Kitchen Chinese (28 page)

“It’s cheese,” says Claire.

“Cheese? Chinese cheese?”

She laughs at my surprise. “Try the mushrooms. They’re called
yang duzi
, sheep’s stomach. But we know them as morels.”

“Morels?” I pop one in my mouth, savoring the rich earthiness. “Morels grow in China?”

We dig our chopsticks into the dishes: a salad of giant mint leaves drizzled with a tangy, spicy dressing. Black chicken, the dark flesh akin to pheasant or some other wild poultry, stewed with mouth-puckering pickled papaya, short-grained fried rice served in a hollowed pineapple. In between bites we sip cups of earthy, dark tea, rich and mellow.

“
Pu’er
tea is supposed to have medicinal properties,” explains Claire. “They grow it in Yunnan, and store it for years in compressed cakes. It ages over time, like wine.”

“Like wine?” I take another amazed swallow.

We end the meal with bowls of rice noodles floating delicately in scalding hot broth. “They’re called
guo qiao mixian
.” Claire dips in her chopsticks and stirs. “Crossing the bridge noodles. Do you know the story?”

I shake my head.

“According to the legend, in ancient times, a scholar was so desperate to pass the imperial exams, he isolated himself on an island to study. Every day his wife would cross the bridge to bring him a bowl of noodles. But the journey from the kitchen to the island was too long and his lunch kept getting cold. The wife was so devoted to her husband, she finally devised a way to keep the noodles hot during her walk. She poured a thin layer of smoking oil on top to seal in the heat, and thus
guo qiao mixian
were born.” Claire laughs. “Can you imagine being so dedicated to your husband you’d invent a new dish for him?”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, me either.” She cups her chin in her hands. “But I guess it’s all about determination.”

“And different perspectives.”

“Can you believe this food? It’s so wild and exotic…totally different from what we ate growing up.”

“I guess there are still a few things we don’t know about Chinese food.”

“A few things?” She snorts. “Try everything.”

Later, alone in my dark bedroom, I try to sleep. But the tears come instead, running down my cheeks and into my ears, soaking my pillow when I flip over onto my side. When I was three, I saw Claire reading the funny pages and I wanted to read them
too. I wanted it so badly that I hit her over the head with my jump rope because she could read and I couldn’t. I got in trouble, of course. But a few days later my father started to teach me, patiently sounding out each letter until I could string them together, and once I learned to read, I never stopped. How could I know then that this childhood incident would form the metaphor behind our entire relationship? Claire would always be five steps ahead of me. And I would always get what she wanted.

Well, not everything, of course. Not, for example, the one thing I’ve always yearned for: to be a writer. For a scant minute I thought I might have a chance. I allowed myself to hope. Working on my
New York Tribune
piece made everything else disappear, all those worries about sibling jealousy, or texting Jeff, or being single in Beijing without a steady source of soft cheese. Foolish, foolish me. I should have listened to my instincts and never accepted this assignment. I thought I’d found something I was good at, but it turns out I’m still a failure.

M
orning, finally. Unable to sleep, I spent the night tossing and turning, worrying about what I should do with the rest of my life. Journalist, lawyer, editor—obviously those professions are out. Maybe I could be a pastry chef? I picture myself, hands shaking from too much delicate precision work, stomach bursting out of my chef’s jacket (come on, I have zero willpower). Maybe accounting? Except I’m hopeless with math and money…and that rules out so many other things—nuclear physicist, doctor, small business owner. Oh God. Perhaps my destiny lies in my mother’s chain of beauty salons. I could move back home and sweep up hair.

I climb out of bed and head into the bathroom, running the shower hot enough to sting my dry skin. Mascara? Blow-drying
my hair? Clean clothes? Those things are for people with plans. I grab a pair of jeans frayed at the knees and a pilled cable-knit sweater. At the kitchen table, Claire eats a bowl of steel cut oats while surfing the web on her laptop.

“Good morning, darling,” she says with a bright smile. “Goodness, you’re up early this morning.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I mumble, turning on the kettle. “I thought I’d get to work early and get started on all the backlog.”

“Is that what you’re wearing?” She glances askance at my shabby outfit.

“What’s wrong with it? Our office is so casual, no one cares what I look like.”

“That’s no reason to lower your standards.”

“Claire, I don’t have standards.”

“Dress like the
New York Tribune,
be in the
New York Tribune,
” she says briskly, fixing me with an expectant gaze.

I’m too exhausted to argue. I totter back to my bedroom and find a nicer pair of jeans—skinny, she’ll like that—and a crisp white shirt. I dry my hair using the big round brush so it falls heavy and silky down my back. I pat concealer on the bags under my eyes, and darken my lashes with mascara. I even fasten a pair of pearl studs in my ears.

Back in the kitchen, I present myself to Claire. “Better,” she says, draining her cup of green tea. “Now, I want to show you something.”

“Can I at least make myself a cup of tea?”

“Just come over here.”

Sighing, I lean over her shoulder. “The
New York Tribune
?” I say, glancing at her computer. “I really don’t think I’m up for this—”

“Just look at this article,” she insists. “Read it aloud.”

I peer into her laptop’s screen. “‘When Max Zhang left China
in 1949, he had no idea it would be almost sixty years before he returned—’ Oh my God.” My voice falters and my heart starts beating so hard and fast I’m afraid it might burst.

“‘Max Zhang: A Chinese director returns to his roots. By Isabelle Lee,’” reads Claire with satisfaction. “It’s on the front page of the arts section! We’ll get Mom and Dad to send us a copy. They’re going to be so proud!” She smiles smugly. “See? I knew it was excellent work.”

“I—I—” I open and close my mouth but only a stutter comes out. “I really can’t believe it,” I finally manage.

“Believe it, Iz.” She shuts down her computer and gathers her dishes into the sink. “You’re a real journalist now.”

Later, after she’s gone to work, after I’ve gone online and e-mailed the story to everyone I know, I stand in the middle of our cavernous living room and gaze at the line of cars crawling below, the tall buildings that soar high into the sky. And then I turn on my iPod to blast the music, louder and louder, as I dance around the room. Just me and my relief, and hopes, and plans, whirling around with the music, with everything I’ve got.

A
free trip to Shanghai sounded like a dream come true when Ed first suggested it. But as it looms closer, I’m beginning to feel a familiar flood of Ed-induced panic. Don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled to finally visit the city of my mother’s birth, and even more thrilled to do it under the all-expenses-paid guise of an assignment. And when I get back, I’ll be thrilled to write a two thousand word travel piece, detailing the city’s finest hotels, dining options, and shopping finds. Thrilled, that is, unless my schedule kills me first.

I click on an e-mail from Ed, which lists the contact information for yet another nightclub he wants me to visit, and suppress a groan. The trip started as a casual three-day stroll through the Pearl of the Orient. Thanks to Ed, it’s ballooned into a seventy-two-hour marathon, mapped out in ten-minute increments.

Geraldine glances up from her computer to see me furiously erasing scratched pencil marks from a threadbare piece of paper. “Is that your schedule for Shanghai?” she asks, lifting it from my desk. Her eyes widen. “Whoa.”

“Do you think it’s too crazy?” I clutch at my pencil.

“No, Iz, I think you can do all of this…” She pauses. “Just bring a good pair of walking shoes and, oh, I don’t know, a couple hundred grams of crack.”

“Crack?”

“Crystal meth, speed, whatever. You’ve got to be kidding me!” she exclaims. “This schedule is insane. Can’t you cut back?”

“You know how Ed is.” I cast a nervous look at his office.

“I know you have a problem saying no,” she retorts. “From ten to ten-thirty you’re visiting
eight
stores for write-ups? You’ve only got
fifteen minutes
to check out the Bund? You’re staying at
five
different hotels?”

“If I’m really organized it’ll be fine.”

She ignores me. “Oh good, I see you’ve allotted a whole
twenty minutes
to tour the French Concession and find your mother’s childhood home.” She looks up from the paper. “You’re eating five meals a day—breakfast, two lunches, and two dinners?”

“I have a very healthy appetite,” I say defensively.

She raises an eyebrow. “Whatever you say, Iz.”

S
hanghai, Hongqiao airport, 9:00
A.M
. My plane touched down late, delayed by wretched Beijing fog, and already I am behind schedule. I squirm in the backseat of my taxi, wanting to pound my fist against the window at the cars that inch along beside us. The driver looks at me and grins.
“Du che!”
he exclaims. Yes, I know we’re stuck in traffic! I grind my teeth together but manage a tight-lipped smile.

T
en-eight
A.M
. Finally, finally, finally at my hotel, the über-swish Maison de Chine. I hurl my bag into my room and follow the public relations manager, Summer, down the hall for a tour. “All of the hotel’s 259 rooms feature 800-plus thread count sheets, flat-screen televisions, and wireless Internet,” she intones. We pause outside a guest room door as she fumbles with the card key. “This is our superior room. You’ll notice it is vastly different from the deluxe room you’re staying in.” I glance around at the brocade curtains and dark furniture, everything identical, down to the forty-five-degree angle of the desk chair.

“Er, how exactly is it different?” I ask politely.

“The deluxe room is thirty square meters, while the superior is thirty-five square meters.” She shoots an exasperated glance in my direction. “Let’s move on to the premier room.”

T
en fifty-three
A.M
. I keep glancing pointedly at my watch, hoping that Summer will get the message and hustle up. No dice. “In the deluxe oriental suite you’ll see that the bath products are positioned in the sink and shower area, while in our regular rooms they’re only at the sink.” She glances at me, concern wrinkling her brow. “Aren’t you taking notes on this?”

E
leven-ten
A.M
. By walking very briskly through the F&B outlets, I’ve managed to shave a good eight minutes off the tour. “The last stop,” says Summer, pushing the elevator button for the basement. Thank God! “Our full-service spa offers treatments for the hurried business traveler. Thirty-minute aromatherapy massages, a forty-five minute pedicure, sixty-five minute facial.”
She hands me a heavy spa menu. “Too bad you’re in such a hurry, or I’d invite you for a massage. Looks like you could use it,” she smirks.

Grrr. Cheeky PR flak. I peer into a treatment room, which is dim and fragrant with lilies, echoing with the soothing sounds of rain and wind chimes. I imagine sinking onto the table and allowing someone to work loose the knot twisting from my neck to my shoulders…I glance at my watch. Shit!

T
wo-ten
P.M
. My original plan was to eat lightly at my first lunch, stroll the Bund, and then proceed, with renewed appetite, onto my second lunch. But thanks to sluggish Summer, minutes after gulping crème brûlée at Sens + Bund (they comped me a full platter of desserts for the “Beijing travel writer”—I should never have let Ed’s assistant make my reservations), here I am at M on the Bund, forcing down a forkful of lamb roasted in a salt crust.

“Complimentary risotto with shaved white truffle, madam,” the waiter says, setting down a steaming dish, aromatic with the earthy perfume of truffles. I gaze helplessly at the food and feel the waistband of my trousers suddenly give. The waiter and I watch as the button hits the hardwood floor with a rattle and bounces toward his left foot.

T
wo-fifteen
P.M
. I. Am. Never. Eating. Again.

T
wo forty-five
P.M
. I swear those bitchy waitresses were pointing at my gaping trousers and laughing at me as I staggered out of the restaurant. My stomach feels hard and massive, like it’s squeezing all the other organs out of place. Yes, I considered
going to the bathroom to, well, you know, but it seemed a little over-the-top Roman. Plus, I’m about four hours behind schedule. I don’t have time to purge. Must keep plugging along. Let’s see what’s next…

T
wo forty-seven
P.M
. There is absolutely no way I am going to the Four Seasons to check out their afternoon tea service! A cadre of Red Guards couldn’t drag me there. As I stare down at the schedule, I glimpse a flash of hot pink through my flapping waistband. Oh my God, can people see my underwear? A portly guy, flattop bristly as a hedgehog, strolls by and throws an appraising glance my way. I yank down my sweater. Great. I haven’t even been in Shanghai for six hours and already: (1) have consumed a month’s worth of calories, (2) burst open my only pair of trousers, (3) am about to get arrested for indecent exposure, or, worse, (4) solicitation.

T
wo-fifty
P.M
. Oh, hell. I don’t care if Ed shouts at me for not sticking to the schedule. I’m going to do something I want to do. I’m going to the French Concession to find my mother’s house.

A
battery of cars chokes Huaihai Zhong Lu, sending clouds of exhaust into my face. Up and down, up and down, I march along the busy avenue, trying to imagine my mother as a little girl, enduring the long walk from school, dragging her heavy book bag behind her. Shiny new buildings have replaced much of the Art Deco architecture that once characterized the former French Concession. But here and there I spy evidence of the neighborhood’s colonial past. Perhaps my mother stopped at that bakery
on the corner to buy cakes and sweet buns. Perhaps she hurried by the ornate, blue-domed Russian Orthodox church, afraid of the round-eyed, bearded, robe-clad men who lingered outside. Perhaps she took a shortcut through this quiet, tree-lined lane, or
long tang
, chasing a neighborhood tabby past the small gardens and attached houses.

I stop to peer at a street sign, but it’s not the one I need. The map says to go west, but which way is west? A fluttery feeling rises in my chest. It seemed like a good idea, this defiant break from Ed’s manic schedule, but a glance at my watch tells me that my hour detour has turned into two. I’ll have to give up soon if I’m going to complete at least one-third of the day’s planned activities.

Sighing, I turn around and make one last pass along the street, looking closely at every sign, searching for Lane 6. But, no. It might be there, twisting behind another street, but it’s not there for me, not today. Tears of disappointment prickle my eyes as I turn toward the rush of cars and look for a cab.

“Isabelle!”

Is someone calling my name? Impossible. I don’t know anyone in Shanghai. I face the traffic and stick out my hand.

“Isabelle!” There it is again. I glance around me but don’t see a familiar face in the rushing crowds. This is ridiculous. All that food must be making me slightly delusional.

“Isabelle Lee!” Running footsteps behind me and then a steady hand on my arm. I look up into Charlie’s calm blue eyes. “I’ve been calling your name—didn’t you hear me?” he asks, slightly out of breath.

“Oh! Hi!” I tug frantically at my sweater. “I thought I heard something, but I had this huge lunch, well, actually two huge lunches and then my pants—” I catch myself. “What are you doing here?”

“Just in town on some embassy business. I managed to escape my minder for a couple of hours to do some sightseeing.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles. “The French Concession is beautiful, isn’t it? I haven’t walked around here since I was an exchange student at Fudan.”

“You studied in Shanghai?” Surprise streaks my voice.

“Years ago, only for a summer. I helped a professor research old houses for a book on 1930s architecture. I used to know this neighborhood like the back of my hand, but it’s changed so much.” He shakes his head.

“Do you think…I mean, I know you’re busy but—” I swallow the words. What am I doing? Charlie is the American ambassador to China, busy improving U.S.-China relations and, er, other diplomatic stuff. He rides around in chauffeured Lincoln Town Cars and people address him as “sir.” He’s much too important to wander the streets of Shanghai with someone whose pants are falling down. “Never mind,” I mumble.

“What is it?” He reaches to touch my shoulder. “What do you need? Please, let me help you. I’d like to help.”

I take a deep breath. “I’m trying to find the house where my mother was born,” I tell him.

B
ack again on Huaihai Zhong Lu, or Avenue Joffre, as Charlie tells me it was called during its French treaty port heyday. But this time we veer off a meandering side street, Charlie tracing the way with sure footsteps. We walk under broad plane trees, passing restored French villas and Tudor-style houses. We peer into the windows of slick new boutiques and admire overgrown gardens.

“It’s so charming back here!” I exclaim. “It feels completely different from Beijing.” I gaze up at the spread of wide branches
against blue sky. “There are trees, and birds, and—and sidewalks!”

He laughs. “Beijing is a pedestrian death trap. They say the Shanghainese are more interested in making money than in breathing oxygen, but if you walk around the French Concession long enough you start to understand why people become obsessed with this city.”

“Are you obsessed with Shanghai?”

“Not really.” He turns to smile at me. “But I like its international flair, its complex, seedy history. Like that building.” He points to a majestic villa that spills over an entire street corner. “It’s a boutique hotel now, but look at that high stone wall…Can’t you imagine it as a gangster’s headquarters? Back in the 1930s every kid was terrified of being kidnapped and held for ransom. The alleys were lined with opium dens and brothels.” He shrugs. “The most interesting people and places have something to hide, don’t you think?”

“Maybe you were a Shanghainese mob boss in another life,” I tease.

He smiles. “Maybe.” We walk along in silence for a moment. “How about you?” he asks suddenly. “Do you think you lived here in another life?”

“If you’d asked me that about Beijing, I probably would have been offended. But Shanghai?” I glance around at the quiet lane in the heart of a modern city, at the red-tiled roofs, the old-fashioned rows of attached houses, their terraces billowing with clean laundry. “Oh, I’m pretty sure it’s in my DNA.”

By the time we turn down another winding alley, I’ve almost forgotten about my ruptured trousers, my abandoned schedule, my fear of Ed’s wrath. Charlie pauses in front of a large villa, elegantly Art Deco with clean lines and a curved bay window in front. “Could this be it?” he asks.

Most of the house is hidden by a large wall, but through the front gate I spy tall windows, an expansive garden, the high branches of a gingko tree. “Should we ring?” I ask, suddenly shy.

“Why not?”

“I’m not sure my Chinese is good enough to explain why I’m here…they might think I’m a crazy person.”

“Don’t worry.” He smiles encouragingly. “We can explain together.”

I press the buzzer, once, twice, three times. No answer.

“Looks like no one’s home,” I say. For the second time today disappointment floods me. I gaze up at the house but it’s almost entirely blocked by the stone wall. I can only glimpse the top of a window, the edge of a door. “Well,” I try to keep my voice cheerful, “I guess I’ll just have to come back another time.” I take one last look, teetering on my tiptoes for a better view, but it’s no use. Regretfully, I turn to go.

“Wait a second. I have an idea,” says Charlie. Suddenly he kneels next to me. “Get on my shoulders.”

“What are you doing?” I laugh. “Get up! Your suit’s going to get filthy.”

“You’ll be high enough to see over the wall. It’s not the same as going inside, but at least you can see the garden.”

I look at him, horrified. “Oh, I really don’t think that’s a good…Charlie, I’m just bumbling around China and you’re—”