Kitchen Chinese (7 page)

“They’re from Tianjin. Do you want hot sauce?”

I nod, and as he brushes chili sauce on the crepe’s delicate surface his mood seems to soften. “Have you eaten
jianbing
before?” he asks, placing a thin, crisp piece of deep-fried dough in the center, and folding the crepe into a thick, piping hot square.

“No, this is my first.”

He scoops the heavy package into a gauzy plastic sack and
hands it to me. It swings between my fingers with a pleasing weight, like a pendulum.

“Taste it!” he urges, but without napkins the crepe burns my fingertips.

“Did your mother teach you to make
jianbing
?” I ask instead.

His face brightens. “Yes! This is her recipe! The secret is when you mix this…” He points to the batter, making a stirring motion and continuing in a happy flood, much of which I don’t understand, though I continue nodding, smiling, and mimicking his hand motions. I think he says that the trick to delicate crepes is letting the batter rest overnight, but I make a mental note to ask Lily to find out for sure.

“How long have you been making street food?” I hand over two
kuai
, the equivalent of about twenty-five cents.

“I’ve owned this cart for almost ten years. I was one of the first snack sellers back when there was only cabbage stacked in the streets.” He straightens a plastic bowl with fingers that are stained with tobacco.

“Are you from Beijing?”

“No, I’m from the country near Tianjin. My parents are farmers…they don’t understand why I moved to the city. I don’t get to see them that often, but sometimes I can send them some money.” He sighs and I notice the tired lines that surround his eyes, his frayed trouser cuffs.

I pat the heavy mass of crepe; it’s cooled slightly, and so I take a bite, relishing its eggy warmth and salty, spicy sauces, the contrast of soft and crisp textures.

“Do you like it?”

It reminds me of the crepes I used to eat from the French café in my old New York neighborhood, fresh off the griddle, gooey with melted Gruyère, or sweet with Nutella. Except, this crepe, which I would have never recognized as Chinese, combines salty
and spicy, the sharp bite of scallion and lingering fragrance of cilantro giving it an enticing, exotic flair.

“It’s delicious,” I mumble through a full mouth, and he smiles.

“Chinese people love
jianbing.
But our family recipe is special.” He puffs with pride, and I feel a pang of sympathy for him and his old parents. I imagine them scrambling to put food on the table, tilling the countryside’s harsh, arid fields with gnarled hands and hunched backs.

Suddenly, the vendor’s cell phone trills a familiar mournful tune that I can’t quite place. What is it? I rack my brain as it repeats again and again, calling to mind images of pine trees, swaths of red and green, turkey (turkey?)…finally I pin it down: “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

The vendor extracts his phone from his pocket.
“Wei…? Ni hao, mm. Mm, mm, mm
.” I recognize “mm” as Beijing’s all-purpose sound of affirmation, and lean in to eavesdrop on the rest of his conversation.

“Waaa? Zenme hui shi…? Shi huaile ma? Shi bu shi che zhuang huaile?
” Uh-oh, sounds like something is broken. I examine the vendor’s battered cart, which hardly seems able to withstand Beijing’s potholed streets.

“Mm, mm, mm.”
More of the universal sound. Maybe I should try using that more.

He continues rapidly.
“Ni zai na’r?”
Where are you?
“Mm, mm…Hao, wo mashang jiu lai. Hao, hao, hao.”
I shift my bag to another shoulder and start to wonder if I should move on.

“Eh…zaijian.”
Oh, he seems to be wrapping it up.
“Eh, eh…zaijian.”
He lingers over the good-bye.
“Eh, eh, eh, zaijian!”
Finally, he punches a button to end the call and emits a heavy sigh.

“Who was that?”

“That was my younger brother…he’s had an accident…a donkey cart ran into his
jianbing
cart. Eggs and batter are running all over the street! I have to go help him.”

“Your brother also sells
jianbing
?”

“Yeah…he rents a cart from me, so do a couple of people from my hometown.”

“How many carts do you own?”

“Oh, only about thirty right now. When I save up some money, I buy another one and rent it out to someone from my village. I’d like to have one on every street in Beijing!”

“Like McDonald’s!” I joke.

“Exactly,” he says seriously. “
Jianbing
are part of China’s culture and cuisine. And this is the right time to expand. Right now, in Beijing, anything is possible.” He clips a plastic lid on his bucket of batter, secures a few cartons of eggs with rubber bands, and walks to the front of the cart where he swings a leg over the bicycle-style seat.

“Zaijian!”
he calls out. Good-bye. “I’m here every morning. I hope you’ll bring your foreign friends to eat
jianbing
.”

I take another enormous bite as he pedals away. The growl in my stomach subsides, satisfied by delicious crepe, and I walk slowly to the office through narrow streets, pausing occasionally to examine the other
bing
on offer.

S
unday morning. Outside, the sky is dark with rain and the heavy, hanging pollution I’m beginning to associate with Beijing. But inside it’s bright and dry, a cozy nest far from the deluge that streaks the streets. Claire has disappeared for the weekend. “We’re riding Harleys out to Weiwei’s house in Huairou, darling. You’ll be all right, won’t you?” she’d called out while cramming Seven jeans and silk pajamas into her LV overnight bag. Too em
barrassed to remind her that she said we’d hang this weekend, I waved her off with an assured smile.

Now, as rain streams across the windows, I decide to recreate a bit of my former New York life, reading the weekend paper while eating a tender cheese omelet. Claire may be enjoying a weekend of pampering at her friend Weiwei’s cold, concrete-and-glass country house—more postmodern showcase than home, from what I can tell by the spread in
Elle Décor China
—but I can indulge in my own lazy morning. After the stress of last week, I feel like I deserve it.

Ed liked my article on Beijing’s bounty of
bing
, but was nonplussed that Lily would have to double-check the Chinese. “Speaking Chinese is part of your job, Isabelle,” he bellowed, sweat breaking out on his forehead. “I don’t give a shit about your identity crisis!
Improve it
.”

“I know I should make more of an effort.” I glanced guiltily at Geraldine. “I mean, I
am
Chinese.”

She shrugged. “You don’t see me learning Polish. Anyway, don’t worry. Your Chinese will get better. Just give it time. I can help you find a tutor.”

“What she needs is a Chinese boyfriend!” barked Ed.

But as I hover over the newsstand counter in our apartment lobby, I find myself hampered by the language once again.

“Do you have the
International Herald Tribune
?” I ask.

The blank look on the shop girl’s face indicates she doesn’t understand me, so I make a weak effort to ask in Chinese.
“Guoji…shenme shenme baozhi
.” International…something something newspaper.

Nothing.

The image of myself spending a happy morning lounging at the kitchen table, mulling over the crossword puzzle, is slipping away.

Determined, I make a final attempt.
“Guoji…shenme shenme baozhi?”
Inside, I’m cringing.

“Guoji Xianqu Daobao,”
I hear a voice say. “Is this what you’re looking for?” A paper is placed upon the counter, fresh and new with the seductive scent of newsprint.

“Yes!” I exclaim. Turning around, I find a grave young man, politely attentive with tousled light brown hair and tortoiseshell glasses.

“Thank you so much.” I gush to cover up my scrutiny. “But, I’m afraid this might be the last paper…”

“That’s okay. I’m getting too addicted to the crossword anyway. I’m Charlie, by the way.” His voice is quietly courteous, with a light American accent.

“Isabelle, from the twentieth floor.”

“Hello Isabelle-from-the-twentieth-floor. It’s nice to meet someone else young around this mausoleum.”

“Oh, are you new here?”

“No, I’ve been in Beijing for almost two years. But I have to admit I don’t know too many of my neighbors. Too much time at work.” He laughs ruefully.

“What do you do?” Oh God, I sound just like my mother.

“I work at the American embassy.” He shoots me a piercing look. “And you? How long have you been in Beijing?”

“Me? Oh, almost a month. I live with my sister, Claire.”

“Are you Claire Lee’s little sister?” He raises his eyebrows. “She mentioned you, but I didn’t realize…hm. So, how do you like writing for
Beijing NOW
?”

“How do you know Claire?” I don’t know why I’m asking. Claire is the queen bee of Beijing’s expat society, her oval face always in
Beijing NOW
’s society page, her name on every guest list.

“Claire? Doesn’t she know everyone?” says Charlie, and I think I detect a slight, ironic note in his voice. “She’s Wang Wei’s
girlfriend, which automatically makes her one of Beijing’s beautiful people.”

I manage to arrange my face into a knowing smile and nod. Who is Wang Wei? Is that who’s been making her cry?

“Um…” I try to cover up my confusion. “How do you like working at the embassy?”

“Oh, it’s busy.” He sighs, and I notice the graying temples that belie his youthful face. “I think morale’s a little low, but it’s fine.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. One of Claire’s friends works in the visa section. He was complaining about the ambassador…said he was a tyrant, stuck-up and arrogant.” The words tumble out.

“Hm. And I was ready to chalk the poor morale up to America’s bad global position.” For a second Charlie’s shoulders seem to slump, but then he glances at his watch and says with a smile, “Well, speaking of work, I better be off.” He shakes my hand. “It was very nice to meet you, Isabelle. If you ever need to borrow a cup of sugar or want help with the crossword puzzle, just let me know. I’m in 3002.”

“Thanks.”

“And tell your sister hello, if you see her.” His glance is thoughtful as he steps into the revolving door with a small wave.

Back in Claire’s kitchen, I pile eggs, milk, cheese, and butter on the shining granite counter and begin grating and whisking. I turn to the stove, which our housekeeper, Wang Ayi, scrubbed clean yesterday. Her biweekly visits mean Claire and I don’t argue over laundry or cleaning the bathroom, and we split her pay, the equivalent of fifty dollars a month, between us. Claire has met Wang Ayi only once, but I often come home to find her ironing Claire’s beautifully tailored suits and my ragged jeans.
Sometimes she helps me with my Chinese, revealing the names of fresh herbs and vegetables, and pointing out the best foreign grocery stores. We call her
ayi
, or aunt, though she’s unlike my mother’s big-haired, sharp-tongued sister, but more like a kind and cozy grandma.

I heat a nonstick pan over a low flame and melt a lump of butter, breathing in its milky scent, careful not to let it brown and burn, and slide in the eggs, stirring constantly. My first omelet was a disastrous combination of rubbery and runny, caused by an overzealous blast of heat. I’d made it for Rich after our first night together. He’d taken one look and dumped it in the trash with one hand, while reaching for the eggs and milk with the other. “
Ma petite
Isabelle,” he said with a smile that surely wasn’t patronizing. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

Now as I break the curds that form on the bottom of the pan, I sigh. I’m certainly better off without Rich, with his arrogance and affectations, but cooking reminds me of our weekends together, our companionship. I slide the omelet onto a plate and admire it: light and pale yellow, tender to the touch and filled with melted cheese. Perfection.

I take my plate and newspaper to the kitchen table and close my eyes for a minute. Outside, the summer storm rumbles, the dark skies reflecting my heavy mood. Right now Rich is twelve time zones away, probably on a date, sipping vodka martinis and regaling her with tales of his crazy ex-girlfriend who got fired and moved to China. And I am alone. In a strange city. I open the paper and fold it to the crossword puzzle.

A six-letter word for one forced into the aesthetic life? H-E-R-M-I-T.

I
find the postcard after work, wedged beneath our doormat with only a bright corner peeping out. It’s a picture of Tintin crouched in a boat, his quiff of hair blowing in the sea breeze. I flip it over and am surprised to find that it’s not from one of Claire’s admirers, but is addressed to me.

At the bottom is his cell phone number, neatly printed. I examine the front of the postcard, remembering Charlie’s warm smile and intelligent blue eyes. A flurry of nerves flutters into the pit of my stomach.

“Don’t be silly,” I mutter to myself. “He’s not interested in you. He’s just being friendly.”

“Who’s just being friendly?” says Claire, strolling into the room.

I hide my surprise at seeing her, along with the mess of bag and shoes I’ve just dumped in the hall. Claire’s exacting neatness has prodded me into tidiness, but it’s an unnatural state. I force myself to conduct a sweep every night, gathering up the flotsam of clothes, books, and mugs that magically accumulates in my wake.

“Hi! You’re home early!”

“I took the afternoon off.” She swigs from the bottle of green tea in her manicured hand. “Anyway, who’s just being friendly?”

“What? Oh, just someone at work,” I say, feeling the heat creep into my cheeks.

“Is Ed hitting on you?” says Claire with a tinkling laugh. “He’s such a cad. Ignore him, darling. He’s totally harmless.”

“Um, yeah.” I slip the postcard into my pocket and try to change the subject. For some reason, I feel shy talking to her about Charlie. “So, you took the afternoon off? I didn’t know you were planning that.”

“I was supposed to pick a friend up at the airport but he decided to stay in Shanghai an extra night.” She picks up the current issue of
Beijing NOW
and starts to flip through it.

I peer over her shoulder. The magazine is open to the society page, with a snap of Claire at the Latin Ball in the center. In the photo, she’s in profile, her fine features edged by a long swish of silky hair, her laughing face turned toward someone outside of the frame.

“Did you guys crop this photo? Wang Wei’s not going to like that,” she mutters.

Ah, the elusive Wang Wei. After Charlie mentioned him last week, I did a little nosing around. As it turns out, Wang Wei has quite a reputation. When I asked Geraldine about him, she visibly recoiled.

“You don’t know Wang Wei?” Her eyes widened. “He’s the head of Capital Property. You know, Beijing’s biggest real estate developer?” She dropped her voice. “According to the rumors, he’s emptied two-thirds of Beijing’s
hutongs
. He forces residents to leave by harassing them or paying them a pittance, promises to preserve the historic area, then turns around, rips down their houses and develops multibillion dollar blocks of condos.”

“Diabolical,” I breathed.

She shrugged. “Or brilliant, depending on who you’re talking to.”

Now, I glance at my sister, her smooth, pale skin, the nervous crease in her forehead. “Who’s Wang Wei?” I ask, as casually as I can.

To my surprise, color floods into her face, her ears and neck turning scarlet. “He’s a friend of mine.” She flips hurriedly through the rest of the magazine before snapping it shut. “He and I—we see each other. Out. At parties, sometimes. He’s in real estate. He developed Midtown East. You know, that huge apartment complex near the East Third Ring Road.” The words tumble out in fits and starts, as if she wants to stop herself but can’t.

In the past, I might have dispelled the awkward silence that follows by blurting out the first inane thought to pop into my head. But Ed has been trying to teach me the art of nonresponse as an interview technique. “Make the silence work for you,” were his exact words.

“Mm.” I try to make my voice sound encouraging.

To my surprise, she continues, jolting along in the same bro
ken rhythm. “In fact, he’s—the friend. The one I was going to pick up. At the airport. Today. But he had to stay in Shanghai an extra night.” She crosses her arms and sighs.

Another stretch of silence descends, during which I immobilize my lips through sheer willpower.

“It’s still pretty new,” she adds finally. “We’re not serious. Or anything. That’s why I haven’t introduced you yet…” She fiddles with the buttons on her shirt. “You’re not going to tell Mom, are you?” she asks suddenly. A look of panic—or is it guilt?—flashes across her face.

Telling our mother is the furthest thing from my mind, but I’m surprised Claire wouldn’t want me to mention Wang Wei. We both receive regular e-mails from our mom in which she expounds upon her concern that we’re still single and in our thirties. “You’re not going to be young forever,” she wrote to me just last week. “Your father and I would feel so much better if you settled down.” I’d have thought Claire would be excited to tell Mom she has a new boyfriend—anything to stop the endless suggestions that she set us up with her mahjong partner’s sister’s son, or sign us up with some ridiculous dating service in Taiwan called the Love Boat.

“Of course I won’t tell her, if you don’t want me to,” I promise. “But I would love to meet him,” I can’t resist adding.

“Yeah…” Claire looks doubtful. “Maybe. Sometime. Coordinating our schedules is crazy—he’s super busy and you know how things are at my office!” She flaps a hand to indicate a flurry of activity. “I hardly get to even see
you,
and we live together!” She laughs and her cheeks return to their normal color. “What are you up to tonight? I was supposed to go to Samantha Hong’s party at Centro with Wang Wei, but since he’s still in Shanghai…Do you want to go as my plus one?”

“Oh! I would love to, but—”

“You have plans,” she says crisply, and my heart sinks.

“I’m really sorry. Look, why don’t I call Geraldine and cancel. We can go out to dinner, catch up…”

“It’s okay, sweetie.” She lightly touches my shoulder. “Let’s just do it another time. I should probably put in an appearance at Sammy’s soiree, anyway.” And before I can say another word, she’s gone into her room and shut the door.

I
feel so guilty!” I groan and lift my heavy goblet of too-sweet sangria for another sip.

“Isabelle. You’re being ridiculous.” Geraldine crosses her arms. “Just because Claire is suddenly at a loose end doesn’t mean you have to drop everything to hang out with her. She never makes time for you.”

“That’s not fair,” I say. “She’s always inviting me to do things. I just…don’t always enjoy seeing her friends.” Can’t stand them, is more like it. Especially her expat friends, a wealthy crowd who seem determined to forget they live in China. The last time I met her best friend, Mimi, a twiglike blonde from Brussels, she told me the best thing about living in Beijing was the cheap domestic help.

Geraldine and I are sitting outside at Kasbah, a Middle Eastern restaurant opened by Joey Han, a budding entrepreneur from Sha’anxi who has never set foot in a souk. Rough kilim cushions support our backs and a bouquet of lit incense sticks wards off the summer’s final mosquitoes. I squint my eyes against the table’s candlelight and watch a belly dancer shake her way around a table crowded with expat men—Americans, I’d bet from their whoops and whistles.

“And she’d just opened up to me about Wang Wei…” I sigh.

“What? What about Wang Wei?” Geraldine’s voice sharpens.

“They’re dating. She claims it’s not serious, but I think she really likes him. Why?”

Geraldine’s mouth is twisted into a grimace. “Let’s just say Wang Wei has quite a reputation.”

“You mean, a girl in every port? That type of reputation?”

She hesitates. “More like a girl on every block.” She slides the pitcher of sangria toward her and starts refilling our glasses. “Ugh, what a mess! Poor Claire. I feel sorry for her.”

“Don’t.” I think of my sister’s pale face, secret and closed. “She would be mortified by our pity.” I offer her a rueful smile.

“So I shouldn’t invite her to the karaoke and hot pot night I’m organizing for Thursday?” Geraldine teases.

“Not unless the hot pot is Kobe beef and the karaoke features gold-plated microphones.” I crunch down on an ice cube.

“But you’re coming, right?” Geraldine fishes an apple wedge out of her glass and gives me an expectant look.

“Oh, I don’t think you want to hear me sing.” I laugh. “Anyway, I think I have plans with my neighbor.”

“Reallllllly?” Geraldine raises her eyebrows. “The mysterious crossword-loving diplomat asked you out on a date? Have you found out any more details about him?”

“No. Just that his name is Charlie and he lives in our building.” I shrug. “Anyway, I don’t think it’s a date. He’s just being nice. He left me a postcard because he didn’t have my number.”

“Very clever.” She nods approvingly. “Where are you going?”

“I’m not sure…” I fumble in my bag and pull out the postcard. “Some Japanese-Italian restaurant…near Guomao?”

“Le Café Igosso. Wow.”

“Have you heard of it?”

“Heard of it? It’s only Beijing’s most romantic restaurant. Cozy, intimate. Interesting food. Great wine list. As the city’s foremost restaurant critic, you’re supposed to know these things,” she teases.

“You don’t think it’s a date, do you?” The waitress deposits a giant platter of lamb kebobs on the table, but I suddenly feel too jittery to eat.

“A date? No,” says Geraldine, tearing meat off a skewer with a pair of chopsticks and stuffing it into a piece of bread.

Despite myself, disappointment nips a tiny, stinging bite.

“I think it’s a hot date.” She grins before sinking her teeth into her sandwich.

B
y Thursday, I am plucked, polished, and pulled into a frenzy. Charlie and I are meeting in the apartment lobby at eight, and I leave work early, with the hopes of calming myself with a hot shower and chilled glass of wine.

“You’re leaving?” booms Ed as I try to slip out the office back door.

“I, uh, have to interview someone for that story I told you about,” I say, as my palms grow damp. I glance at my watch. “Oops, I’m running late. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.” I stride to the elevators without glancing back.

I return home to a silent apartment, kick off my shoes, and pad through the cavernous hall to my bathroom, where I turn on the shower and allow the water to heat. In my bedroom I throw open my closet doors and examine my clothes, wishing I could phone Julia. Every girl needs a fashion advisor and she’s always been mine. Our daily contact at work meant she knew my clothes better than I did, and her sage advice even led to my first successful story pitch (pleated skirt, ballet flats, string of pearls).

I glance at the clock, but it is still too early to call New York. I squeeze into my favorite jeans, wincing at the snug waistband—must cut back on the greasy
jiachangcai
—rifle through the closet and find Julia’s going away present, a dainty chiffon top with
ruffled sleeves that flutter when I move. Wearing it seems like receiving her seal of approval, and I smile as I dry my hair into a lustrous mass, slick on a bit of lip gloss, and pull on a pair of gold sandals before clicking my way out the door.

Dawdling over my clothes has made me late. Charlie waits by the mailboxes, and as I cross over to him I feel the eyes of every person in the lobby watching us. I give them all a small wave, the sullen-faced doorman, the skinny, acne-pocked girl behind the front desk, the matronly woman who runs the dry-cleaning service, but their curiosity remains unabashed. I feel their eyes bore into my back as Charlie leans down and politely kisses me on both cheeks.

“It’s great to see you,” he says, and his smile is so warm that I almost forget my nerves.

“Thanks.” I smile back and note with some dismay Charlie’s dark suit, the crisp white shirt, and elegant slash of red tie. “Sorry, I think I’m a little underdressed,” I say. Suddenly, my jeans and skimpy top seem juvenile and sloppy.

“Actually, I’m the one who should be apologizing. I meant to change, but ran out of time.”

“Do you want to run upstairs? I’ll wait for you.”

“Nah, it’s okay. A few more hours in this monkey suit won’t matter.”

We walk into the dry summer evening and Charlie hails a cab from the cars inching along Guanghua Lu.

“Do you spend most of your life in a suit?” I ask after we’ve clambered into the backseat and Charlie has given the driver the address.

“Yes. I feel like I should just wear them to bed. Someone should design a sleep-and-go men’s wear line.”

“It would have to be made out of wrinkle-free material,” I say with a nervous laugh. A faint smile makes his eyes crinkle.

For a moment silence descends, and I worry that the evening will be awkward, but then Charlie starts asking me questions about the magazine and I tell him about Ed’s temper and our family-style staff lunches, and the sound our censor, Tang Laoshi, makes when he reads something deemed inappropriate.

“His face turns beet red and he’ll start shaking his finger and going
‘Juh juh juh juh!’
It’s really awful, because on one hand it’s so irritating that he’s spiking a story, but on the other hand you’re afraid he’s going to have a stroke.”

“I’m going to have to try that when the Ministry of Foreign Affairs tells me something I don’t what to hear.
Juh juh juh!
”

“No, it’s more from the back of the throat—like
‘juh juh juh juh juh!’
”

The cab driver turns around to give us a disapproving stare that lasts the length of a red light.
“Laowai,”
I hear him mutter as he turns around and snaps on the radio at top volume. Foreigners.

Charlie shoots me a glance and we both stifle a laugh. He grins and it occurs to me that, despite his polished calm, perhaps he was also a bit nervous.