by Roselle Lim
I should have corrected Celia. She had declined my offer, but I did it anyway. I should have revealed that she was the last one I’d decided to help, but I feared the possibility that she would be upset and our newfound friendship would be broken. Instead, I chose silence and hoped I would not regret it later.
“You can have it all,” Celia said. “You just need to believe that you can.”
Chapter Eleven
The next morning I awoke with a lightness of spirit. The birds outside my window trilled with an infectious song. My happiness reverberated with every note while Meimei clucked at the unseen birds. Today, I would start tackling the paperwork for the restaurant.
After a hot shower, I tied my hair into my customary ponytail and stepped into a white cotton tank dress, one of the many pieces Celia had bought for me at the thrift store. I was still adhering to the Chinese mourning tradition by forsaking all bright colors.
Before I sank into the mire of bureaucracy, I picked up Meimei and settled her on my lap. My fingers found her furry, tufted ears. “I’m glad you’re with me.”
She turned her head and nuzzled my hand.
“I miss her too. I hope I can make her proud.”
The cat mewed.
“Oh, Ma-ma, I wish you were here.”
As I fed sheets of paper into the printer, the thought of my father crept into my mind. Wherever he was, he probably didn’t know Ma-ma had died. I never truly accepted that he chose to leave us. I didn’t want to know why he left. I didn’t doubt Ma-ma’s love for him or question her unworthy choice in a husband—after all, I was its by-product. But what worried me was the fear that I’d inherited her flawed ability to choose a mate. I failed Emilio. Would I do the same to Daniel if I dared pursue anything with him?
I shook my head. I had to stop thinking this way. Failure wasn’t an option, not in love and not for the restaurant.
I printed out the business license form and placed it with the others: federal employer identification, legal building permit, seller’s permit, food handler’s permit, sign permit, health operational permit. I even printed out forms for a music license and an alcoholic beverage license—maybe I could make them fit into the budget. The folder had become bloated like an overstuffed dumpling.
I kissed the top of the cat’s head before I made my way downstairs to fill out the paperwork. I could have done it upstairs at the kitchen table but I had an ulterior motive: I wanted to lay another “trap” for a certain someone.
I decided to make Laolao’s dumpling recipe again because I already had the ingredients. The scent of Laolao’s food must have acted like culinary pheromones to lure Daniel here. Had he arrived before or after I’d fried them? I couldn’t remember. How had he smelled my cooking from so far away? There was a tap against the door. Celia stood at the doorway. She appeared refreshed, her dark curls crisper than ever and her tortoiseshell glasses glinting in the sunlight. She wore a lime green frock with a print of tiny red cherries accented by a starburst citrine brooch.
I went to the door to meet her.
“Last night was fun,” she said. “Thank you for confiding in me.” A deep blush spread across her cheeks. “I hope you know that you can trust me.”
“Of course.” I smiled. “I consider you a friend.”
“Good!” She sniffed the air. “Are you cooking something right now?”
“Not yet, but I will be.”
“I can’t wait to smell it. The best part of your laolao’s cooking—other than eating it—was the way it filled the neighborhood with such delicious scents.” Celia checked over her shoulder as the dragon hiss of a tour bus’s air brakes signaled the oncoming stampede of tourists. “My luck has turned! It’s the tour group that Old Wu promised yesterday. Oh, I really needed this! I’ll be back later.” She waved goodbye and sprinted down the street to open her gift shop, an adorable human streak of lime green and cherry red.
It was working! Laolao’s recipe had turned Celia’s luck. I couldn’t wait to check in on the rest of the neighbors later. The restaurant’s success hinged on helping them, and although my motives hadn’t been altruistic in the beginning, I now found myself wanting to engage with the people who lived nearby. Cooking for them cut away some of the veils of formality. After all, I’d been privy to their heartaches, and they knew I had lost Ma-ma. Exposure had banished the years of unfamiliarity.
I heated the oil in the wok, and waited for it to get to the right temperature before tossing in a dumpling. It sank below the bubbling surface only to rise in golden splendor when done. I fished it out and waited. Science gauged the speeds of light and sound, but what about aroma?
I ran to the front door and propped it open.
Would it work again this time?
Should I fry more dumplings?
Should I fan the wok while cooking?
I stared at my phone to check the time.
Two minutes had passed since I fried the dumpling. Soon, two had turned to five.
The idea that he could have been a food-induced hallucination took root, merely a romantic dream borne from the whispers of my heart.
Seven minutes.
He wasn’t coming.
I should be concentrating on cooking for the neighbors anyway instead of chasing an irresistible illusion.
Why did he have to be so handsome?
Just then, the bell above the door jingled.
Daniel came into the restaurant with a wonderful smile. As he made his way to the counter, I battled the rising nervousness and giddiness inside me.
Armed with his familiar leather messenger bag and a blinking assortment of gadgets, he perched upon his designated stool. Behind his horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes closed as he inhaled, drawing as much of the delicious air into his lungs as he could, his rib cage expanding like a hot-air balloon. His navy tee had some sort of programming code on it, obscured by his striped overshirt.
“You do know I’m not officially open, right?”
“Then I’m coming in to get a sneak peek before everyone else. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”
I smiled. “A cook always likes to hear when someone likes her food.”
“Speaking of which, I’d love more of those addictive dumplings, please. As many as you can serve. I’ve had dumplings before, but nothing like these. They’re different. Very googol.”
I didn’t understand why he compared the dumplings to a search engine, but I nodded my head anyway and pointed to the kitchen. “I’ll be back with the food.”
I dropped three batches of dumplings into the wok, wanting to serve Daniel the freshest fare possible. As they cooked, I pulled out a large melamine platter and a pair of chopsticks from the shelves.
The restaurant’s serving ware was worn but still functional and, at this point, even if I wanted to update the collection, I couldn’t afford to. Besides, my grandmother had used these very bowls. If I replaced them, I would lose that connection with her.
I looked over at Daniel. His pupils were dilated. The corners of his mouth turned up, wolfish, grinning, but not at me—at the full tray I was carrying. A trickle of sweat traveled from my hairline and down to my brow, setting off a slow burn under my skin. The dials on my internal stove clicked as my temperature climbed, flaring, pulsing, unfurling like a bushfire. His lust for the food had once again become mine. His passion was my aphrodisiac.
After unloading the platter, I didn’t dare linger, lest I combust while I watched him eat.
In the kitchen, hissing steam rolled off my skin as I downed glass after glass of ice water. The galley was once again enveloped in a thick fog, as thick as the foam of a Florentine cappuccino. Slowly my temperature returned to normal, but my heart still galloped in my chest. What was it about Daniel that affected me so?
Ma-ma had never warned me about this, although she’d had a warning pertaining to eve
rything else. We had never had the talk about the birds and the bees because she was too busy talking about demons. I guess they were more important than sex education.
The public school system taught me everything I needed to know physiologically, but we had never learned nuances such as romance. And coming from a broken home, I’d had no romantic role models to follow. The best part of any relationship was the beginning: the potential, the attraction, when the enjoyment of each other was the only focus. But the longer a relationship dragged, the more exposed I was to the ugliness of my flaws.
I’d been afraid that Emilio would realize I was unworthy of his love. I’d left him before he could leave me.
And so I always ran.
Because, in the end, I was most afraid I would end up like Ma-ma. Trapped in the ghost of a relationship if not an apartment.
Daniel didn’t even know my name. It wasn’t as if we’d shared intimate conversations. I served him food and he ate it. I knew nothing about him save for his incredible appetite and the information on his lanyard, yet I liked him enough to tell Celia about him.
I needed to know more, but I was afraid to speak to him and burst this bubble, the fragment of hope that this could turn out differently than the wreckage of my past dalliances. Infatuation from a distance was safer than engaging and discovering that it wasn’t meant to be. I told myself to be brave, but I still wasn’t sure I could do this.
I peeked through the doorway. As anticipated, Daniel was finished with his meal. Three clean bowls were stacked on top of the empty platter. His long fingers tapped an unfamiliar up-tempo rhythm on the counter. The way he splayed his fingers suggested he was quite adept at the piano. The lanyard hanging from his neck bobbed with the movement.
“You play the piano?”
He pulled the earbuds out. “For as long as I can remember. Didn’t your parents also force you to take lessons? It’s the Chinese way after all.”
“Nope.”
“Maybe you had a violin under your chin instead?”
“My mother missed the music lessons memo. I never took piano, though I do admit, I’m curious about what I missed out on.”
“Most people will tell you horror stories about how it was like prison because they’d be stuck on that bench until their sentence was done. For me, though, it wasn’t torture because I love music.” There was a spark of mischief in his brown eyes. “What kind of lessons did your mother put you through?”
The visual of a pint-size Daniel playing the piano danced in my head. I’d never had many friends growing up, but I felt as if Daniel could have been one. He must have been adorable and quite serious about the task at hand, just as I’d been when listening to my mother as she instructed me how to properly use a knife. When I was growing up, Ma-ma was leery of strangers coming into the house and never liked the idea of my leaving for an hour or two for lessons that I would have to travel outside of our neighborhood to get to. Instead, I found my way inside the kitchen, learning about the power of spices, how to fillet a fish, and the art of dim sum.
“She taught me how to cook,” I replied. “Everything I know I learned from her and from working in other chefs’ kitchens.”
“She must have been an amazing chef. Those culinary lessons you got are priceless. So this means she ran the restaurant before you? I don’t remember this place being open last year or the year before that.”
“No, it was closed for a long time. My grandmother was the one who was in charge, but that was decades ago. When my mother had me, I guess she decided to focus on her family and abandoned it.”
Daniel opened his wallet, revealing crisp bills.
“You’re paying too much. I’m starting to crack down on the handouts.”
“It’s not a handout.” He placed a one-hundred-dollar bill on the counter. “This includes the tip.”
I slid the bill back across the counter. “I’m not even open yet. It’s too much.”
“The food was good.” He pushed the bill back.
Before I could countermove, he placed his hand over mine. The warmth of his touch sent blood rushing to my cheeks. He squeezed before letting go.
“I know what I like.” Daniel’s brows narrowed. A hardness entered into his features, and it caught me by surprise. “I love your food and if you continue to cook, I’ll keep following its aroma every morning. Your dumplings are exciting—there isn’t anything in the city that compares to them. It’s only a matter of time before the foodie intelligentsia get a whiff of this place. We’ll see then how much you’ll charge to turn people away at the door.”
My mother had once compared compliments to birds: if you don’t chase after them, they come on their own. “Thank you,” I repeated. “You seem to have grander dreams about my restaurant than I do. I need to cook you something different sometime so you can see the range of my skills.”
He tapped the hundred-dollar bill on the counter and winked. “That would be great. Good old American capitalism is your friend. So, uh . . . are you seeing anyone?”
I bit my lower lip. “No. I just moved back because my mother passed away.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” He lowered his head. “It must be why you’re always wearing white. I should have known.”
He’d noticed what I wore? “Thank you. I miss her every day.”
We stared at each other and he smiled. It was a simple gesture, so earnest in its essence that I couldn’t help but return it. His dark eyes were molten underneath the thick glasses, the shade hovering between dark and milk chocolate.
I stared, losing myself in the fond memories of chocolates in their paper shells at Christmas, in the surprise and discovery of the filling inside, the strong, earthy scent of cacao, and the taste of the trinity—the over-the-top sweetness of the white chocolate, the smooth finish of milk, and the bitterness of the dark.
Daniel stared back at me, but at last, he looked away. “I think I need one more day.”
“One more day?”
“To get the courage to ask you out. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
With those last words, Daniel slipped his earbuds in, retrieved his messenger bag, and hummed a lively jazz tune as he walked out the door.
Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.
Yes, I was smitten.
And what would I cook for him tomorrow? Something interesting and new. My initial fascination had transformed into something I didn’t want to identify. The attraction was strengthened even further by his passion for my dishes. He believed in me, and since I had lost my greatest champion in Ma-ma, I couldn’t find a stronger aphrodisiac in the world. Tomorrow, I resolved to say yes and see where this would lead.
In the meantime, I needed to follow up with Older Shen and the Chius. If their situation was anything like what had happened with Celia, I should be in for a delightful surprise.
Chapter Twelve
Two days had passed since I cooked for Older Shen and the Chius. I hoped it wouldn’t be too obvious to spy on them now. I headed out of the restaurant’s kitchen, grabbing my purse on the way.
Right in front of the convenience store, Mr. and Mrs. Chiu were tangled together like two horny teenagers in a closet. From this angle, I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. They weren’t even coming up for air. Every few seconds, the missus kept trying and failing to launch her legs around her husband’s waist. When Mr. Chiu’s wandering hands traveled to cup his wife’s buttocks to assist her, I decided it was time to duck back inside. I covered my mouth to smother a giggle.
The only difference between the Chius and the drawings in the Kama Sutra was that the former was clothed. Despite the secondhand embarrassment, I was grinning.
It had worked!
The gastronomical chemistry of Laolao’s recipes that had once helped her community was now helping the neighbors through my hands. All of those people had co
me to the restaurant once, seeking aid and comfort, and Laolao had been able to help them. Here was the incontrovertible proof that I had helped. The last time I saw the Chius, they’d been arguing, and the passion seemed burnt out of their marriage. This was certainly an improvement.
Of course, I hadn’t checked on Older Shen yet, but if Celia’s luck changing and the Chius’ romantic rekindling were any indication, the recipes were working. I was much closer to opening the restaurant and ensuring its success.
I still had to file the paperwork and look into whether the building needed to be inspected. After I addressed the technicalities, I should plan the grand opening, and it would only be fitting if it was marked by a huge feast with multiple courses. I wanted to invite all the neighbors and Daniel. But first I needed to see how Shen was doing, to make sure I truly had helped all three.
My phone buzzed in my purse. I fished it out and discovered a text from Celia.
Guang popped out of his herbal store and helped me pry Anita and Wayne apart so they wouldn’t be arrested for indecent exposure. Did you see them?
I grinned and typed back.
Yes. What are you doing for dinner? I want to cook you something that’s different from last night. I need your help with an idea I’m planning for the restaurant.
Celia wrote:
It’s a date. Drop by after the shop closes at six. I have news. We have much to talk about.
I hoped her news involved more good fortune.
My happiness, unadulterated, rose above the clouds of my grief like the sun emerging after a thunderstorm. It was a perfect day. I only wished Ma-ma were here with me. She could have at least gotten a scandalous giggle watching the Chius’ peep show from the window. Oh, how I missed her.
I headed back out to drop by Older Shen’s bookstore. There was a sign on the door saying, “Closed for repairs.” I peeked inside. He was perched on a ladder, fixing one of the cracked ceiling tiles. Drop cloths covered the bookshelves while boxes of new fluorescent tubes littered the floor.