy to drift along in an expat haze, not thinking about where your life is going…And before you know it you’re forty-three and the only clips you’ve produced in five years are from
Beijing NOW.
I don’t want to see that happen to you. You’re too good a journalist.” He offered me a wry smile.

“Oh, Ed—you’re a great journalist. I’m sure you could—”

He lowered his eyes, but not before I saw a glimpse of regret. “Besides,” he cut me off. “Tara Joyce, the
New York Trib
features editor, is a babe. We cut our teeth together at the
Sydney Morning Herald.
Be sure to mention my name—I want her to know
I’m your boss. Mentoring the young’uns…surefire way to get her in the sack.”

“You’re doing this so you can sleep with her?” I gazed at him, my disgust tinged with amazement.

“Obviously!” He threw back his head and guffawed. “Who do think I am? The Dalai-bloody-Lama?”

A week later and I’ve sent a casual, yet professional-sounding e-mail off to Tara Joyce at the
New York Tribune
(it only took me six hours to compose), finished my grocery shopping for next Thursday, and started sorting pecans. Alone in the kitchen, I hum to myself as I mix Karo syrup and eggs together, roll out pie crust and crimp the sides into a pretty edge.

“Hi, Iz! Are you home?” I hear the front door open and close, and then Claire’s socked feet come padding through the hall.

“I’m in the kitchen!” I call out. Claire has seemed more relaxed since the Marine Ball. It might be because she thinks I approve of Wang Wei—when she asked my opinion, I raved about his undeniable good looks and sharp intellect, even though I can tell he’s about as reliable as a tabloid journalist—or maybe it’s because she billed 103 hours last week at her law firm. She still disappears for days at a time (but at least I now know where she is: Wang Wei’s CBD penthouse), and still seems to exist solely on sweetened green tea and slim cigarettes. But a few days ago she invited me to get a mani/pedi with her and even asked me for advice on what nail polish color she should use, Chanel Splendeur or Vamp. When I directed her instead to Shanghai Red, she didn’t get annoyed but agreed that it was a much better match for her skin tone.

“Hi, sweetie.” Claire comes into the kitchen, heads straight for the refrigerator, and pulls out a bottle of green tea. “What are you doing?” She glances at the pecan bits that litter the counter.

“Making pecan pie for Thursday.”

“Oh yeah…” Her brow furrows. “About Thanksgiving…I’m not sure I can make it.”

“What? Why?” My voice rises in dismay. Granted, I had a feeling she’d wriggle out of it, but still, Thanksgiving feels like something we should celebrate together. We are sisters, after all.

“I’m sorry, Iz. I know you’ve been looking forward to it. But we’re closing on a huge deal next week and I have loads to do.”

“Well, at least come for dessert,” I urge. “I’m making pie—apple and pecan.”

“I’ll bring the pumpkin,” she says with a smile. “They sell them at Paul’s Steak and Eggs. I can just pick one up on my way home.”

“At least we won’t have to watch Aunt Marcie scrape the whipped cream off her dessert.”

Claire affects a nasal pitch and mimics Aunt Marcie’s whiny voice. “‘You didn’t put
cream
in this, did you?’”

“‘Are you trying to
kill
my husband?’” I add.

“Meanwhile, Uncle Gray would be hiding in the kitchen, eating pie as fast as he could.” We both laugh.

“Just think,” I say dreamily. “A Thanksgiving without Aunt Marcie. Can you imagine?”

“No, I really can’t.” She pops a bit of raw dough in her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “Who else have you invited?”

“The usual suspects—Geraldine, Gab, Jeff, Ed…”

“Oh, Ed’s going to be there?” Claire leans on the counter casually, but her cheeks suddenly seem to be very red.

“Yeah.” I examine her face. “Why? You couldn’t possibly have a thing for—I mean…you and Ed aren’t—What about Wang Wei?”

“Oh, don’t be silly. Of course, Wang Wei and I are still together, it’s just that Ed and I—” She breaks off as the phone starts to ring.

“What? You and Ed what?”

“I better get the phone,” she says, ducking out of the room and out of my question.

“Hi, Mom!” I hear her exclaim from the living room before I plug my iPod into the kitchen speakers and turn up the Aimee Mann. Things between my mother and Claire might be uneasy, but you’d never know it from their phone conversations, which are still as cozy as a cashmere blanket. Even though I can’t hear my mother’s exclamations of maternal pride, listening to Claire boast about her billable hours brings back all my feelings of inadequacy.

I heave a sigh and turn back to my pie, patting the dough into the bottom of the pan and accidentally tearing a jagged hole in the bottom. “Dammit!” I mutter to myself, trying to ease the edges together.

“What’s wrong?” Claire wanders back into the kitchen.

“Nothing, I just need to patch up the crust. How’s Mom? Didn’t she want to talk to me?” I try to keep the hurt out of my voice.

“The call waiting went off.” Claire makes a little face. “She still doesn’t know how to switch back and forth.”

“Oh, yeah.” I start arranging pecan halves in the bottom of the pie dish, lining them up in a checkerboard pattern.

“She did say…” Claire’s voice trails off uncertainly and I look up sharply.

“What? What is it? Oh God, is something wrong? Is it Dad? Is he sick?”

“No, no, no, Dad’s fine,” she says reassuringly. “But he has to go Geneva for some last minute molecular biologists’ conference next week, and Mom was thinking she could come here for Thanksgiving. Apparently she has to use up her frequent flier miles before they expire.”

“Oh!” My eyebrows shoot up. Despite their weekly phone conversations, my mother and sister haven’t seen each other in almost two years. They both claim it’s because of the distance, but that sounds like an excuse to me. I know Claire has secrets—namely, her married boyfriend—but what has kept our mother away? Try as I might, I can’t think of a reason. “Well,” I say slowly, “that would be…nice.”

Claire sips from her bottle of green tea and stares into space, her expression unreadable. “Mom also said Aunt Marcie and Uncle Gray are going through a rough patch,” she adds.

“Mmm.” I make a noncommittal Chinese sound that could mean anything from
Poor thing!
to
You think I care about Aunt Marcie? Thanks to her, I was in therapy for six years!