by Roselle Lim
Oh no, the wings were her favorite. If I had known, I would have set some aside for her. A twinge of guilt stabbed me. Celia sighed and sniffed. The ghost of the chicken hung in the air. She inhaled the lingering aroma, excavating the layers like an olfactory archaeologist.
Her bottom lip trembled. I reached for Celia’s shaking shoulder and squeezed. “It’s all right, I can always make you more.”
“You can?” She lifted her head. “It’s been decades since I last ate those chicken wings. I thought I would never see or eat them again. Yet this morning, I smelled them in the air. I thought I was having a stroke. But the aroma grew stronger and when I saw the Chius come out of the restaurant, I knew it must be true. If the smell is any indication, you have re-created your laolao’s dish perfectly. I didn’t think it would affect me this way, but your grandmother’s food was incredible.”
It must have been. My grandmother’s book was magic after all. It wasn’t necessarily in the ingredients or the techniques, for I’d been cooking a few of these dishes for years without the startling results I’d recently witnessed. Instead, there seemed to be something tangible happening underneath the gastronomic chemical reactions. Those who’d required sustenance had received delicious food. Those who had needed more, Laolao’s recipes had healed.
I patted her hand. “I promise I’ll cook for you soon. I’ve been helping the neighbors, but I never asked you if you needed any help. Just say the word, Celia, and I’ll do what I can to help you.”
“No, I don’t need anything.” She lowered her eyes and shook her head. “You should focus on helping the others.”
“How about dinner? At your place. I’ll deliver it tonight, unless you have plans of course.”
She grinned. “It’s a date!”
* * *
After I walked Celia back to her store, I returned upstairs to the apartment to do some much-needed reading. Although Celia had requested the chicken wings, I wasn’t sure if they would be beneficial for her given the effects I’d seen with the Chius.
I had to find a new recipe and prepare a dish for Celia for tonight. Meimei assumed her position on my belly while I flipped through Laolao’s recipe book.
How could I help my friend? I’d asked her if she needed anything, and of course, she directed me to help someone else. I was more determined now to find something in the book for her. She didn’t need a love potion or more courage. I admired Celia for who she was: kind, generous, funny, stylish, and unapologetic in the way she devoured life. I could tell by the lack of tourists in the area that her business had suffered, but there was no easy cure for that in my grandmother’s book, nor did I expect one to be there.
Luck. I remembered Celia’s rash of misfortune with the shoe and the smashed figurines. She’d mentioned it herself yesterday. A little good karma couldn’t hurt, and it would be subtle enough to give her a boost. After all of the kindness she had given me, this was warranted.
There must be something that imbued luck in these pages. The recipes ran the gamut of vegetarian, fish, chicken, beef, pork, noodles, soups, stews, and desserts. They also spanned cuisines from Cantonese, Sichuan, Shanghainese, and even Taiwanese. My grandmother must have expanded her repertoire. The care and poetry of each recipe was accentuated by its simple instructions and colorful anecdotes.
This book had traveled across the ocean of time—a priceless family heirloom smuggled out of China when Laolao had immigrated to San Francisco. Though it had been too long since it had last seen the light of day, I now knew I wanted to make certain my family’s legacy lived on. My mother chose not to uphold it, but I wasn’t Ma-ma.
The kitten pushed her head against my hand. I had forgotten to keep petting her. I resumed my massage and was rewarded with purrs that sent vibrations across my skin. I’d never known the cure to loneliness lay in feline companionship.
I returned my focus to the pages and found the right recipe for Celia: Laolao’s famous noodle soup. Carrying the book with me, I headed downstairs to the restaurant and double-checked the fridge and pantry for the ingredients. I had everything I needed. It was time to cook.
Noodle Soup
Beef, pork, and chicken bones
Ginger
Star anise
Peppercorns
Onion
Carrots
Dried mushrooms
Fifteen spices [redacted]
Water
Boil all of the ingredients in a large stockpot to distill their properties. Luck takes time to brew. Boil for a minimum of three hours. Take care to skim the surface with a spoon to rid the broth of rising impurities.
Note:
This flavorful broth can be served on its own or with fresh, handmade noodles.
Cook this for those who need an extra boost. Caution, this is not meant to change one’s fate. This broth is to unlock possibilities: to choose the right course of action, instead of the wrong one. Luck can sometimes be interpreted as making the right choices at the right times.
I cooked this for a hardworking entrepreneur with many failed ventures. He was worried about his declining finances and the ability to feed his family. The broth managed to clarify his mind, and in time, he changed his own luck. This isn’t meant to be a cure-all but a push in the right direction.
My grandmother must have been up to her armpits in her neighbors’ entanglements. Meddling in other people’s affairs was akin to painting with lemurs—there was a certain level of patience and courage involved. I wondered if all of her recipes worked the way she had intended. They must have to have earned her such a legendary reputation.
I chopped the ginger root and dropped the slices into the boiling pot as the rising steam bloomed upward, flowering like a cloud. As instructed by the book, I added the list of fifteen spices and ingredients with the precision of a scientist. This was one of my grandmother’s most treasured and complex recipes. Ma-ma had tried to replicate this many times, but according to her, nothing had ever compared to the flavor profile of this soup. I fanned the aroma toward my twitching nose as the broth changed, unifying the ingredients into an intoxicating combination. I dipped my spoon into the pot for a taste and closed my eyes, enjoying all the flavors. Even knowing the components and preparation method, the result was nothing short of extraordinary.
The taste reminded me of one of the rare stories my mother had told me about Laolao. It was said that my grandmother’s famous bowl of noodles had cured a visiting monarch from Europe of her homesickness on a cool February afternoon. The foreign queen, staying in the presidential suite of the upscale St. Francis Hotel, had requested that a bowl of them be delivered every morning for the duration of her stay.
I never understood why Ma-ma had decided to share a piece of my grandmother that day. At the time, I’d been so grateful for the gift that I’d never questioned the motive behind it, but now, I believe it was one of the rare times Ma-ma had showed me that she missed my grandmother. Despite their differences, their complicated relationship must have been based on love after all.
With the broth simmering, my attention turned to making the noodles from scratch. There were no shortcuts in my family’s cooking. Without fresh noodles, a beautiful broth was wasted, and without a sublime broth, fresh noodles failed to shine.
I kneaded the flour with my hands, working, pushing, molding, shaping; aiming for the right consistency where the mixture would lose its stickiness. As the dough rested, I covered it with a damp cloth. It needed to be rolled, then sliced with a sharp, dry knife. Once the strands were cut, I untangled them, allowing them to fall into neat, fist-size piles perfect for single servings. The golden masses reminded me of the hanks of yarn my mother had used to crochet the afghans that were still in the apartment. I laid the bundles to rest in a large metal bowl, sealed it with industrial-strength plastic wrap, and tested the tautness as if it were a drum before I tucked it inside the fridg
e. The noodles would be ready for throwing into a boiling pot right before serving at Celia’s place.
I exhaled and leaned against the counter. The aroma from the broth alone soothed me. I was walking on my grandmother’s path, bringing a sense of fulfillment I yearned for in the turbulence of the present.
I prepared a smaller pot of water for the noodles right beside the large pot of simmering broth. The low rumble of the boil faded against the backdrop of The Magic Flute. Listening to music without the pops and crackles of well-worn vinyl was akin to experiencing the African savanna through a zoo exhibit. Authenticity in its splendor always carried flaws. The breeze swept in, carrying with it the intoxicating aromas from the kitchen and my hopes of success.
Celia was the last person I needed to help. After this, I could bury myself in the process of filling out all the paperwork to reopen the restaurant. I could have opened one before, but it would have been very difficult without the financial means to do so, and it had never felt right. Perhaps because it was that I’d never found the ideal place that enabled me to continue pursuing my dream. Maybe I had been waiting for Ma-ma’s blessing, which had never come until now.
* * *
Like most inhabitants of the neighborhood, the shopkeepers lived above their stores. It was an arrangement of convenience and necessity. In the past, these apartments had been like the bunkhouses of bachelors, journeymen who’d searched for Gold Mountain and then worked on the Central Pacific Railroad. The lone immigrants cramped into spare spaces like puzzle pieces until they brought their families over from China, and then their lodgings became even more cramped, transforming rooms into rabbit warrens with entire families sleeping in the same bed. The luxury of personal space that my family had enjoyed was as rare as our lineage: one daughter in each generation with no siblings to speak of.
At dusk, Grant Avenue was quiet under the glow of the green dragon street lanterns. Armed with a stockpot and a sealed container of the fresh, uncooked noodles, I ventured into the night. The upstairs windows above the gift shop were open, allowing yellow incandescent light to bathe the sidewalk below.
I squinted up at the orange polka-dot curtains fluttering in the night breeze. “Those Canaan Days” from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat blared from the stereo. Celia must have smelled her dinner as it cooked. The older woman leaned out the open window. Large rollers festooned her dark hair, weighing it down like too many summer apples on a tree. A thick cream collar trimmed the carnation pink housecoat covering her shoulders. She wore no makeup, but the same tortoiseshell frames perched on the bridge of her nose.
“I hope my dinner is ready,” she declared.
A minute later, the door to the apartment swung open. Celia helped me carry dinner upstairs. I had never been in Celia’s apartment, but its layout was similar to mine: two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a modest kitchen combined with living room. The decor was cheerful and very much a reflection of her personality: pale walls and furniture were accented with bursts of color in pillows, accessories, and posters of every successful Broadway show imaginable. Playbills in heavy plastic jackets populated bookshelves along with various souvenirs: a carved and painted lion from The Lion King, a glass slipper from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella, a sequined purse from Cats, a rainbow woven basket from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and a porcelain mask from The Phantom of the Opera.
Everyone in Chinatown knew Celia closed her gift shop two weeks a year. One week she spent in London’s West End, and the other on Broadway in New York City. I’d heard from Ma-ma that what occurred during those trips was a musical and epicurean bacchanal. Front-row seats to shows where every sequin and sprinkle of glitter was within reach. Expensive wines paired with five-course meals at tables booked six months in advance, including a rare seat or two at chefs’ tables in the intimacy of the kitchen. Was Celia still able to go on these trips, or were times too tight?
“I’ll need to use your stove to heat up the broth and cook the noodles,” I said.
Celia directed me to her tidy kitchen. It was immaculate from obsolescence. I placed the broth on the stove and searched the cupboards for a small pot in which to cook the noodles. Every door I opened contained a variety of wines, snacks, magazines, even shoes.
“I think it’s at the top over there.” She pointed to the farthest cupboard from my position. “As you can see, I’m not the best cook. I’ll burn the neighborhood down if given the chance.”
I found a small pot that suited my needs and gave it a quick rinse in the sink. “I can always teach you if you’re interested.”
She displayed her perfect manicure with an impish grin. “No, thank you. My hands are only meant for dialing takeout. But I can watch. I always love watching other people cook without the fire department being called.”
Celia set the table and brought two bowls for the soup to the counter beside me.
I scooped the noodles from the boiling water, pausing to watch them wriggling in the air, like fish battling against being parted from the sea. I submerged the noodles by ladling the fragrant broth into the bowls, covering them until they relaxed under the golden surface. I arranged chopped mushrooms and some steamed bok choy as a garnish to add more color and texture. Lastly, I sprinkled tiny rings of spring onions over the soup with my fingertips: flecks of green suspended in gold.
“It smells so good and just like your laolao’s.” She closed her eyes, sniffed, and hovered her face over her bowl. “It’s as if I’m tasting it again for the first time.”
Food possessed the power to evoke memories. I associated every dish with a moment of my life. Nothing transported me faster and more vividly. The sweetness of mango pudding brought me back to sitting on the sofa with Ma-ma as she braided my hair before school, admiring her handiwork as she’d hummed. She always waited for me after class with a pot of jasmine tea and a plate of fruit crème cookies. In between bites, I would tell her about my day.
I took a sip of the broth as I watched Celia eat. After seeing what had happened to Older Shen and the Chius, I wasn’t sure what to expect.
She wound her chopsticks around the noodles, creating a tornado, spinning them as if she were wielding a fork. Celia took a bite of the bundle, then sipped the broth. Tendrils of steam rose from her skin, changing into red and gold banners unfurling above her. Once she had finished, the banners disintegrated into mini bursts of fireworks. She was so enraptured by the food she failed to notice.
Celia smiled like a child who’d just decided between two different types of ice cream. She suddenly exuded confidence. This was the definition of luck from Laolao’s prescription.
“It’s funny,” Celia said. “I feel much clearer about things. Like I can think straight for the first time in a while. That reminds me, I saw a very handsome man come into the restaurant. I didn’t know you already had a boyfriend, at least not one in the area.”
“He’s a developer working at a company on Mission Street.” Heat rushed to my cheeks. “And he’s not my boyfriend. I don’t even know if I’ll see him again.”
She rested her chin on her hands. “Oh, he’s coming back. He’d be coming back regardless because of the food.”
I laughed. “You make it sound like I deliberately set a trap.”
“It’s not a crime to want to have everything: love, money, success. Judging by the blush on your cheeks, you like this one.”
I did, though it was too soon to tell. He was like the first page of an intriguing book I had just started. If only the fear of mucking it all up didn’t loom over my head like a beach umbrella.
“New love is supposed to be exciting. You look like you’re about to get a colonoscopy.” Celia reached across the table to pat my hand. “Did you have a bad relationship before this?”
“No,” I confessed. “I was the one who did the damage. I left my fiancé at the altar.”
Celia sat up
. “No, you didn’t!”
I trusted her enough to bare the ugliness of my romantic history. “I did. It wasn’t exactly at the altar, but two weeks before the wedding. His name was Emilio. I met him and his family while I was living in Manila.”
“He was Filipino then? Not Chinese?”
I nodded.
“What was he like?”
“He was handsome, very sweet, and definitely too good for me,” I said with a sigh. “Ma-ma would have approved of him if she’d had the chance to meet him. He was an English professor at one of the city’s universities. We dated for six months before he proposed. At the time, I thought it was my ever after.”
“What happened?”
I closed my eyes. Words spilled out of me quickly as if the speed would lessen the pain. “I couldn’t go through with it. I was terrified he would wake up one day and see who I really am, and leave me. I left him before he could leave me.”
Celia sighed. She got up and embraced me. “I’m sorry,” she murmured against my shoulder. “You deserve love. It’s hard for you to see now, but I’m going to do my best to convince you to believe it. We women have to stick together.” She poked my arm. “This man sounds promising. I hope it works out.”
“I don’t know. It’s too soon to tell.” I blushed.
“And the restaurant will be wonderful when you open! I know you’re worried but it will all be fine.”
“Did I tell you I flunked out of culinary school? When I moved out, I’d saved enough money for my first year and I couldn’t make it. I don’t have the right qualifications. That matters, right?”
“What matters most is that you’ll be cooking and people will fall in love with your food as they did with your laolao’s. Remember that you’ve helped Fai, Wayne, and Anita. Evelyn’s prophecies are never wrong.”