by Roselle Lim
Add the bean sprouts and chopped green onions. Stir until blended. The color of the mixture should remind you of sunshine and the green grass of summer.
Heat the oil in the wok. Using a small shallow bowl for portions, fill the bowl with the mixture, and add five to seven baby oysters per portion.
Pour it into the heated wok. Fry until the edges turn into golden lace, then flip over, wait for half a minute for the other side to cook, then serve with ketchup, hot sauce, or fish sauce.
Note:
This recipe is for the crestfallen, the unsmiling, and the ones who need sunshine in their souls. If a customer has a difficult day, this will help raise their spirits.
I served this to an unsmiling Shao, a young man who worked at the warehouses. I had never seen a person more devoid of happiness. After he tasted the dish, he confessed to me how his wife and children were still in China and he wanted to bring them over. I encouraged him to keep his hope alive for his family. He returned once a week to eat the omelets and to chat. Sixteen years later, his family sat at my counter and ate the very same meal.
I knew this recipe. Ma-ma prepared it every spring. She and I both loved oysters. The aroma of the dish rose from the pages as if the fluffy omelets were cooking nearby. I flipped through the book, unleashing scents of fragrant meals. As I scanned the lower half of each page, I realized that each recipe was like a prescription of sorts to aid people in need.
Miss Yu had mentioned that Laolao was a healer. This must be what Miss Yu was talking about. No wonder Laolao was able to help so many people in her time. All I needed was to figure out what was wrong, and these recipes would act as the remedies so I could help out the neighbors.
I dove into the book, reading, learning, and at times, laughing over Laolao’s anecdotes. My grandmother had been fearless—a pioneer who’d wanted the best for others and herself. My admiration for her was tempered by the realization that Ma-ma might have found it challenging to live with such a formidable force. Despite her delicate temperament, Ma-ma had been strong and stubborn to a fault. A dragon pitted against a stone lotus.
Would I have been caught in between them if I’d grown up with both of them in my life?
In the middle of the book, there were three missing pages, evident by the ragged edges standing out as scars. What had happened here? My fingernails picked at the torn paper. The damage seemed to have been done in an act of anger, ripped out forcefully rather than carefully removed. Though the book brimmed full of recipes, I couldn’t help but mourn the missing three. Why had Laolao torn out recipes from her own book?
I continued to read, hoping to find the loose pages tucked within, but in the end, there was no sign of the missing pages. I closed the book to the relief of my protesting stomach. I had eaten dinner before seeing Miss Yu, but that now seemed like a very long time ago.
Fulfilling the prophecy would not only help the neighborhood, but also perhaps help me discover more about my grandmother. I supposed that even if they hadn’t been there for me, it wasn’t right that the residents and their families should suffer. This street had been my home: its current state broke my heart. I had lived so long with just my mother that it was easy to forget that the family tree extended beyond us. Connections. Laolao fostered them; maybe it was what I should be working to achieve by helping the neighbors out.
In my time away, I found myself connecting to my culture wherever I traveled, but never missing the community I’d left back home. Perhaps living with my mother in isolation for so long had prevented me from forming any bonds. Ma-ma had taught me to be independent almost to a fault. But if I were to open the restaurant, I would be a part of the neighborhood now, be one of them. Maybe it was time to reconsider how I felt about this.
I pulled the recipe book close, leafing through its pages once more. I stopped when my fingers caught an edge on the end cover. The tome was hand bound with the leather stretched taut over the spine. The adhesive on the back had worn away, revealing an old photograph tucked inside. This must be why I missed it the first time I went through the book.
I had never seen this picture before. The woman in it stared back at me. Her face was masculine with a strong jaw and high cheekbones, but softened by the doe eyes that Ma-ma and I shared. A tiny mole hovered near her left eyebrow. Her direct gaze displayed an unmistakable surety of self. She was beautiful. Laolao. A sob escaped my lips. This was my grandmother, Qiao. I pressed my hand against my chest.
I should place her photo at the family shrine, but she belonged here in these pages. This was her book, her recipes, her life. With the recipe book open and her photograph in full view, I smiled at her. I could finally pair a face with her name. I wished I’d had the chance to know her.
It was late. I tucked Laolao’s photograph back into her recipe book. Meimei crawled onto my lap. When I went to sleep that night, I dreamt of cooking alongside Laolao with Ma-ma hovering by the kitchen table to watch.
* * *
The next morning, I was ready to play intrepid detective. The cat followed me around the apartment like a puppy as I prepared to take a stroll outside. Last night, she had curled up around my head when I fell asleep. The apartment felt less empty due to my newfound feline companionship. I didn’t know that four pounds of fluff could make such a difference. I kissed her goodbye and stepped outside.
When I had left, to say that I didn’t like the neighbors would be a polite understatement. I hated them for not offering to help me and Ma-ma for so many years. I hated them for not visiting her. I hated them for treating her like a pariah because of her condition. But spending time with Celia had softened my stance a bit. Maybe it was time to move on.
Now I just had to figure out whose problems I needed to solve.
I headed for Older Shen’s bookstore.
Chapter Seven
Following Chinese tradition, I would pay court to the eldest member of the neighborhood first.
Older Shen was five years older than Ma-ma. Previously, our contact had been limited to his brief, polite inquiries about my mother when I’d run in and out of his shop on errands. Now, like the mummified mammoth at the natural history museum, he seemed ancient and trapped in his own glass case of a store.
Keeping these shops in the family was tradition. The Chiu, Shen, Wu, Deng, and Yu families had lived on this street for more than a century. After the great earthquake of 1906 decimated the neighborhood, the families had rebuilt their businesses as the city did the same. They had survived the Tong Wars and outlived the diasporas, and now their roots ran underneath Grant Avenue, anchored by the Dragon’s Gate, the great paifang.
Immigrants flocked to Chinatown, got their start here, prospered, and moved out after having achieved their American dream. To me, the ones who stayed should be commended for their endurance. They helped foster the influx of newcomers against the foibles of the economy.
As I reached the door, Melody Minnows emerged with a smile on her face. “Oh hi, Natalie! I was wondering if you’ve changed your mind. I just finished talking to Mr. Shen. We need a facelift, a jolt, to get this area going again. Can you imagine a hot yoga studio here? I have so many buyers interested. It really is the best time to sell.”
Before I could reply, her phone beeped and she excused herself as she made her way toward Miss Yu’s tea shop. Although I hated her motives, I couldn’t fault her tenacity. If only she were working to help the businesses here instead of trying to sell each property to the highest bidder. For now, I would avoid her. I had made my decision to open the restaurant and would do whatever I could to make that happen. I just hoped the rest of the neighbors would not fall prey to her aggressive techniques in the meantime.
I returned my focus to Mr. Shen and my task at hand. “This is going to be awkward,” I whispered to myself. Still, I had to persevere. I had to find out what had gone wrong in the neighborhood before I could open the restaurant. Had the neighbors
simply given up? I’d assumed that they stayed because they either wanted to help the incoming immigrants or weren’t successful enough to move away to the suburbs. Aside from the obvious financial ones, what other problems did they have? They were strangers to me, as I had become a stranger to them. Listen to their problems and then cook for them, I said to myself. Laolao’s recipes would provide the solutions, but I must determine the neighbors’ dilemmas on my own.
A set of bells tinkled as I pushed the glass door open. The blast of the air conditioner set off rows of goose bumps on my skin. The bookstore was three times larger than Laolao’s restaurant. Every available wall was covered with bookcases, but most of them were empty. I remembered when magazines, newspapers, journals, and classic novels like Romance of the Three Kingdoms crammed every shelf. Now, every periodical was dated from months or years ago. Some of the overhead fluorescent lights were dead, and the remaining ones flickered in an erratic pattern. What had happened here?
Mr. Fai Shen, the older brother, was perched atop a worn bar stool. As I approached, the scent of pistachios and candied ginger overpowered the more subtle smells of paper and dust. Shen’s stained fingers pried shells open, pinching the green nutmeat as he pored over his daily newspaper. Scraggly whiskers graced his upper lip, and a brown bubble of a mole sprouted near his left nostril.
He chewed on the pistachios, setting aside the shavings in a pile while pushing the shells into floral patterns. Today’s display was chrysanthemums in a basket.
“Mr. Shen?” I asked.
He dropped his pistachio shell and blinked rapidly a few times. Finally, he squinted at me, smiling. “Hello there, young lady. What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to thank you for attending Ma-ma’s funeral,” I began. “How have you been? How is business?”
Older Shen mustered a weak smile. “I’m doing okay. As for business, you don’t have to worry yourself about that. We are managing fine.”
Denial to save face. It was a tactic I knew too well. I opened my mouth to protest, but that avenue of argument would be unfruitful or, at worst, cause offense. I decided to take a different course. “I wanted to let you know that I’m staying and working toward reopening the restaurant.”
“Oh, that’s nice of you to follow your laolao’s path.” He paused and scratched his temple. “That’s a hard endeavor. A restaurant is a difficult business to run, and most don’t survive within their first year.”
“I have to try. I really want this.”
Older Shen’s eyes grew wide. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
I couldn’t answer him with the truth that I was terrified of failing. My failure at culinary school haunted my every step. Three heartbeats of awkward silence followed until I shattered it. “Have you read any new, exciting books lately?”
“People don’t want to buy books anymore, or if they do, they don’t want to buy them from me. The tourists seem to be passing by instead of lingering. It wasn’t always like this. In the old days when your laolao had her restaurant open, the street was so full that we had festivals. I wish . . .” His voice trailed off, leaving me leaning over the counter.
“What do you wish for?”
He shook his head. “I shouldn’t burden you with my problems. It’s not right.”
The Chinese custom of swallowing one’s misery was keeping me from what I wanted—a detailed description of what ailed him so I could figure out which recipe to use. If only I could reach across the counter and shake his confession loose.
The phone rang on the counter. Older Shen held up his finger, excusing himself. I ducked into one of the empty book aisles. Picking up an old copy of Reader’s Digest, I flipped through the pages while I eavesdropped.
“Hello?”
“I told you to sign off on the advertisements. Why haven’t you done it yet?” The booming voice across the line left no doubt as to who was calling. It was Older Shen’s twin brother, Guang, the owner of the herbal shop across the street. His voice was so loud he may as well have been on speakerphone. The twins were the last in a prosperous family, descended from wealthy merchants of Shanghai.
Older Shen sighed. “I can’t afford it, Guang. You know business hasn’t been—”
“We will waste this opportunity if you don’t sign off,” the disembodied voice on the phone thundered back. “The paperwork is due tomorrow.”
The fluorescent lights overhead began to fizzle out, one by one. If it weren’t for the sunlight streaming through the windows, the store would have been shuttered in darkness. Tiny crackles of electricity emanated from the receiver in Older Shen’s hand.
“I can’t justify the costs—”
A bright spark of energy leaped from the receiver, forming a glowing chain before wrapping itself like a shackle around Older Shen’s forearm. He pulled at his forearm, trying to dislodge the intruding force. The voice on the other end boomed. “If you don’t spend money, you’re not going to get anyone into your store. Advertising is the way to go.”
“I need to put money into some improvements. The store needs updating. It’s been years since I’ve kept up with the bookselling trends and what customers want. I can’t sell what people don’t want to buy. Independent bookstores must make the buying experience more exciting to survive.”
“You’re wasting your money. People should know you exist first before you rearrange your inventory.”
“And what about what Ms. Minnows offered? Don’t you think—”
“Sign the ad contract, you old fool! I’ll pick it up later this afternoon. Don’t even think about talking to her. We are not selling!” An audible click followed, and the luminous chain vanished just as suddenly as it had appeared. The lights overhead returned to their normal, gently flickering state.
I peeked around the corner. Older Shen stared at the receiver, his knuckles white from his tight grip. His hand shook as his stare bored a hole into space. I had seen this before in myself. This was impotence. It was in the rage I sometimes felt toward my absent father. Older Shen must feel it now, but toward his brother.
Yet as if nothing had happened, he set the phone down and waved me over. I placed the magazine back onto the shelf and returned to the counter.
“Please let me know when the restaurant opens,” he said with a lopsided smile. Bits of red hid in the crevices of his yellowed teeth, remnants of the candied ginger he favored. He grabbed a fistful of White Rabbit candies from under the counter and placed them before me.
These Chinese candies had been a staple of my childhood. Encased in edible paper, they were creamy and sugary, and melted in my mouth. The white rabbit design on the wrapper never failed to make me smile. Many rainy days had been brightened up by a visit to Older Shen’s bookstore.
How had I forgotten this? I must have buried these memories like a child hiding toys in a sandbox.
Now they came rushing back. I remembered that Shen had snuck Lao Fu Zi comics in for me with Ma-ma’s magazines. I’d been grateful for the levity they brought in the days Ma-ma suffered from her depressive spells. The slapstick gags and encounters with ghosts provided endless entertainment. I loved them so much that I brought my copies along with me wherever I went.
What other kindnesses had I suppressed memories of? The narrative of the neighbors’ apathy was something I had clung to for so long. Now a few traitorous memories were beginning to unravel it. First Celia, now Shen. Could it be that they were not, and had never been, as uncaring as I had believed?
“I will.” I returned his smile and shoved the candies into the pockets of my shorts. “Thank you.”
I left the scent of books, papers, and pistachios behind to return to the street. Now I knew Shen’s problem. He needed courage: to come out of his shell, stand up to his younger brother, convince himself of his own vision for the business, and fight for his bookstore. There was a Dungeness crab recipe for bravery
in Laolao’s recipe book. Yes! This must be what Miss Yu was talking about. Maybe I could help him. Hope swelled inside me.
One down, two to go. I hoped the other two issues would be as easy to uncover as this one.
Across the way was my next destination: the herbal shop owned by Younger Shen, the one who had just been bellowing at his brother.
I paused before the door to Younger Shen’s shop, inhaling from my diaphragm. I sucked in as much oxygen as possible before stepping inside, but the brew of strong odors still assaulted my nostrils. In this store, the shelves were covered with large glass jars containing every known Chinese treatment for ailments ranging from flatulence to erectile dysfunction. Expensive items such as shark fins were kept behind the counters.
Another dormant recollection surfaced as I strolled through the narrow aisles. As a child, I was fascinated by the hairy ginseng and had called them golden fairies because their roots looked like limbs. Younger Shen had once given me a small ginseng root as a gift. I’d brought it home and begged Ma-ma to help me make clothes for my fairy.
Memories kept coming the longer I walked these streets, beginning to tear away at the animosity I long held for these people who I thought had shunned my mother. I supposed it was far easier to be angry at others for the isolation I’d felt than to place the blame on Ma-ma.
“Little one!” Younger Shen called out from the back of the store, waving to me from the counter. His crooked smile matched his bright eyes. He was as wide as his older twin was narrow. The rumor was that he had stolen almost all of his brother’s chi in the womb, leaving only specks for his older sibling.
The radio behind him blared his favorite—country music. Randy Travis crooned “On the Other Hand” while Younger Shen tapped his fingers against the counter to the melody. In his pink plaid dress shirt and purple corduroy trousers, he was as visually loud as the odors around him were strong. If Older Shen needed courage, perhaps his brother needed subtlety.