Chen spoke to himself. “There are another fifteen poems in this series to translate. I’ll have to do that myself. But Edmund’s history seems complete.”
“Hey, want to hear this? This is Jack’s interview of Keye Luke.”
Chen looked up, but he hadn’t heard Paul. He muttered, “Then there are the footnotes.”
Paul got up to peruse a spread of photographs on the coffee table. He stared at a black-and-white photo of a Chinese man holding a pole balanced with two baskets filled with chickens. The man in the photo and those around him were wearing traditional jackets, slippers, and Western hats.
Chen glanced over and said, “Arnold Genthe. Took those in Chinatown before the earthquake. Tangrenbu: what they called Chinatown in those days. I’ve been collecting them. Thought there might be something we could use.”
Paul nodded and stared a long time at a second photo, of a little girl standing in front of similar baskets. Her Chinese jacket looked soiled, torn and shredded at the sleeves; her pajama pants were wide. Perhaps she had to carry those baskets on her back.
“In that drawer over there.” Chen pointed. “There may be another box of photos.”
Paul pulled out a large tin box and pried open the cover. It was filled with envelopes filled with photographs. He rummaged through and pulled out a large portrait of a young Chinese man and woman. The woman was wearing a simple gown and holding a small bouquet of flowers. The man was dressed in a tux. In the can there were other photos of the same woman, standing on the Golden Gate, sitting under a tree at a picnic, standing on what seemed to be the Stanford campus. She wore a short-sleeved sweater and pleated skirt. Her hair was bobbed, her bangs cut straight against her forehead. Paul had very little memory of his mother, but the small pounding in his chest told him that these images matched the ones he knew. He looked up at Chen, who was buried in Edmund’s text.
Those days Chen only thought of Edmund’s work—Edmund’s brilliant scholarship, Edmund’s genius, the tragic loss of Edmund. Chen had realized that there would be no outlet for his own poetry, and that like his own teacher before him, his writing was out of touch with the people. Who were “the people”? They were young people like Paul and Jack, who had a vision for a new literature. It was now their turn. Of this new generation, only Edmund had read Chen’s poetry and knew its flavor and value, but Edmund was no longer. Paul’s father’s newspaper was no longer. It was a limited readership in a foreign land. He could write equally well in French or English, but he did not find his creative voice there. He was not a Nabokov or a Conrad, in that sense. Out of necessity, he had become a scholar and a translator.
He hid his slight intellectual disdain of Paul’s project, which seemed to him dislocated from literary history whether Western or Asian, but especially Asian. He knew that it was a breaking away and a breaking out, that someone had to stand up to American racism and to claim American English. He knew the political meaning of literary acts. He knew that if Paul and his generation of writers wanted a history, they would have to dig it up and invent it for themselves. He believed in this and accepted his small part: consulting, translating, offering historic accuracy and money. But Paul sensed what Chen would not admit: how much Chen missed Edmund and how he had thought that Edmund would eventually play out his political calling for more literary pursuits. So it’s not only a question of the role of your teacher, a role that might arise from happenstance, but also your role as a student, finally chosen to succeed. Paul knew that Chen had chosen Edmund.
It shouldn’t have mattered. Paul loved Chen, and Chen loved Paul. But the elegant portrait of the Chinese man and woman with the flower bouquet told Paul more than he wanted to know. Paul saw the soft features of his mother that matched his own, his own questioning eyes. And the beautiful Chinese groom was Wen-guang Chen. Paul slipped the photos back into the tin can, walked away from the house in Marin, following the winding streets down from its overhanging cliff.
After some time Chen checked his watch and turned on the evening news. Walter Cronkite presided from his desk as a frantic crowd of people scaled the walls of the American Embassy in Saigon; others fought to jam themselves against and even hang off waiting helicopters.
“Paul!” Chen ran from the room, but Paul had boarded the ferry and was crossing the bay back to Chinatown.
9: Authentic Chinese Food
How many places you gotta go before you find a decent bowl of noodles? Two? Three? Ten? Decent in this town—O.K., two, three, why not? We got standards and competition, so for decent, it’s not a problem. But if you’re serious, if you take your noodles seriously, you got to do your homework. Now I tell you what: true noodle connoisseur, he takes his noodles late at night. Gotta be after nine, earliest. Later the better. Midnight. You know why? It’s the soup; all day long the bones and leftovers getting thrown in that pot, simmering down easy, see. Already your choices narrowed, right? Gotta be those joints open to the wee hours.
Chen, see, he’s got what I call the palate. So he does the noodles tour. Not like a tourist thing, more like a quest. Not that he couldn’t make quality noodles himself. It’s the gritty kind he’s after, the kind you can only get in a busy kitchen at the end of the day. It’s a return to his bohemian days, but now he’s got money. Could be it’s an opera or a concert, classy event like that, or the last showing of a movie. Could be it’s a smoky house of jazz and blues. That’s just the set-up. Then he peels away for the noodles showdown.
So that’s how I meet Chen Wen-guang. I call him Wen for short. It’s one a.m., and we’re at the counter side by side at the Cathay. We got the same bowl of noodles, ’cept he’s dressed nice. Madison Avenue’s finest. ’Course by this time of night, he’s got his silk tie stretched out and thrown over his shoulder. Jacket is hanging off the stool behind him. Time was I could afford suits like that, make a killing back of Lucky M and go out and buy me the best. Pinstriped, double-breasted, silk hanky. But that was before my union days.
Wen’s got his eyes closed, concentrating. Then he takes up a slurp of the noodles and gets the texture between his teeth. I look at him, and I say, “Pork neck. Could use a few more.”
He says, “Snout. That would do it, too.”
And I know he knows. It’s the sticky cartilage that gives a soup grip. I’m impressed.
Then he says, “And some more white pepper.”
He nabbed it.
And that’s how it started. I say, “Have you tried Chop Suey House over on Post?” And we meet there the next week, and every week practically we’re on the quest.
So one night I tell him this story:
Long long time ago in a faraway place, two lovers meet every solstice, summer and winter. That’s the only time. Twice a year. You know, the gods. They control everything in those times. So those lovers they make the most of it. You bet. Having sex this way and that, like in those Indian instruction books, Kama Sutra. Hey, I know my stuff. Pathetic old codger like me. That’s me in book six. But I been to every other book. Yeah, I been there. O.K., nowadays Joy of Sex, right? Like that. You use your imagination. Wet. Sticky. Hot. Rolling around. Running around. You got a chance only twice a year, you better be good. You remember your best times and then you double that. No, you triple that. Imagine that. That’s probably why the gods prohibited it. They were jealous.
Then, you know, after you spend that kind of energy, you gotta eat. Now, this is the important part. This is when the lovers appease the gods, or who knows, maybe they won’t let them come together next solstice. Hey, it can’t be just any food, rush out and get a burger. Young people these days think porno and burgers. No, these lovers have the palate. Palate of the gods. Gotta be maybe a ten-course meal. They do the jan ken pon for who dishes up the first course, and then it’s back and forth, each one trying to outdo the other, appetizer to dessert. Now this is some good cooking. Finest ingredients. Highest quality. And everything perfect like a concert. Pungent dishes followed by subtle and refreshing. Crunchy to smooth and
succulent. Chicken to pork to duck to beef to fish.
So I tell Wen this story. I say to him, “You know this story? It’s a classic.”
He looks at me like, if anybody knows a classic, he’s the one. Stuck-up son of a bitch. I can say that, you know. He’s my friend, like a kid brother.
I say, “Every Asian people has a version of this very story. Japanese, Korean, Pilipino, Vietnamese. Some things different. Sometimes the sex before. Sometimes after, but basically the same story.”
“And different menus.”
“Now you’re talking.”
I get serious. “This is the great myth of Asian peoples. How can the West compare? All they got is that poison apple.”
Wen laughs.
“Think about it. Innocence to knowledge. Good and evil. And then they get to have sex. What kind of screwed up thinking is that?”
Wen orders another beer.
“Sex is everything. Beginning of the universe. It’s one big—” My gesture says it all.
Wen and I toast.
I continue, “But it’s more than meets the eye. Complicated. Two cooks can’t live together!”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s true what they say. Too many cooks, you know? Got to be one palate at a time, but like a balancing act. You Chinese say, yin and yang. And each gonna offer the other the most delicious dish possible, but it’s also competition. It gets more intense with each dish. So the gods know what they’re doing. Keep the lovers apart, they get the best possible meal.”
“That’s the moral of the story?”
“I don’t know nothing about morals. What’s the moral about that apple? Don’t go talking to snakes? It’s already too late. It’s like life. You want good sex? You want good food? You gotta go to the trouble.”
“What about companionship?”
By now, I know. Wen’s living in some big house all by himself.
“I’m living how many years by myself in that I-Hotel? I used to have a regular girlfriend, but then she disappeared. I never see her again. So what’s left? I got food. I’m fighting this eviction thing.”
Wen looks sad.
“Listen,” I say, “Wen, my friend. You still young, but I tell you something they never tell you when you’re young. You think you gotta have your woman. That’s what you hungry for all the time. Guys like me don’t have that chance. So we got that knowledge. But I tell you this. Most important thing you gotta learn is to be alone. I think I’m not cut out for this. I go back to the Philippines or something. But this is my home now after fifty years. It’s my freedom. I’m gonna die free. And I’m gonna die alone. Same for everyone.”
I don’t see Wen for a while, then he comes around and we go look for noodles like usual. He says, “I been thinking about your story.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, the part where I’m confused is the menu. You said twice a year on the solstices. That’s summer and winter. How about the equinoxes? Spring and fall?”
“O.K., we can change the story. Why not? Four times a year.”
“You can change the myth like that?”
“Why not? It’s my myth. I change it if I want.”
“Is that so?”
“This is improvement. Definitely. You got to get the variety of food in each season. Of course! Spring duck! Summer could be tropical, refreshing. Fall, big harvest. Winter gotta braise the meats, slow cooking in heavier wines.” So that’s when we start to make menus. I say, “At night, I’m dreaming menus. Like summer. First course: lime ceviche, try albacore.”
He says, “Second course: drunken chicken in Shao-hsing wine.”
I say, “Fried lobster claws.”
He says, “Cold sour soup with cucumber.”
I say, “Peking duck on steamed bread.”
He says, “Zucchini flowers and tofu.”
I say, “Barbecued spareribs.”
He says, “Beef with asparagus.”
I say, “Brandied scallops.”
He says, “Lychee sorbet.” Then he says, “The first dish, ceviche. That’s not Chinese.”
“Who said it has to be Chinese? What about lychee sorbet?”
“Closer than ceviche. We do South America later. For authenticity, the menu should match the Chinese version of the myth.”
“O.K. Squab-stuffed mushrooms.”
“Now I’m hungry.”
“O.K. You buy the ingredients, I make everything. Completely authentic. You gonna think you’re Nixon in China. I heard he got himself a Chinese cook, but common knowledge he’s Pilipino.”
“You’re lying.”
“Maybe not. You look around. Take the movies. Pilipinos stand in for everything: Indian, Mexican, Chinese, Egyptian, Hawaiian. That’s what good coloring does for you.”
“What’s the movies got to do with this?”
“Hey, I cook you any kind of cooking. Doesn’t matter. People come peek in the kitchen to see who the chef is. Ask me, when did you come here from Japan? Or, you must be French Vietnamese. Did you get your training in France? I always say, that’s right. How did you know?”
So that’s how every once in a while I go to Wen’s place, put on my chef hat, and cook. Always a crowd there testing the palate. Like I said. At night, I’m dreaming menus. O.K., I’m dreaming beautiful women too, but all I remember in the morning is the menu. Think about it. Beautiful menu like a beautiful woman: refreshing, delicate, sophisticated, succulent, juicy, spicy. Takes your breath away. You die happy. So if I give the menu to Wen, one day we go shopping. Half of my dream comes true. What you think? Fifty percent is pretty good for old guy like me.
People say, you gonna give us cooking lessons. Pass on the traditions. Pass on the secrets. I say sure. I pass on everything. Some say, what is it? The ingredients? You get this stuff imported? I say, I don’t know. Most of it hundred percent American ingredients. Made in America. Where you think we are? Some stuff you improvise. Make your own. Then there’s bird nests and shark fins. Ube and taro. If you get your hands on the exotic stuff, they all go wild. They can’t believe their taste buds. But from my point of view, it’s only fifty percent ingredients. Other fifty percent is technique. Every cuisine got technique. You got to know the way. For Chinese, it’s the way of fire.
So Wen’s got a celebration going, and three of us taking turns with the dishes. Wen, he got a duck smoked in tea, red peppers, cinnamon, and star anise. Then Jack Sung’s making lobster Cantonese with black beans. But I got the piece of resistance.
Jack says, “Hey, manong. You starting to sound like Master Po.”
“That’s me. Kung fu cooking master.”
“What’s that dish you got there?”
“You know this dish? Mrs. Nixon’s favorite.”
“Mrs. Watergate herself?”
“Serious. I made it for her in the Great Hall when she visited China in 1972.”
Wen laughs. “Another true story.”
I take out the Life magazine and show Jack the pictures. “Here it is. You call this dish, ‘lady’s quivering buttocks.’”
“No fucking shit!”
“Dongpo pork,” says Wen. “It’s a Song Dynasty recipe named after the poet Su Dongpo. Dongpo wrote a poem for this dish: ‘In Praise of Pork.’”
“He compares it to a lady’s quivering buttocks?”
“Why not?”
“Oh, mama!”
The pork belly melts between your teeth. Like I said, it’s a piece of resistance.
“What else you cook up for Pat?”
“Oh, jasmine chicken soup, three-colored sharks fins, smoked duck in tea.”
“And they say I’m bourgeois.”
“You convert to Mao, we let you eat like this too. By the way, this was Mao’s favorite too. That’s why I make it. To honor Mao.”
“End of an era.”
We toast to Mao, who just died. We toast to Chou En-lai, died in January. “To the end of the Long March.”
“That’s it,” Ja
ck says. “You should write a cookbook.”
“I been thinking the same thing. I base it on the classic Asian myth of the two separated lovers.”
“What’s that?”
I tell him the tragic story of the lovers that all Asians should know.
“Chen, this guy’s a real bullshitter.”
“You look it up. All Asian people know this myth.”
Wen winks. “Look it up.”
I say, “My idea for the cookbook is simple. We do Asian American cuisine. American because we use ingredients found in America. Imported is O.K. Ajinomoto. Soy sauce. Wonton wrappers. Then we do ten-course menus in Chinese, Japanese, Pilipino, Korean, you name your Asian American. Only problem is I can’t write.”
Jack says, “You leave that to me.”
“You got to tell the classic myth. That’s the key.”
“If you insist.”
Wen knows better. “And we have to test all the recipes.”
“No problem. I volunteer.”
I say, “After Nixon in China, you see all these Chinese cookbooks. Problem I see is no pictures. I gotta have pictures in my cookbook.”
So after this, I’m telling Jack the menus and the recipes, and Wen is painting pictures of the food. He’s also got poems in Chinese next to the pictures. How do I know what they say? I say to him he better have sex in those poems, like “quivering buttocks.”
He says, “Don’t worry.” Up in his studio, he’s painting every day. I find out he quits teaching. Quits writing his books. It’s just painting and cooking and writing poetry.
I say, “Maybe you taking this thing too far. After all, just a cookbook. Me, I still got to go out and protest, argue with the mayor. Stop this eviction. If I don’t do that, I got no place to live. What’s a cookbook?”
“Not just any cookbook,” he says. I can see he’s fighting loneliness. Working out his freedom. He makes arrangements of food and paint. We go to the markets and he sketches everything. When we cook, he’s got his paintbrush right there in the kitchen, and he gets the inspiration. Quick brush work. He’s painting everything. Knives and woks, ducks and bamboo, lobsters and mangos. Step by step and more poems. It’s all there. Pretty soon, you see a whole world.
1968- Eye Hotel Page 12