by Roselle Lim
“Why have you returned, Xiao Niao?”
Xiao Niao was from a popular Chinese children’s song and meant “tiny bird.” Ma-ma and I had sung it often. I treasured Mr. Kuk Wah’s term of endearment. He had played the song for me once, soon after we met. I’d sung along, reinforcing the start of our friendship.
“Ma-ma died.”
He removed his hat and pressed it against his chest. Gray infiltrated his short, dark hair; he had to be in his late fifties now. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother’s passing.”
“Thank you. I miss her with every breath.” I was surprised at how easily I could talk about my grief with him.
“Then allow me to play a happy tribute to her life.” He lifted the erhu onto his lap.
The melody unfurled, dancing across the higher registers only to return to the lower notes like a flock of starlings sweeping across the twilight sky. Long interchanging notes were punctuated by staccato plucking of the strings. My heart swelled; Ma-ma would have adored this piece, a playful tune.
At the end of the song, I dived again into my purse, but the musician shook his head.
“This is a gift,” he said.
A worthy tribute. My mother had loved classical music and operas. Perhaps if she had ever ventured outside, she could have met Mr. Kuk Wah and fallen in love with his erhu. In our home, listening to music wasn’t a luxury so much as it was a part of life, like hanging laundry on a clothesline. Bach, Verdi, and Puccini made more of an impact on my consciousness than any modern musician ever had.
“Thank you,” I said.
Mr. Kuk Wah rubbed his chin, bristling his shadow of a beard. “I hope you’ll be staying even after you’ve settled your mother’s affairs.”
“Yes, I’m thinking of reopening Laolao’s restaurant.”
“That’s very honorable of you to follow in your grandmother’s footsteps.”
I lowered my eyes. “I’m not sure if I can do it because there are so many obstacles to opening one. I already tried culinary school and failed spectacularly.” A thread of frustration in my voice escaped without my consent. The walk around the block had reminded me how hard running my own business would be. “I shouldn’t complain. I just inherited a restaurant. Everything’s old but it should still be functional.” Though of course I couldn’t be certain because I hadn’t checked yet.
“Yes, it will be difficult, but I like to think that you’ll succeed.” He paused, then nodded. “If this is what you want to do, then do it. It sounds like cooking feeds something in your soul like music does for me. Following your dream leads to happiness, Xiao Niao.”
I clung to this scrap of hope and mulled over Mr. Kuk Wah’s advice as I made my way back home.
* * *
I walked to the kitchen table and sat down. Meimei jumped on my mother’s vacant seat and hopped onto the table to attack the stack of mail, batting it with her furry paws until it fell into a flat pile. While Meimei alternated her paws over the envelopes in an adorable cat version of Twister, a lilac envelope caught my eye. It bore no stamp, but my name was written in beautiful cursive on the front.
I pulled the envelope toward me. It bore the perfume of peonies and inside was a note: Dear one, I have something for you that your mother entrusted to my care. Please come and see me at midnight. Use the alley beside the tea shop. I’ll be waiting. The note was signed by Miss Evelyn Yu.
The date given was today.
What had Ma-ma entrusted with her?
Chapter Six
My mother once told me midnight was a magical hour when the gateway to possibilities was opened. Never had I wanted to believe this more than tonight.
Miss Yu’s instructions were to bypass the tea shop for the alley. I peered in the window as I walked by. Her store was small but cozy. Pastel vases presented fresh pink peonies on the windowsills while Teresa Teng sang through the speakers. My lifelong love affair with tea had begun here at a very young age. I’d had my formal introduction to rooibos, matcha, chai, maté, and pu’erh, all seducing me with their floral, fruity, earthy scents.
Lovely Miss Yu curated teas like she was a librarian scouring the world for the best books. Her diligence had kept her local customer base happy and also created a loyal following outside of the state, which must still be sustaining her. Perhaps she sold things online to offset the decline in foot traffic.
As I started down the narrow passage, a strange light pulsed at the end of it. All my life I had strolled past this alley without sparing it a thought, for it was too narrow for comfort. My shoulders brushed against the rough brick of the walls. As I walked, I became aware of the strong odor of peonies and jasmine. I inhaled deeply to draw in the lovely bouquet. The scent was from the fresh flowers of a lush garden.
The path opened into a courtyard, a tangle of peonies and jasmine framing the entrance, blooming in spectacular fashion. Silky petals brushed against my skin. The tension building in my neck and shoulders melted away as I entered a fairyland.
The rustle of the night breeze joined the familiar voice of Teresa Teng echoing from invisible speakers. Beneath my feet, a path of moss-covered stones led to a circular platform surrounded by a large, shallow pond. The night garden was bursting with a palette of muted greens, starlit ivories, and sparkling golds: the verdant lichen and waxy lily pads in the pond, the snowy white peonies and jasmine flowers, and the metallic tones of the fireflies suspended in the air, the square-holed coins lining the floor of the pond, and the special golden three-legged creatures resting on the floating fronds.
I knew these creatures from my childhood. The feng shui symbol of prosperity, Jin Chan was transformed into a golden toad for stealing the peaches of immortality. Jin Chan’s three legs represented heaven, earth, and humanity. Statues of him graced every Chinese home I had ever been in, for fortune was a visitor always in demand. Ma-ma had placed one near the stairs leading to the front door.
The pond before me held eight fabled toads, each biting on a coin. If not for the subtle rise and fall of their vocal sacs, I would have thought them statues.
In the center of it all was Miss Yu. A vision in cream and soft gray cashmere, she sat at a round red lacquered table. Silver streaks like strands of starlight coursed through her dark hair. Though she was in her late forties, she could pass for late thirties or younger. The Yu family was fabled to own the elixir of youth in the form of a mythical tea blend gleaned from the Kitchen God himself. She had pinned a buttercream cashmere shawl across her shoulders with a crystal peony brooch. Underneath, she wore a dove gray tank dress with a subtle floral print. Pink jade bangles circled her wrists, tinkling when she moved.
Miss Yu smiled. “Welcome, dear one. Come, sit.” She gestured to the empty seat across from her.
“I didn’t know about all this.” I sat down, marveling at the enchanting atmosphere around me. “It’s so beautiful. What is this place?”
“It’s my ‘other’ shop. Miranda was here once. She was my first client after I took over the duties from my mother.”
Ma-ma must have visited when she was young and her agoraphobia wasn’t yet an issue. It was a version of my mother I didn’t know. What were her dreams then? How had she seen her future? The picture of Ma-ma communing with a younger Miss Yu made me smile.
“What did she want?” I asked.
Miss Yu held a finger to her lips. “Confidentiality is one of the cardinal rules here. You see, this is a place of divination. Clients ask a question about their future or for help in making important decisions.”
I patted my empty pockets for money and was about to curse when I heard Miss Yu’s giggle. She reached across the table to pat my hand.
“No, it’s a gift. I don’t charge for my services,” she said. “And besides, this isn’t why you’re here.”
“Yes.” I remembered. “You mentioned you had something of my mother’s?”
&nb
sp; “A very important package, but we’ll get to that in a minute.” Miss Yu poured me a cup of tea. Judging by its fruity floral fragrance, it was tieguanyin, an apt choice. I took a sip.
Miss Yu looked at me intently. “If you could ask your grandmother any question, what would it be?”
Laolao. How could I choose a single question when I had been robbed of a lifetime with her? To distill a sea of wishes into a single drop was impossible. I wanted to know her, spend time with her, cook with her. I knew so little about her, and yet she was the bravest woman I’d never met. “If I could ask anything, it would be: How did you do it? Find the strength to leave your family, immigrate to a new country, and run a successful business out of nothing?”
Miss Yu nodded. “This is a good question to ask. Qiao was a very strong woman—as was Miranda. It’s in your blood.”
“Is it?” I asked. “I want to reopen Laolao’s restaurant. I want to make this work, but all I see are hurdles. I don’t even know if I can get the amount of money needed to start a business and complete all the legal paperwork. I don’t have entrepreneurial experience. On top of that, most restaurants don’t even survive their first year in business. Can I do this?” I blushed at my outpouring. I blamed grief for my recent, sudden confession.
Miss Yu reached across the table to steady my trembling hands. “Don’t despair. I may have something that will help you.” She reached under the table, produced a large, flat red box, and slid it toward me. “Your mother gave me this years ago for safekeeping.”
I lifted the lid. A red silken scarf embroidered with golden flying sparrows lay inside. The avian pattern brought a smile to my lips. I had never seen Ma-ma wear this. It would have been perfect on her.
As I tugged the fabric loose, a book tumbled out from its embrace with a thud. Thick spined and leather bound, it was heavy in my hands. The rich chestnut cover bore no marks, no title or publisher. Upon further examination, it appeared to be handmade with great care. I opened the book and gasped. Written with an elegant brushstroke in Chinese characters was the name of my grandmother, Tan Qiao.
“Laolao,” I whispered, tracing the characters with my fingertips.
I turned the cover page and discovered a recipe for noodle broth. This was familiar. Ma-ma had often cooked it when rain painted the windows or when the city covered itself in a thick duvet of fog. The rest of the pages contained recipes of every conceivable dish and ingredient. Judging by the book’s thickness, there were hundreds of them.
I resisted the urge to embrace the book against my chest as though it were a child. “Can you tell me more about the restaurant?” I asked. “What was it like? What did Laolao cook?”
“The best food in Chinatown, but don’t tell Old Wu.” Miss Yu winked. “Your grandmother’s dishes sang across the tongue. They tasted delicious, but it was more than that. It was the way her food made you feel.”
This stirred my appetite to hear more. My grandmother would come alive to me through the memories of others. I smiled and gestured for Miss Yu to continue.
“Everyone ate there. It wasn’t a big place, but it served the most wonderful food. She changed the menu daily, cooking whatever she found at the market that morning. Her dishes always used ordinary ingredients, but their taste was far from humble. She used her food like a delicious spider web—as a means to connect strangers. If anyone ever needed anything, she would always try to help them.”
Miss Yu paused to sip her tea. “When your laolao died, we mourned her and the business we knew would die along with her, but we didn’t know the neighborhood would suffer as well.”
“I wish I’d had the chance to meet her,” I murmured.
“You would have loved her, and she, you.” Miss Yu reached across the table and patted my hand. “Your mother turned away from the family business after your laolao died. The restaurant had been very successful, but after Qiao’s death, Miranda closed it down. I’m not sure if Miranda ever told you, but your grandmother was struck by a car outside of her restaurant. I think this made Miranda’s agoraphobia worse. She had always been shy by nature, but the accident followed by your father’s departure made her unable to leave the apartment. Miranda just didn’t have the temperament to run the restaurant.” She paused and her smile returned. “Your mother may have neglected the family business, but she did a wonderful job raising you on her own. I’m happy to hear that you want to reopen the restaurant and follow your laolao’s path.”
“This is what I’ve wanted ever since I was little. I wish Ma-ma were here so she could see me do it.”
Miss Yu peered at me sympathetically.
Familial obligation and filial piety were powerful forces in my culture. Ma-ma had never cared for such things and had raised me to pick and choose which traditions to follow, but this wasn’t something I wanted to ignore. I had my mother’s blessing; right now, I should feel more confident about my choice.
“I know Laolao was successful,” I said. “But will I be? I don’t want to fail the memory of my grandmother. Yes, I can cook, but I’m not a professional; I flunked out of culinary school. Can I make the restaurant a success?”
Miss Yu arched her brow and the corners of her lips tugged upward. “You have asked a good question, dear one. Give me your hands.” She placed my palms in hers, squeezing warmth and reassurance into them.
She closed her eyes. A rush of wind teased the leaves and stirred the blooms, releasing both fragrance and petals of varying size into the air; soaring, swirling like ethereal butterflies into the dark sky. Peonies. Jasmine. Tieguanyin. I drew the heady scent into my lungs, imprinting the memory of this moment into my consciousness.
A hush grew, swelling like a cresting wave, quieting the leaves into stillness. “The restaurant will only succeed if you rebuild the connections of what was once lost.” Miss Yu spoke as if in a trance. “The businesses on the street are dying and so shall your endeavor, if you fail. Read your grandmother’s book. The dishes from Qiao’s wok transformed the ordinary and soothed all ailments. You must cook three recipes from the book to help three of your neighbors, as your laolao did in the past. Your success is tied to them, their businesses, and the community. You are one of them. If they fail, you will fail. If you save them, the restaurant will once again be the jewel of Chinatown, and vitality will return to the neighborhood.”
A snowfall of flowers ushered in her final words, like falling stars in the night garden against a backdrop of golden fireflies. Stray petals landed on my hair and my cheeks. It tickled. A giggle escaped my throat. Miss Yu smiled and held her hands open, catching the petals in heaps to deposit into a large wooden bowl she placed on the table. I followed suit, gathering all of the fallen blossoms until there were no traces of white left anywhere.
“I will dry this and make it into tea. Stop by the shop and I’ll give you a large tin.” She moved the bowl to her right. “Besides that, I’m afraid I do not have any other insights to share. I am only the messenger.”
Three recipes to help three neighbors. How would I know which dishes to cook—or which neighbors? I didn’t know them well enough to even begin to pry into their private lives. If I was being honest, nor did I have the inclination. Where had they been when I needed them? Why should I help them now?
Miss Yu patted my hand. “I’m confident you can fulfill the prophecy and succeed.” She traced one of the lines in my palm. “As I said before, the women in your family possess great strength. It’s how your grandmother survived after leaving China. Strange new world, new people, new language, with nothing but her ability to cook. Qiao’s food brought the community together, and in time, she was able to buy the building for your family.”
I closed my eyes. My grandmother had known her path much earlier in life, but she’d had exceptional culinary skills that I was sure overshadowed my own. Miss Yu’s smile calmed me. “It’s not only the businesses, it’s also the people that are sufferin
g. I have the utmost confidence you will help. You have all the tools to succeed with the restaurant.”
And the solution lay in Laolao’s recipe book. I had to open the restaurant because this was what I was meant to do. I had found my purpose.
* * *
In the privacy of the apartment, I finally hugged the thick book to my chest. This was an heirloom—a piece of my history that I never knew existed. Laolao, the grandmother I had longed for as a lonely child, seemed more real to me now than she had ever been in my entire life. Reopening the restaurant could only bring me closer to her.
The book contained the recipes I had to cook for my neighbors. But how would I possibly be able to solve their problems?
The supple leather cover was pliant under my fingertips, the shade of cinnamon rooibos tea with a faint filigree pattern tattooed on the front. I traced it with my fingers. The more I rubbed, the more prominent the design became, transforming into ridges and valleys. The fragrance of dishes sizzled in the air: spring rolls, sweet chili prawns, steamed crabs. My stomach growled again.
The recipe book was coming alive.
Laolao.
I turned the page and read the first recipe.
Baby Oyster Omelets
Potato starch
Water
Egg
Salt
Ground black pepper
Bean sprouts
Green onions
Baby oysters
Mix the potato starch, water, egg, salt, and pepper into one bowl. Stir well until it becomes sticky. Administer the following test: take a spoonful and drip the mixture back into the bowl. The viscosity must be like honey: smooth, but not too sticky or runny.