Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune

by Roselle Lim

  “I’m sorry about what happened to your mother,” he bellowed at me over the music.

  “Thank you,” I said, raising my voice to reply. “I miss her so much.”

  Our words fizzled beneath the blare of music like fireworks disintegrating in the night sky. Anyone else would lower the volume, but this was Younger Shen. A dull pounding crept into my temples.

  “Are you planning on staying?”

  “Yes, I am working to reopen the restaurant downstairs.”

  “The what?”

  “The restaurant!”

  “I hope you can cook like your grandmother. Come by and let me know when you open.”

  “How are you doing? How is business?”

  “Fine. Everything is fine!” He launched into an impromptu karaoke session. I didn’t think it was possible, but he was louder than the speakers. It was surprising he hadn’t gone completely deaf from years of this.

  I tried to banish the urge to climb the counters behind him so I could shut the stereo off. “Do you have advice on running a business, Mr. Shen?”

  “Yes! You need to turn a profit. If you don’t turn a profit, you fail,” he yelled as his reply.

  And water was wet. His answer was perhaps a deflection since his own business didn’t seem to be thriving. I tried once more, hoping to gain any kind of opening by using what I had learned from eavesdropping on the brothers’ argument. “Any tips on how to invest in advertising?”

  “Yes, icing on the cake is a good idea if you’re baking. You should also use sprinkles.”

  “No, advertising!”

  “No icing?”

  I blew out my lips. “Can we speak outside?”

  “I can’t leave the store.” He shook his head.

  “How about—”

  Two customers came through the doors, diverting Younger Shen’s attention. I nodded, waving goodbye. My ears rang as I escaped the herbal shop to the tune of Reba McEntire’s “Sweet Dreams.” My trip to the herbal store had been a complete failure, and I didn’t have the energy or the hearing capacity to make another attempt.

  Sucking a deep breath of fresh air into my lungs, I turned my head toward the Chius’ convenience store. The slightly uphill street was empty and gray in the morning light. High-rises from the next block cast a shadow over the mismatched shops of the neighborhood. I had always liked how the unique architectural style of every building reminded me of an eclectic collection of books. The contrast gave it character.

  A palpable silence flooded my ears, as if I’d been submerged in water. The failure of the businesses here permeated the air. No wonder no one lingered.

  I hurried to my next destination in an effort to shake off the unsettling feeling.

  The convenience store was crammed uncomfortably full of merchandise. When I was younger, I’d often imagined I was entering a house of cards, and I’d feared that if the couple added one more thing to any shelf, the entire place would surely collapse in on itself.

  Mr. Chiu sat behind the counter, fixated on two screens: the grainy CCTV security monitor, and another television playing a kung fu film starring Donnie Yen.

  “Hello, Natalie,” Mr. Chiu said, half turning away from his screens as I approached the counter. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m good. I wanted to thank you for being there for me at the funeral.”

  “No problem, no problem,” he replied, returning his attention to the kung fu movie.

  I cracked a weak smile. This conversation might end up being similar to the one I’d had with Younger Shen. There must be something that would tear the older man’s attention from the screens and get him to open up.

  “Mr. Chiu?” I asked. “I was wondering, could I—”

  The bell at the door jingled. I moved aside to make way for the incoming customer by hiding behind the narrower aisle.

  “Wayne!” A sharp voice, one I recognized.

  Mr. Chiu tore his eyes from his film and stared up at his wife. “What’s wrong, dear?”

  “What are these extra charges?” Mrs. Chiu held up a folded sheet of paper. “You know we can’t afford it right now.”

  I blushed. The Chius had always been one of the most solid couples in Chinatown. They had five children, and their business was a fixture in the neighborhood. Mr. Chiu still manned the store while Mrs. Chiu had a second job as an independent consultant for the multilevel marketing item du jour, which in the past had ranged from containers to scent dispensers to beauty and diet regimens. But now their relationship seemed to be faltering, if the anger in Mrs. Chiu’s voice was any indication.

  The cracks in this neighborhood were also hidden behind closed doors, bolstered by pride and old-world stoicism. They were suffering, but would never ask for help.

  I shouldn’t be here, but leaving now would out me as an eavesdropper.

  “Why would you do this? We can’t afford to close the store for a weekend to go mess around in Lake Tahoe. Have you forgotten how old you are? Really, Wayne.”

  “Bernard offered to watch the store for the weekend.”

  “Our son has a family of his own. It’s selfish of you to ask him to do this,” Mrs. Chiu huffed.

  “I haven’t spent time alone with you in so long. Anita, please. It’s only for three days. You’ve been working so much—”

  “I’ve been working because we need the money. If it weren’t for my jobs, we’d have lost the business years ago. I’m doing this because you wanted to stay here.” Her shoulders sank and her voice softened. “I appreciate the gesture, but you should have asked me first. If you want to know what I want, then see if you can get a refund. I’ll be home late again tonight. Don’t wait up, you’ll need your rest for your shift tomorrow.”

  She turned and left.

  Mr. Chiu held up his hand as if it could have stopped his wife from leaving. He sighed and lowered his head. My heart ached for him. He loved his wife so much. Their marriage was suffering because the neighborhood was dying.

  The Chius were the perfect candidates for the second recipe—they needed a love potion of some sort. As for their financial problems, if the prophecy were true, and the restaurant were to open and succeed, there was a chance the neighborhood could be saved. Prosperity could spread once it had been established. A little hope went a long way to furthering a purpose.

  “Natalie, you can come out now,” Mr. Chiu called out from his booth. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  I stepped out from the side aisle. He was no longer staring at his screens. Instead, he gazed at the door—miles away, following his wife wherever she had gone. I knew how he felt because I’d pined this way for my mother during our separation. It hardened my resolve to help the Chius as much as I could before it was too late.

  “My family ran this store for decades. I didn’t want it to stop with me. My children don’t want to run it, and I refuse to be the one abandoning my family’s legacy. Why can’t I have both my wife and the store? It worked so well before. Now, my wife and that agent want me to sell. You know, we were happy . . .” Mr. Chiu averted his eyes.

  I gathered my courage and approached the counter. “I have a dish for you and your wife that I’ll bring by soon. You were so kind to me during my mother’s funeral. It’s the least I can do.”

  He nodded and waved goodbye.

  I had three people to cook for and two problems to solve. I could no longer deny that I genuinely wanted to assist them. These weren’t strangers I could dismiss. I realized this must have been how Laolao felt about her neighbors and her community. I still had to find the third person, but it wouldn’t hold me back from cooking for the people I had already found.

  Tomorrow morning, I would cook in Laolao’s kitchen and prepare her dishes. Time to shake the cobwebs off and test my culinary skills.

  Chapter Eight

  Nothing made me ha
ppier than the act of cooking. My happiest memories were of spending time in the kitchen with Ma-ma as we prepared our meals. The best cooks doubled as magicians, uplifting moods and conjuring memories through the medium of food.

  Cooking had always been a source of personal joy, but now it had an added purpose: it would be the key to achieving my dream of running a restaurant of my own. Ma-ma had loved me with the same fierceness that Laolao had possessed for the restaurant. I now understood she had feared I would be caged by my dreams and that she thought she was protecting me. If given a choice, I’d want both a restaurant and a family to call my own. The closest I had come to having my own family was a failed engagement to a wonderful man in Manila, which fell apart because of my inability to commit.

  This was my paradox in love: to want something so badly, but to also be afraid of being tied down by it. I couldn’t allow this to cross over and hinder me in my mission to open the restaurant.

  This restaurant must succeed.

  But before I could cook Laolao’s recipes for the neighbors, I needed to practice. I had seen a dumpling recipe in the book that I wanted to try.

  I moved the Victrola downstairs to keep me company, and Bizet’s Carmen echoed through the restaurant. The ruined statue remained on the counter, but now it was flanked with pots of orchids borrowed from the windowsill upstairs. A small wooden bowl was set before it as an offering, filled with various hard candies.

  Earlier, I had removed the last of the plywood from the windows, the planks crackling against the steel of the crowbar as I revealed what had been lost in the last thirty years. The now-clean picture windows showcased the dying grayness of the neighborhood. I glanced around and realized the monochromatic palette had spread to the interior of the restaurant. The inside windowsill took on the gray tinge. I brushed my fingertips across the surface and they came away with silvery pigment, but without the sheen; as if I had painted it yesterday.

  The gleaming windows served as a reminder of my final goal: to see the sparkle return to the place, inside and out. As the “Habanera,” my favorite piece in the opera, wound down, I found my attention wandering to the few people hurrying by. Had it been so long ago that tourists lingered? What had happened to this place to cause the decline?

  According to Ma-ma’s lawyer, whom I had spoken with on the phone earlier that morning, everything was in place if I wanted to operate the restaurant. He pointed me to resources for the permits and licenses I needed, and he also disclosed an extra stipend that Ma-ma had set aside in the will. The extra cash would help pad the emergency fund and pay for a new fridge, as I had discovered the current one was shot.

  I’d ordered a cheap replacement early this morning from an online clearance sale and scheduled for it to be delivered in the afternoon. I unlocked the door and stepped outside to take a look at the restaurant from a stranger’s perspective. I sighed. The sign above was faded beyond recognition, but for now, it would have to do. I headed back inside.

  The finishing touch this place needed was the smell of good food. It was time to cook.

  Fried Dumplings

  Dough:

  Flour

  Salt

  Sugar

  Water

  Filling:

  Water chestnuts

  Bamboo shoots

  Ginger

  Garlic

  Green onions

  Minced pork

  Brown eggs

  For the dough, combine the flour, salt, and a pinch of sugar in a large bowl with the water. Knead, cover the bowl, and let the dough rest for thirty minutes.

  Mince the water chestnuts, bamboo shoots, ginger, garlic, and green onions before incorporating them into the minced pork. Add the eggs. Set aside.

  When the dough is ready, roll it out and cut palm-size circles for the dumplings. Spoon in the filling and fold the edges as you would when making a paper fan. The crispness of the edges will be amazing when fried.

  Deep-fry until golden.

  Yields 50 dumplings.

  Note:

  These dumplings should inspire happiness, for this is a recipe I learned from my mother. Her dumplings always brought me such joy. I saw them as bundles of sunshine.

  Serve this to those who need a smile. This dish is great for any occasion as it is popular with the young and the old.

  I placed a bouquet of green onions, ginger, and garlic on the counter beside bunches of water chestnuts and bamboo shoots. A packet of butcher-paper-wrapped minced pork huddled with a carton of large brown eggs.

  With the Victrola now playing Aida, I combined the dry ingredients, kneading them together. The mixture warmed in my hands as I worked it, and I added more flour to achieve the right consistency.

  When the dough was ready, I laid it in a covered aluminum bowl to rest. I washed my hands before tackling the filling, mincing golden ginger and green onions with Laolao’s still-sharp knife. My fingertips unfolded papery shells of garlic, releasing the aromatic cloves within. I used Laolao’s knife again to transform them into tiny cubes before depositing them in with the ginger and onions. I had chosen bamboo shoots and water chestnuts for their crispy texture, and I diced them and tossed them into the growing pile as well.

  Finally, I unwrapped the ground pork and threw it into the bowl, incorporating all of the diced ingredients along with a dash of pepper, which was my addition. Opening the carton, I reached for two brown eggs, cracking them against the rim of the bowl. The sunny yolks dripped down followed by the clear bridal train of the whites. I stirred everything with a large wooden spoon, mixing, pulling, and blending the filling into a marbled masterpiece.

  I rolled the dough out onto the flour-dusted counter, where I used a circular template for the dumplings, adding a spoonful of filling in the middle, and closing each one with accordion folds.

  Making dumplings had been a weekly Sunday affair with Ma-ma. We’d wash down the kitchen table and I’d be tasked with the choice of which record to play. Sometimes I’d gone by the artwork on the covers or I’d ask my mother about a song and which opera it came from by humming it. Dumplings could not come into existence without the aid of arias and orchestras.

  Now the finished dumplings populated the large metal tray. I poured refined peanut oil into the wok, turning up the heat on the gas stove. The blue flames licked the darkened bottom of the wok.

  While waiting for the temperature to rise, I conducted an imaginary orchestra with long wooden chopsticks. I dipped one into the oil and watched for the signs; telltale bubbles around the submerged shaft meant the temperature was perfect.

  The first sacrificial dumpling was tossed into the wok. The oil danced, enveloping the pale dumpling in a cloak of bubbles. Soon, it floated upward, a golden buoy in an amber sea, before I whisked it away with my chopsticks.

  I set the dumpling on layers of paper towels to soak up the excess oil. I waited as long as I possibly could for it to cool before giving in to temptation, biting into the golden, crisp dumpling and the steaming filling inside. The crunch from the wrapper created a satisfying explosion in my eardrums. It was perfect.

  Now assured of their quality, I tumbled half a dozen dumplings into the oil. The batch yielded fifty, just as the recipe indicated. I had more than enough left over for an offering for Ma-ma and some to share with Celia too.

  I picked up Laolao’s photograph and placed it on top of the closed recipe book. “I’m cooking in your kitchen with your recipe,” I said to her. “I wish I could watch you cook. You must have been a wizard in the kitchen. I could have learned so much from you, about cooking, business, life. If only you were still here.”

  I returned her picture to its place inside the recipe book before arranging half of the dumplings on a covered catering platter I’d found on the high shelves in the kitchen. I placed the rest of them on three plates on a round tray to carry upstairs to the
apartment. After depositing two plates into the fridge, I headed for the family shrine with the last one. The final plate with eight dumplings was set before Ma-ma’s photograph. I bowed and sent silent prayers to my mother’s spirit. Then I spoke and hoped that somewhere my mother could hear me. It was something like a prayer.

  “I miss you and think about you all the time. I’ve decided to open the restaurant. I am so happy that you gave me your blessing after all, Ma-ma. It’s what I’ve wanted for a very long time. Miss Yu said that in order for the restaurant to be successful, I have to cook for three people. I’m helping the Chius and Older Shen. As for the last person, I don’t know yet.

  “I didn’t know how bad things have gotten. The neighbors really are in trouble. I will help them, Ma-ma, not only because it’s what the prophecy says, but because it’s the right thing to do. This neighborhood will be saved.

  “I love you, Ma-ma. Always.”

  * * *

  I returned to the restaurant’s kitchen to prepare two extra dipping sauces to accompany the dish. Because I knew I would be delivering some of the dumplings to Celia soon, I left the front door open so I didn’t have to struggle with it later when I’d be carrying the food. Humming “O patria mio,” I took out the covered tray from the fridge, careful not to jostle the contents inside.

  “Excuse me,” a deep voice called from the entrance. “Are you open?”

  I almost dropped the tray. A stranger stood at the doorway. Judging by his leather messenger bag, lanyard, and hipster glasses, he had come from Silicon Valley. There was something adorably askew about him: odd locks stuck out from the gelled ink black mass of his hair, smudges graced the corners of his glasses, a missing button winked from the top of his shirt, and mismatched socks appeared between the bottoms of his pant legs and his shoes. Anyone would find him appealing, but for me, his glasses tipped the scales. Even the most beautiful man alive was much more attractive to me bespectacled. He was irresistible.