Kitchen Chinese (9 page)

“Huanying guanglin!”
exclaims the staff as I enter the restaurant. Welcome honored guest. Their voices are faint against the roar of diners, who are packed elbow-to-elbow at round tables of ten. A bubbling cauldron of broth fills the center of each table, and patrons jostle each other to dunk paper-thin slices of meat, or
plop fat mushrooms and triangles of tofu, within its oily depths. Already my skin feels sweaty from the humid room, despite the promised air conditioners that ineffectively blow out lukewarm gasps. The place veritably embodies the term
renao
: it’s hot, noisy, and chaotic, a dining atmosphere beloved to most Chinese.

I wander through the crush of people wondering how I will locate Geraldine and her friends, when I hear a shout. “Isabelle! Over here!” She’s ensconced at a table of ten, the only blonde in the room. I’m not sure how I missed her. “I saved you a seat.” She pats the chair next to her and calls out:
“Dajia! Zhe shi wo de tongshi,
Li Jia.
”

“Why did you use my Chinese name?” I ask as I wave and smile at everyone.

“It’s just easier.” She shrugs. “So, tell me what happened.”

The story tumbles out, aided by a few healthy swigs of Yanjing beer.

“It doesn’t sound that bad,” says Geraldine. “I mean, he’s probably really busy.”

“I thought it was going really well. But when he had to go, he became a different person, all serious and stern.”

“Sounds kind of sexy.” Geraldine raises her eyebrows.

“What’s sexy?” The guy on my left leans over and flashes a grin that dimples his round face. Even in my distressed state I note his smooth, muscled arms and spiky, tousled hair, the dark flash of his eyes.

“Meet Jeff Zhu,” says Geraldine. “Friend to all single women,” she says loud enough for him to hear. “And some who aren’t single.” She turns to Jeff. “Be nice to Li Jia. She’s new in town and she doesn’t need any of your shenanigans.”

“What’s a shenanigan?” He stumbles over the word, his accent slurrily Chinese.

“You know what I mean.” Geraldine rolls her eyes as a wait
ress sets down small dishes of sauce at each place. “
Majiang
. Some of the yummiest sesame sauce in the world. I’m addicted to the stuff.”

We stir dense scoops of sesame paste into a rich, thick liquid. I can’t help but lick the ends of my chopsticks and exult at the salty, nutty intensity. Jeff sees my expression and laughs. “Have you ever had hot pot before?”

“No.”

“There are rules, you know.”

“What kind of rules?”

“You have to put the potatoes in first—they take the longest to cook. Meat cooks fast, but people like it the most. The
baicai
and
bocai
come last. You know, cabbage and spinach,” he adds.

“I speak Chinese.”

His laugh rises above the rumble of voices.

Platters of ruby red meat arrive, thinly sliced to cook in an instant. “Let’s put everything in so it’s like a big stew,” says someone. Thick potato slices, black mushrooms, gauzy mung bean noodles, pale sheaves of cabbage and curled leaves of spinach, and sliver after sliver of meat get thrown in, until the cauldron threatens to overflow, bubbling volcanically while a brave few reach in with their chopsticks to snatch up scraps. Jeff dives into the food, slurping up noodles and wildly swirling bits of meat into his sauce. Our faces grow red from the heat of the boil and the fiery chili-laden broth.

“Hao chi!”
remarks someone, and the rest of the table agrees.
“Hao chi! Hao chi!”
Good eating.

The food is honest and hearty, perfect for unthawing frozen limbs—or making the sweat run on a sultry summer evening. I slip paper-thin slices of meat into the sauce, rich and nutty with sesame, and allow the evening’s disappointment to fade into the haze of noise and heat and beer. As the bubbling broth relaxes to
a simmer, our table grows rowdy. Jeff lobs a
shaobing
bun across the table and everyone erupts in laughter. I can’t quite pick up the joke but I forge a hearty chuckle.

“What are you laughing at?” Jeff turns to me, his wide brown eyes running down the low V in my shirt.

“Nothing,” I chirp, enjoying his attention.

Soon the check arrives and we divide it equally, each offering up twenty
kuai
notes, the equivalent of two dollars.

Jeff finds me as I’m straggling out the door. “Hey, Li Jia! Give me your cell phone number,” he says. “You can practice your Chinese on me.”

I dig in my purse and extract a card. “What makes you think I want to practice my Chinese?” I ask, and, really, I’m not trying to be flirtatious.

He takes the card and examines it. “Isabelle Lee. Your Chinese name suits you better.”

“Isabelle!” Geraldine waves at me from the curb. “Do you want to share a cab home?”

“I have to go,” I say to him. “It was nice meeting you.”

“I’ll be in touch!” he calls after me.

I crawl into the cab and crank open the window to release the clouds of cigarette smoke issuing from the driver. “I think Jeff likes you,” Geraldine says. “You should go for it.”

“Oh, I don’t know…Chinese guys aren’t really my thing. Besides, he’s way too good-looking for me.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself, Iz,” said Geraldine. “It could be fun…a Beijing fling…”

“Do I
need
a fling?” I ask, and cross my arms.

“Yes.” She turns to look me in the eye. “You do.”

I
should be finishing an article on Beijing’s best dumpling restaurants, but who could concentrate on such a beautiful morning? The skies hold only a smidgen of haze, the taxi driver who drove me to work was blissfully incurious, and I didn’t run into anything freaky while crossing through the construction site in front of our office. (Last week Ed saw a human skull lying in the dirt. He took photos of it with his iPhone, of course.)

Oh, and there’s Jeff. I thought I wasn’t interested. And I’m not. Really. But after meeting him for coffee this weekend, I have to admit it’s kind of nice being wooed. He’s the type of guy I’ve always been wary of, a little too handsome, a tad too coolly confident, but being with him makes me feel dangerous and sexy. And he’s Chinese. My mother would be so happy.

He called Saturday morning to ask if I wanted to meet to practice my Chinese. I agreed, mostly because I’d promised Geraldine to give him a chance. He showed up at the café fifteen minutes late, his tousled head cocked in apology. “Forgive me,” he said, shaking my proffered hand and then pulling me in for a hug. I was surprised. Chinese people don’t usually hug.

We stood together at the café’s counter and I felt a small jolt of electricity as our hips touched.
“Ni yao shenme?”
asked the cashier. What do you want? She stacked a tower of paper cups and looked at me expectantly.

“Wo lai yi ge chuan zhen,”
I said, forgoing coffee for an orange juice.

“Shenme?”
What? The cashier wiped her hands on her green apron and glared at me.

“Yi ge chuan zhen,”
I said firmly. Then, to Jeff: “I guess I’m having one of those days where nobody understands me.” I rolled my eyes.

“You just asked for a fax,” he gasped between bursts of laughter. “What were you trying to order?”

“Orange juice.”

“Cheng zhi,”
he said, patting me on the shoulder. “Orange juice is
cheng zhi
.”

We ferried our drinks to a table and Jeff pulled his chair close to mine. “So,” he said, resting his elbows on the table. “I’ve been dying to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Was your life in New York just like Carrie’s in
Sex and the City
?”

I laughed and caught myself tossing my hair around. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, Geraldine told me you worked at a magazine just like Carrie. And you’re beautiful and stylish like her…”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“So?” He smiled, flashing his dimple. “Was it?”

“Well, I went to parties, and wore high heels, and lived in Manhattan. But I didn’t have Carrie’s clothing budget. Or as many boyfriends. I definitely experienced the city. But maybe not the…sex.” Oh my God. Did I just say that? He raised his eyebrows and I felt my face warm.

“I don’t perceive you,” he whispered huskily. It took me a minute to figure out he meant “believe” me.

We spent the rest of the hour talking about New York. At first I was afraid of boring him, but he pressed me for details and I soon found myself describing the things I missed the most: the dark coziness of my favorite East Village bar, my solitary Sunday morning walks across the Brooklyn Bridge, making snow angels in Washington Square Park with Julia. It was the first time I’d talked about home since moving to Beijing three months ago, and I was surprised to find that thinking about New York no longer carried a sharp sting. When Jeff ran a hand down my shoulder and said he had to go, I couldn’t believe how quickly the time had passed.

Later, I realized that we hadn’t spoken a word of Chinese.

I turn back to the mocking glow of my computer screen with a sigh. Since our Starbucks encounter, I haven’t had so much as a text message from Jeff. I gaze at my cell phone hoping it will beep, but there is nothing. Nothing.

Why haven’t I heard from him? Wait. I don’t even like him. But why hasn’t he called? Out of the corner of my eye I see Ed skulk into the newsroom. I reluctantly tear my eyes from my cell phone and turn back to the computer.

“Working hard, or hardly working, Isabelle?” Ed’s sarcastic tones float over my shoulder. He looks pointedly at the empty document on my computer screen.

I jump. How did he sneak behind me? “Just…trying to come up with something snappy.”

“Yes, well I’d hate for you to feel underused—Ooh! Are those moon cakes?” His eyes light on a gilt box of the indestructible pastries, leaden with preservatives, a gift from the publicity manager at the Shangri-la Hotel. Ed’s moods are as unpredictable as the lottery, but I’ve learned that nothing changes them faster than free food.

“Help yourself!” I push the box toward him cheerfully.

“Mmmmmmmm! Salty duck egg…I love these!” He takes an enthusiastic bite. “Ishabel,” he mumbles, spraying me lightly with crumbs. “Geraldine called in sick. I need you to fill in for her this morning.” He pauses to examine the chalky interior of his moon cake. “I wonder what they do to keep the egg yolk from spoiling…”

“What—”

“Tina Chang,” he says. “Eleven o’clock. That coffee place at Pacific Century Place. That’s Yin Ke Zhongxin in Chinese.”

“But—”

“I’ll text you Tina’s number so you can confirm. Ring Geraldine if you need more info!” he mumbles through another mouthful of moon cake, his long legs already striding back toward his office.

I call Geraldine from the cab and she gives me the scoop between coughing fits. Tina Chang was born in Beijing, immigrated to Great Neck as a kid and moved back to Beijing after graduating from Stanford. “She started out doing subtitles for Hollywood blockbusters,” says Geraldine. “And sort of wormed her way up from there. Five years later she’s the rep for Topanga Films in China. She’s tough, a real
haigui
. Very aggressive. A lot of people can’t stand her.”

“What’s
haigui
?”

“You know, a returning Chinese. Someone who’s immigrated overseas but come back to the mainland. It literally means sea turtle.”

“Huh.” I scribble the word in my notebook.

The cab screeches to a halt at a red light and I look up to check our location. Only at Chaoyangmen, I realize with a frustrated sigh, before a billboard catches my eye. Spread high in the sky, across half a city block, is a photo of a long-limbed blonde frolicking with two children in a grassy field, their golden heads glinting in the sun. be a foreigner’s landlord at milano champagne apartments! proclaims the sign in English. Something about the model’s posture seems familiar…

“Oh my God!” I shriek, interrupting Geraldine’s etymological explanation of the term sea turtle. “Is that
you
? On the billboard?”

“Are you on Chaoyangmen Nei? Um. Yeah,” she says reluctantly. “My friend Xiao Pan needed a foreign face for his ad campaign.” She groans. “It looks like an ad for the Aryan nation. Every time I ride by it on my bicycle I cringe.”

“You’re a supermodel!” I tease.

“Only in China…” Her laugh turns into a sigh.

“And Tina Chang? Is she another made-in-China success story?”

“She certainly thinks so. We’re trying to get on the set of Max Zhang’s next film, and she’s the dragon at the gate.”

“Who?”

“He’s famous, Iz,” she says patiently. “You know, the Taiwanese director. He made
The East is Red
with Zhang Ziyi.”

“Mmm.” I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“And that movie about the eccentric British family? Mitford?”

“
The Pursuit of Love
? I loved that movie!”

“You’re such an Anglophile.” She blows her nose. “Sorry, that was disgusting. Anyway, this is his first time directing on the mainland, so there’s bound to be some controversy.”

“It sounds like a great story.”

“It is.” She hesitates. “There’s one other thing you should know—Tina and Jeff Zhu used to be engaged. He broke it off last year and I’ve heard she’s still pretty bitter. So don’t mention him. You don’t want to cross paths with a jealous Chinese ex-girlfriend.”

At Jeff’s name, I feel a shiver run down my spine. “Have you talked to him?” I ask casually.

“No…why? I thought you weren’t interested.” Her voice takes on a teasing lilt.

“I’m not,” I insist. “I was just you know…curious.”

“Well, don’t mention him to Tina, for God’s sake. Even that could send her into a rage.”

“I’m nervous.”

“Call me when it’s over.”

After lurching through five more blocks of traffic, my cab finally pulls up in front of a sprawling glass and concrete mall. I find my way to a familiar green awning and plunge through the revolving door to the scent of coffee and…cigarettes? Wait a second, I thought Starbucks was a smoke-free zone. I glance at the tables and chairs in blond wood, the long counter with its glass case of pastries and gleaming espresso machine, the baristas swathed in kelly green aprons, before my eye is caught by a logo on the menu board: spr coffee. It seems Starbucks has its very own Chinese coffee emporium knockoff.

Geraldine offered vague details about Tina—“medium height, thin but not skinny, long black hair”—which could easily have
described half the customers in the café. For a moment I have the mad, mental image of me approaching each young woman one by one, asking, “Tina Chang? Tina Chang?”

I study the desiccated pastries in the glass case and covertly assess my options. Out of the gaggle of slender young women with long black hair, only five are alone. Girl #1, by the window, snaps impatiently through the pages of Chinese
Vogue
. Girl #2, at the counter, pauses from examining her cell phone to take a sip of foamy cappuccino. Girl #3 studies an English textbook, glancing up occasionally to throw a flirtatious look at the white guy sitting at the table next to her. Girl #4 has been joined by a friend, I note with relief, while Girl #5 shouts into her cell phone, her brow furrowed in anger. Bingo. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but she looks aggressive.

I approach and hover over her table, shy about interrupting her phone conversation. “Excuse me?” It comes out like a squeak. I clear my throat. “Excuse me? Are you Tina Chang?”

She looks up, eyes narrow with suspicion, pulls her purse close and continues her phone conversation. I try to laugh but it comes out more like a pant. Girl #1 looks up from her magazine and sees me wheezing and breathless by the milk dispensers. She waves.

“Oh, are you Tina?” I call out, feeling heat creep across my cheeks. The edge of a chair catches my knee and I nearly skid into her lap.

“Isabelle?” she says with surprise, her accent tripping charmingly over every syllable. She has the refined features of a doll, a delicate nose, rosebud mouth, and enormous, double-lidded eyes, which I’m experienced enough to know are the result of a surgeon’s quick snip and sew. They regard me with an unblinking gaze. I’m wearing my usual
Beijing NOW
uniform of jeans and a scoop-necked T-shirt, an outfit that would look fine with
the right shoes, thin-strapped sandals perhaps, or a pair of ballet flats. However, unwilling to expose my bare feet to the grime of Beijing’s streets, I have pulled on my usual footwear: sturdy running shoes that scream suburban mom.

“Hi!” I say, and try to hide my discomfort with an oversized smile. “It’s so nice to meet you! Tina!”

“Zhende shi qiguai! Women da dian hua de shi hou wo yiwei ni shi lao wai!”

It takes me a minute to puzzle out the translation. Ah, yes: that’s strange, on the phone, I thought you were a foreigner.

I hesitate. “Ummm…
wo shi meiji hua ren.
Uh,
wo de fuqin zai meiguo sheng de, suo yi
…Uh,
shi yin wei
…” Oh dear, I’ve painted myself into a Chinese corner. Am I making any sense at all? Didn’t Ed tell her I’m American? Tina watches me struggle, a small smile on her lips.

“It’s okay,” she says finally. “Let’s speak English.” She crosses her legs, dangling a high-heeled mule from one foot so that I can see the label: Prada.

I smile politely.

“So, Isabelle…” Tina raises her manicured eyebrows. “Tell me about yourself. How long have you been in Beijing?”

“Me? Just a couple of months.”

“Where do you live?”

“Oh. Uh, Roman Villas,” I say, inwardly wincing at the ridiculous name.

“Which phase—Caligula Court or Pompey Towers?”

“Caligula,” I admit.

“Wow. I had you pegged as a Haidian kind of girl. Something a little more low-end.” She picks up my hand. “No ring. So how does a girl like you afford digs like Roman Villas?”

Her directness leaves me speechless, but Tina seems unfazed. “Don’t mind me, sweetie,” she coos. “The Chinese side of me is so
frank. I can’t help it.” Her syrupy tones are reminiscent of Claire and her friends.

“I live with my sister.” She stares at me expectantly and so I add, “Claire Lee.”

“Ohmigod! Are you Claire Lee’s
meimei
? Why didn’t you tell me?!” Her face, wreathed in smiles, is almost scarier than before. “Claire is one of my
best friends
!”

“Everyone…seems to know Claire,” I manage weakly. Privately, I wonder why, if they’re such good friends, Claire has never even uttered her name.

“So, tell me…” She leans in close and her perfume almost chokes me. “How are things going between Claire and Wang Wei?”

“Um…fine?”

“I told Claire, who cares if he’s one of the richest men in China? If that two-timing bastard won’t commit to you, dump him! He’s not worth it! And then Sam saw him at Q Bar with Sophie Wang—you know, the Hong Kong movie star?” She pauses and gives me an expectant look. I nod. “I told Claire she should go after him with a butcher knife. But he just claimed they were discussing business. Huh!”

I keep a pleasant smile on my face, but inside my heart is sinking. I had hoped Wang Wei was some kindhearted but misguided guy who was simply sowing a few wild oats. But the reality sounds much worse than I feared.

“She sometimes seems a little blue…” I say, thinking back to that morning in the kitchen, when Claire seemed ready to burst into sobs.

“I knew it!” Tina scoots her chair even closer, and I immediately wish I’d kept my mouth shut. “Do you think they’re going to break up?”