by Ruth Reichl
“This isn’t rural?” muttered Ed.
“In the afternoons,” Mr. Lee continued, “you will be on your own. For your personal safety I must emphasize that you talk to no one.” Once again he stared, intent and silent, at the group. Finally he pointed to the door at the end of the lobby and said, “Shall we have dinner now?”
“Can we talk to the waiter?” asked Ed.
Mr. Lee did not understand the humor. “Oh yes,” he replied. “He is authorized.”
“What about Mr. Chen?” I asked. “Do you know how I might find him? I promised my friend in New York that I would.”
“That will not be possible,” said Mr. Lee firmly. “There are so many people named Chen here, how would I know which one you wanted? And even if I knew how to find this person you speak of . . . ” His voice trailed off as if he were envisioning the many sinister possibilities a meeting might entail.
Dear Dad,
So far we have had no dog. We have, however, had lots of frogs, and I don’t mean just the legs. Our first meal also included smoked oysters, beef with vegetables, braised duck, squid with mushrooms, and bright green broccoli drizzled with fragrant oyster sauce. And that was just the beginning.
Our group clown is a man named Ed, a travel writer from California. Overwhelmed by the sheer amount of protein on the table, he kept asking for a little bit of rice. Mr. Lee refused.
“We don’t want you to fill up too early,” he said. “Rice comes at the end of the meal.” And that was that. He stuffed a piece of sweet-and-sour goose into his mouth, making it impossible for him to answer further questions. Free will does not seem to be a popular concept in China.
Children gather in the doorway at every meal, staring at us as we eat. It is an odd sensation; one moment I feel like a rock star, the next like a tiger in the zoo. I’m very grateful I’ve been using chopsticks all my life; at least they don’t laugh at me like they do at some of the others.
When the goose was gone, a platter of whole steamed fish appeared. It was the best part of the meal. Only after we had dug the sweet meat out of the cheeks did a platter of fried rice appear, signaling the end of the meal.
I’m back in my room now, writing this letter. The room was empty when I arrived, but I suspect the old lady who sits on the landing has been in here inspecting my things. It’s a very strange feeling.
I’m going to have to stop writing now: Huge green bugs are dive-bombing the desk and I think the only way to make them stop is to turn out the light.
I hope you’re home by now. Even Mom’s cooking has to be an improvement over hospital food.
Much love to you both.
The absence of light did not make the impression I had hoped on the big green bugs. They hopped around in the dark until I couldn’t take it anymore and fled. I went down to the lobby to see if any fellow travelers were there, but it was empty. There were, however, hundreds of people standing just outside the door, and as soon as I opened it they descended on me. When I walked, they walked. When I stopped, they did too. So we walked, my entourage and me, through the nighttime village of Taishan.
The streets were pulsating with life. Peering into the brightly lit apartments I could see why: Dozens of people were crammed into each small room. In Taishan, life was lived outdoors. Women cooked the family meal over little fires in the street and children bathed there, sticking their heads into buckets to wash their hair, pouring water across each other’s chests. Old men smoked and women sewed. Taishan had many things, but privacy was not one of them.
Suddenly someone tapped my arm. I jumped and looked up. A boy of about eighteen with an acne-scarred face was standing next to me. “Come,” he said. I was so startled that I simply followed him. All the others followed me.
He led me to a large shop, lit by naked lightbulbs, where men sat on stools set around tables. Each was holding a little white bowl. There were no free seats, but my new friend found two stools in a corner and squeezed them against a table. He patted the seat and I sat down. As I did he handed me one of the little white bowls and a porcelain spoon.
It contained fresh bean curd, slightly sweetened and slicked with peanut oil. It had the cool quality of custard, and it slipped easily down my throat. I could feel my audience watching each swallow. Did they expect some reaction? I gave the thumbs-up sign. They smiled.
A long, canvas-covered conveyor belt stretched along the back wall. A woman stood at one end pouring a white liquid onto the canvas; another spread the liquid with a wooden paddle, her motions graceful and constant. By the time the stuff got to the two women at the far end of the conveyor belt, it was no longer liquid, and they peeled it off in wrinkled sheets. Then they twisted the sheets and threw them into baskets.
“Dried bean curd,” said my new friend, answering my unspoken question. “This is the bean-curd factory.” It was also, I realized, the center of Taishan nightlife.
“I am Fu-Tung,” he said quite loudly. And then suddenly he dropped his voice so that I could barely hear him. “Keep eating. Don’t reply. Mr. Chen sent me. Pretend I am not talking.” His English was excellent. His lips barely moved.
I looked down into my bowl and said nothing. “He knows that you have a letter for him. Tomorrow afternoon he will come to your hotel. You will know who he is. He will find a way to take the letter without making trouble.”
Raising his voice he asked, in loud, jovial tones, “Might I be so presumptuous as to invite you to my home for tea?”
An adventure—and an invitation to a private home: I had hit the jackpot. My friend gallantly pulled out my stool, and with the entire group trailing behind we left the bean-curd café.
Fu-Tung lived in one room with his parents, his grandparents, his sister, his sister’s husband, and their son. “My great dream,” he said as his mother made tea, “is to have my own apartment.” Dozens of people stood in the window, peering in, jostling for a better view. “But I think,” he continued, “that this will never be possible. May I ask you for a favor?”
“Yes?” I said.
“I am very anxious to improve my English.”
“Your English,” I said honestly, “is very good.”
“No, no,” he said, “it is very poor. But if you would record some readings for me in English, I could practice. Would you be good enough to do this for me?”
“Of course,” I said. He handed me a small tape recorder and a worn workbook called Essential English. I slid them into my pocketbook. We drank our tea out of small cups with rice embedded in the porcelain. Mr. Chen’s name did not come up again. Then I walked, with my entourage, back to the hotel.
* * *
Mr. Lee was waiting for me, jumping up and down with rage. “I told you to talk to no one,” he said. “And what do you do? On your very first night you deliberately disobey me and have contact with private citizens! You have entered a citizen’s house! This is strictly forbidden!”
“What are you going to do,” I asked, “have me arrested?” I felt as if I were about thirteen. Whistling loudly, I went up the stairs.
Someone was standing on the second-floor landing. The light was off, so I could not see his face, but he hissed at me as I passed. “Measures,” he said in a heavy German accent, “vill be taken. Be careful. Trust no one.”
“Oh, Ed,” I said, but I did feel like a spy. I hid the workbook and tape recorder in my suitcase and then, ignoring the big green bugs, I wrote another letter to my father. I knew he would delight in this as much as I did. As for me, for the first time since Paris, I felt that I was really living in the moment. I did not know where my life was going, but right now the future did not trouble me.
* * *
When I awakened the old ones were practicing tai chi on the island in the lake. I watched them for a while and then went to breakfast. “Ah,” said Ed when I sat down and surveyed the dim sum on the table, “the American operative has arrived!” He was highly amused, and I laughed with him; in the light of morning the whole thing seemed ri
diculous.
Then Mr. Lee slid into the seat next to mine.
“The tape recorder,” he said holding out his hand. “I must ask you for it.”
I picked up one of the unsweetened coconut cakes that looked remarkably like Hostess SnoBalls. “Why?” I asked with all the insolence I could muster.
Mr. Lee pursed his lips. “Because we cannot have everyone in Toy San bothering our foreign visitors with requests for English lessons,” he said. “If we permit this infraction of the rules, tomorrow there will be hundreds of people here with tape recorders.” His hand waved imperiously.
“I don’t have it here,” I said.
“Fetch it at once,” he replied. I wanted to ask where he had learned a word like “fetch,” but I restrained myself. I wondered what he would do if I refused. We stared at each other, defiantly, for a moment, and then I blinked.
The watch lady was not at her post, so I was not surprised to find her in my room, calmly brushing ants off the desk. I removed my suitcase from the armoire and extracted the tape recorder. Was it my imagination, or had my suitcase really been searched?
* * *
Mr. Lee was right behind me as I boarded the bus to the hospital. When I sat down, he took the seat next to mine. “You are a troublesome girl,” he said reproachfully. “How old are you?”
When I told him I was thirty-two, he seemed genuinely surprised. “But you are older than I am,” he said, as if this must be some trick. “Why aren’t you wearing any makeup? Don’t all American women wear makeup?”
“Obviously not,” I said.
“And we must talk about your clothing,” he continued.
“My clothing?” I replied.
“Yes,” he said. “You are not wearing anything to hold up your breasts. This is disrespectful to the doctors at the hospital.” Saying this did not embarrass him in the least. “And it would be more respectful if you did not wear sleeveless tops,” he went on.
“Bras and sleeves,” I said. “I’ll try to remember.”
“Yes,” he said, “please do.” Turning to address the entire bus he announced, “We have arrived at the hospital. Now you will experience the wonders of Chinese medicine.”
Dear Dad,
The whole time we were at the hospital I thought of you. I’m happy that you’re not a patient here. We were taken to watch an operation for stomach cancer; the patient was anesthetized with nothing more than some acupuncture needles. Ten of us crowded into the operating room while the doctor reached into the open cavity of his abdomen. He cut off a tumor and held it up. Then he held something else aloft. “The liver,” he said, cradling it in his hands. There was something unreal about it all. The doctor and nurses were scrubbed, gowned, and masked, but our group went entirely as we were.
“Aren’t they worried about germs?” I asked Mr. Lee when we were back in the bus.
“Oh,” he replied, “your germs don’t count.” For the patient’s sake I certainly hope he’s right.
Gotta go now. We’re about to get our first Cantonese lesson, and I don’t want to miss it. If I ever get to meet Mr. Chen, it might be useful to be able to communicate with him.
An elderly gentleman was standing in the hotel’s lobby, next to a blackboard. Very thin, with wispy white hair and a short silver beard, he looked like the poet in every old Chinese painting. “This,” said Mr. Lee, “is the professor. He will try to teach you a few words of Chinese. This will be helpful to you tomorrow in the market.”
The professor drew a character that looked like an abstract picture of an armless person in mid-stride. “Here,” he said, “is the word for person. Yun.” He pronounced it “jan.”
He added a stroke that looked like arms. “Now it is dai yun, a big person.”
He went on, adding strokes to make a man, a woman, a husband, a wife. Handing out pieces of paper he asked us to draw along with him. Then he came around, correcting our drawings. When he got to me he looked down at my paper and said, “Good effort. But it would be better if you held your pencil properly. Let me show you.” He took my hand to guide the pencil, and I watched as my hand made a few careful strokes. “Good,” said the professor, “very good.” He picked up my hand again, and together we made a few more strokes. When I looked down I saw that we had written English characters, and that they spelled “Chen.”
I wondered how a chef had turned into a professor; I wondered what would happen next. One moment it all seemed thrilling; the next it felt unreal. I wished I understood, really understood, what was going on. As the class ended the professor asked if there was any way he could be of service to us. I saw my chance. “I am here to write about food,” I said. “I would be very grateful if you could help me arrange a visit to the kitchen and translate for me.”
“Certainly,” he said gravely. “I would be honored. I will arrange it with your responsible person. It may take a few days. . . . But perhaps I will see you tomorrow. I will accompany your group to the market.” He looked at me with a twinkle and added, “In the meantime, please do not accept any invitations to tea. You foreign devils are so much trouble!”
* * *
Before I went to bed I slid the letter for Mr. Chen out of my suitcase, folded it into a small square that fit neatly into my palm, and put it into my shirt pocket. What, I wondered, did it say? I slept in the shirt; I did not want the letter to disappear during the night.
The next morning the watch lady was on the landing when I emerged from my room. She half-shut her eyes, like a big lizard in the sun, and scrutinized me as I walked down the stairs. The letter in my pocket felt very heavy.
While my fellow travelers complained about the lack of bacon and eggs, I devoured fluffy white bao filled with barbecued pork, little steamed shu mai with crinkled tops, and yeast rolls filled with a sweetened egg-yolk paste. Best of all were the shrimp dumplings in the shape of bunny rabbits.
“In his old life,” explained Mr. Chen as we walked to the market, “the chef specialized in dim sum.”
“His old life?” I asked. Mr. Lee was in front, leading us toward the market, and Mr. Chen and I trailed behind. It was still relatively cool, and we were walking along the edge of the lake with a few hundred local people following us.
“Before all this,” he said with a wave at the little village, “China was a land of tradition. Every important kitchen in our region had two chefs. One was responsible for dim sum. One was responsible for everything else.” In a softer voice he asked, “Do you have something for me?”
I nodded.
“Put it in your hand,” he said even more softly. I reached into my pocket. Then, in a louder voice he said, “You will find that even your modest hotel has two kitchens. But,” he laughed softly, “unfortunately only one chef.” As he said this he suddenly seemed to stumble and lurch forward. I put out my hand to help him; taking it he gently extricated the paper.
“I am an old man,” he said, gasping a little. “Have you a handkerchief?”
I handed him a tissue. He took it, wiped his forehead, and then crumpled it and put it in his pocket. I presumed the letter was now in the tissue, but it was so quickly done that I couldn’t say for sure.
“I am so sorry to be so clumsy,” he said. “But I am better now.”
“Were you a dim sum chef?” I asked.
“Oh no,” he replied, standing up very tall. “I was a banquet chef. I hoped, one day, to go to America.”
“Is that why you speak such good English?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I studied very hard. I have relatives in New York. But that was a long time ago. This, you see, is my great work.” He pointed sadly to the lake.
“What happened?” I asked.
Mr. Chen shrugged. “Let us just say that there was a period in our history when studying hard was not appreciated. People like me were sent off for reeducation. That lake was my university.”
* * *
The Taishan market was a rambling, raucous expression of capitalism that fill
ed the entire town. Farmers bicycled in from the outskirts to fan through the streets, setting up stalls and building makeshift bamboo pens for the pigs, chickens, and ducks. They filled plastic buckets with water and added clams, octopus, squid, and frogs. There was no cut meat, although there were many sausages.
One man was doing a brisk business in rhinoceros horns. Another sat with a snake wrapped around his neck, telling fortunes. There were fruits and vegetables in vast profusion, and spices were everywhere. The scent of ginger, garlic, and fermented tofu hung over the town, just as it did in New York’s Chinatown. But there was another, deeper odor too: Pigs were being slaughtered at the end of the street, and the smell of blood hung in the air.
“How do you like the food in your hotel?” asked Mr. Chen.
“Do you want the truth?” I asked. He nodded.
“It is monotonous,” I said. “The meals are very big, but they are all the same. And it does not seem that different from the Cantonese food I have eaten in New York. It is not going to be easy to make an appealing travel article out of this trip.”
“Peasant food!” said Mr. Chen vehemently. “You are eating the best in the village, but it is peasant food.”
“I wish you could cook for me,” I said, taking a wild guess at what might be in the letter. He didn’t say anything, and I pressed on. “What would you cook for me if you could?”
A wistful look came over his face. “I would make you a real Beijing banquet,” he said. “That is the royal cuisine, the real cuisine of China. There is a great attention to detail. In judging Beijing cooking you must look for three things: The color must be varied and beautiful. The texture is important too; all the pieces must be cut to uniform size. And then, of course, the ingredients must all be seasonal. I would make you a very simple dish. Perhaps something with shrimp, which I miss very much. You know, when I was an apprentice we had to peel the shrimp in cold water, to keep the texture correct, no matter how cold the weather, no matter how much our fingers stung. If we did not, we were beaten.” He said it with deep nostalgia, the way old soldiers tell war stories.