Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune

by Roselle Lim

  I took a deep breath. “Thank you all for being here. I’m so glad you came. When I lost my mother, I thought I had nothing left. She was all I had. But you reminded me that all of you are here with me.

  “While I was gone, you looked after my mother. You brought her groceries, kept her company, and helped her remember she was loved. You made her feel she wasn’t alone. I know that she loved you all.”

  I motioned for them to start eating.

  Everyone at the table tipped their head in acknowledgment before turning their attention to the feast. Celia lifted the stainless-steel lid of the tureen holding the watercress soup. Using the ladle, she served everyone a bowl while carefully avoiding eye contact with me. Mr. Chiu seized the platter of clear soda shrimp and helped himself before passing it across the table to his wife. She accepted the dish with a tight smile. To my left, Older Shen prepared his spring roll with more than a liberal sprinkle of the sugared crushed peanuts to satisfy his sweet tooth.

  As soon as the symphony of eating began, I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Food possessed the remarkable ability to heal and bring people together.

  All would be well. It had to be.

  “Don’t eat too many of the prawn heads, Wayne,” Mrs. Chiu said. “You have to watch your cholesterol levels.”

  Mr. Chiu dismissed his wife’s warning and continued sucking the sweet prawns on his plate.

  “Wayne!” She smacked his wrist. “Stop. There aren’t enough fat blockers in my purse. Dr. Ong will be furious.”

  Prawn and lobster brains were considered a delicacy for their rich flavor. The Shen twins and Celia were engaged in the same practice, sipping the heads as if they were miniature cups of mead.

  I winced as Mr. Chiu continued to ignore his wife, greedily consuming all the prawn heads he could fit on his plate. Sure enough, Mrs. Chiu launched into another tirade. No one at the table paused or intervened. Miss Yu watched with a wary eye. Older Shen busied himself with the soup I’d prepared. Celia and Younger Shen took turns filling their plates with samples from the various dishes while still not uttering a word of conversation.

  Intervening now would bring attention to the bickering couple.

  Instead, I glanced over at Older Shen. “When will you be done with the repairs at the bookstore?”

  “Everything is almost done. It’s almost ready for sale.”

  “I hope you considered what I said. To sell to the right people?” I asked.

  “No, I’ve consulted with Melody and she said—”

  “You are not to sell!” Younger Shen brought his open palm down against the tabletop. The resounding clink from the cutlery echoed, and the ensuing, invisible shock wave shifted the plates. “If you sell, you’ll ruin us all. I don’t care what that woman says. Our businesses do not have a price. We already settled this, Fai. You’re not selling.”

  Older Shen rose to his feet, struggling with his crutches, and for a moment, towered over his seated brother. “It’s my store. I can do with it as I see fit. Melody says I can be a millionaire if I sell now. You can’t tell me what to do anymore.”

  Younger Shen rose to his feet and regained his physical advantage. “Yes, I can, because you’re being a coward and an idiot. You have no shame. Our families worked to build this neighborhood.”

  One of the pendant lamps over the counter burst, burning out, but no one else noticed because the fireworks at the dinner table were more potent.

  “Guang, Fai, calm down.” Miss Yu rose from her seat. “Please.”

  She and Celia exchanged a glance and moved to the other side of the table, where the Shen brothers stood. Each woman chose a brother: Celia stood with Younger Shen and Miss Yu with Older Shen. As the women tried to calm them down, I managed the Chius, who were still fighting at the other end of the table.

  Mrs. Chiu wagged a fork as if it were an extension of her finger. “You never listen to me. You only do whatever you want. What about what I want or what our family wants?”

  “I want what our family wants. Don’t you think the boys deserve to inherit the business?” Mr. Chiu asked.

  “There. Is. No. More. Money.” She threw her fork down. Her cheeks were flushed and her breath was ragged. “You cling to the past like a ghost. We have to sell the business while we can still start over. If we do it now like Ms. Minnows says, we can retire well. There is no shame in this. Put aside your pride for once and—”

  They were going to sell, like Older Shen had planned. How long until the others considered the same course of action too? The neighborhood was coming apart at the seams. I did this. I was the one holding the scissors.

  Mr. Chiu stood up. “We’re not moving. My family has been here for generations. I will not be the one to walk away. This is where we belong. I’m making the sacrifices to ensure the business stays alive.”

  Another bulb shattered. The glass burst into a fiery shower before turning into powdery ash when it landed on the counter. Once more, no one noticed but me.

  How had I ever thought that cooking again would fix everything?

  “What about my sacrifices?” Anita asked. “Why do you think I’m working four to five jobs? To keep your precious store afloat! I haven’t seen my family in years! It’s clear to me that you’ve made your choice. You don’t love me as much as you claim to. I want a divorce, Wayne.”

  I winced. “I . . .”

  My apology died on my lips, for words couldn’t fix what had been broken.

  Mr. Chiu looked into his wife’s tearful eyes. “I love you, but if that’s what you want, you can have it.”

  Mrs. Chiu closed her eyes. All of the bluster and anger left her as she pulled back, withdrawing.

  Her husband turned to me and bowed his head. “This was a lovely meal. I’m sorry, Natalie, but I’m afraid I must take my leave.”

  I could do nothing but nod. What else could I say? Asking him to stay would be selfish and unnecessary. The damage had been done.

  Mrs. Chiu opened her eyes and turned to me. “This shouldn’t be a surprise to you. We’ve been trying for years to make it work.” She grabbed her heavy, cherry satchel and turned on her heel, following her husband out the door.

  “You always think you know better than me,” Older Shen yelled. His index finger sank into his brother’s chest as his other arm was held back by Miss Yu. “You never respected me, so why should I listen to you? You should heed my words because I’m the eldest.”

  “Like that matters. You’re selling because it’s the easy way out. For years, you let your business die instead of doing anything to change it. Now you’re selling the carcass. You have no—”

  Older Shen, though tethered by Miss Yu and restricted by his crutches, swung and connected with a forceful right hook to his brother’s jaw. Celia’s screams were muffled by yet another bulb shattering from the suspended pendant lamps. Younger Shen rubbed his jaw as his face mottled into the ruddy shade of a steamed Dungeness crab. His large hands balled into fists.

  Miss Yu stepped between them, her hands pushing both men apart. “Please, gentlemen. No violence.”

  Younger Shen swung his meaty fist and connected, but not with its intended target.

  Miss Yu crumpled to the floor. Older Shen managed to catch her in time. Celia sobbed, dropping to her knees. She cradled Miss Yu’s head on her lap while Younger Shen hovered nearby with his hand covering his mouth.

  I ran to the counter, fetched the phone from my purse, and dialed 911. The final bulb burst overhead, plunging the restaurant into darkness.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The day after the disaster, I returned to my futile study of Laolao’s book. Every recipe specified what could happen if ingredients were adjusted, but there was nothing about potential disasters. As I flipped back and forth, I kept returning to the ragged edges of the three missing pages. What did they contain?

&n
bsp; Since each page was written with such care, the ripped pages appeared like scars. If only what remained contained a hint of a letter or even a word, then I could guess what might have been written on them. I ran my fingertips along the edges, wishing.

  My stomach rumbled. I had not eaten breakfast or lunch yet. Too tired to cook, I called my favorite Vietnamese place. I typically thought ordering in was lazy, but last night’s dinner was still fresh in my memory, and I didn’t know if I could trust my own cooking anymore. I needed a break. When my order arrived, I locked up the restaurant and ran upstairs to gorge.

  I laid my feast out on the kitchen table. Draped over beds of jasmine rice, thin pork chops seasoned with lemongrass showcased charred stripes from the grill. Cold summer rolls with translucent rice paper glimmered with riotous colors from the mint leaves, vermicelli, and shrimp filling. Emerald coriander leaves peeked out amid slices of barbecued pork, in golden, crusty baguette sandwiches called banh mi. I placed a few pieces of the pork onto a plate for the cat. I bit into the cold rolls first. The thin wrapper yielded to my teeth, giving way to the crunchy pickled vegetables and plump shrimp underneath. The mint leaf inside complemented the sweet sauce with crushed peanuts. The two small rolls vanished into my belly.

  I attacked the banh mi next. The crisp crust highlighted the varying textures of its filling: crisp from the pickled radish and carrots, tender from the meat, springy from the noodles. The symphony of textures sang on my tongue. Soon, golden crumbs dotted my fingertips and my lips.

  I hovered my fork over the pork chops, ready to spear it into tender meat.

  The telephone rang.

  The shrill, metallic noise echoed in the apartment. No one had ever called me on the landline because this was Ma-ma’s telephone. Another ring. My heartbeat accelerated, flittering like a pulsing hummingbird within my rib cage. I rushed to the ancient rotary phone on the kitchen counter.

  “Hello?”

  “Tan girl.” The voice on the other end of the line was as ancient as the yellowed receiver in my hand. The nickname was strange, but I recognized the speaker. The last time I heard his voice, he had been screaming at me and practically chased me out of his restaurant. “This is Wu. Celia Deng came by last week and mentioned that you wanted to speak to me about running a business.”

  There was no point in this meeting. My neighbors’ lives were a mess, so I couldn’t open the restaurant yet. I didn’t want to go, but avoiding the old man would tarnish Celia’s reputation. I’d already damaged our friendship and I didn’t want to do more harm. I had to go out of obligation to Celia.

  I stammered out a yes.

  “Hmph. Come by the restaurant in half an hour. I have time this afternoon before the evening rush comes in. Don’t be late.”

  Old Wu hung up before I had the chance to reply.

  The old man wanted me to come by and see him. My full stomach wobbled, protesting.

  * * *

  I must have checked my reflection a hundred times at the apartment before I left. The old man was a strict adherer to etiquette and tradition. My apprehension climbed, tugging the hairs on my arms upward into fine points. The loose hairs on my head, despite being sprayed down in a severe bun, stood up like porcupine quills. My palms moistened. I grasped the edge of the counter in an attempt to steady my breathing and heartbeat.

  Old Wu hated me, yet he had acquiesced to Celia’s request. If I decided to forgo this meeting, it would embarrass her. I had thought the meeting would be useful because I’d be ready to open the restaurant, but now it seemed like a waste of both of our time.

  It didn’t matter. I had no choice. I must go to his restaurant and undergo the equivalent of an unanesthetized root canal.

  My chances of being decapitated by the Old Tiger were slim, but it wasn’t physical wounds I was worried about. Though his claws and teeth were fearsome, his sharp tongue was his greatest weapon. I had felt its power firsthand when I came back. Nothing could diminish my foreboding that I was walking into flames.

  Inside Old Wu’s restaurant, platters of Cantonese dishes floated on trays above the servers’ shoulders. Teapots emptied gallons of murky, low-grade jasmine tea for the noisy patrons who chatted in several languages. It was a concert of prosperity—the likes of which I wanted in my future, what I had thought Miss Yu’s prophecy was promising.

  Despite everything that had happened, having my own restaurant was still what I wanted—and I wanted it in this neighborhood, in Laolao’s old place. Old Wu had managed it. Maybe talking to him would help me realize my next steps, if there were still any options available to me.

  The old man wasn’t standing at his usual post by the counter. A server emerged from the dining room and addressed me in Mandarin. “Mr. Wu is waiting for you at a special table. Follow me.”

  I nodded.

  I followed her through the narrow path in between the packed tables, weaving, dodging, threading the needle until we arrived at a private table in the back, set up behind folded screens. A plate of fried tofu sprinkled with chilies was resting on a glass lazy Susan.

  Old Wu sat with a folded newspaper at his elbow. His dark eyes assessed me over a cup of tea. I chose the empty chair across from him.

  “Tan girl,” he said. “I am surprised you came.”

  I attempted to meet his eyes. My hands shook, so I hid them under the table.

  “Celia tells me you wanted to ask me something about the restaurant business.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “What do you want to know?”

  In addition to respect and deference dictated by our culture—the old man would tolerate nothing less—this meeting must be approached with honesty. I was certain he expected me to ask about the restaurant business, so I proceeded as if things were running smoothly. Diverging from the purpose of the meeting would incur Old Wu’s wrath even more because I’d be wasting his time. I had only one important question to ask: “I have filled out the list of forms. One of them is the neighborhood application. I want to know if you will oppose me.”

  Old Wu narrowed his eyes. “Are you serious about opening a restaurant?”

  I spoke from my heart. “Yes.”

  “It’s a hard business. Much harder than anything you have ever done. Have you taken any business courses or other education?”

  “I haven’t, but I’m ready to learn. As I recall, my grandmother hadn’t, either, and she managed well for herself.”

  “What will you do if you fail? Are you going to sell to those vultures who want to drive our people out of our own buildings?”

  “I would only do that as my last resort, if I had no choice. And no, I wouldn’t sell to the highest bidder. I would choose the right buyer.”

  He grunted. “I haven’t decided yet if I will block your application. You’re saying the right things. Time will tell if your actions prove it.” He poured himself more tea. “I have to get back to work soon. Is there anything else you want to ask?”

  The conversation so far had been civil—a stark contrast to our last encounter. This was my opportunity to ask about Laolao’s recipes. Old Wu had been my grandmother’s peer, and he must have known her.

  “Is it true that you knew Laolao?” I asked.

  Old Wu’s posture shifted. His shoulders straightened, and his voice thickened like stirred hoisin sauce. “Yes. She was a leader in the community when she ran her restaurant. She was the best cook, and I say this with pride as her former rival.”

  “Did anyone ever get sick from her food or did something weird happen as a result of her cooking?”

  “No.” He frowned. “Qiao was an impeccable chef.”

  Warmth flooded my cheeks. “I mean, is it possible that—”

  His lips clamped shut. “Are you questioning the legacy of your grandmother?”

  A tremble crept into my voice, the kind of weakness I didn’t want to show the old man. “N
o, it’s not that. I was just—”

  “You act as if it’s your right to claim Qiao’s legacy. She may have been your grandmother, but you and your mother forsook everything she worked so hard for. And you plan on reopening her restaurant? Running a business is not a hobby where you can take time off whenever you like. It requires great commitment. Did you even have financing in place?”

  I wanted to say I was working on it, but the words stuck in my throat as if I had swallowed lotus seed paste.

  “If you’re going to run it like a hobby, don’t bother. If that is the case, I will do everything in my power to block your application. Running a restaurant is hard work. Nothing your generation is used to. You don’t even know how much money it takes to run the business and keep it afloat.” Every point pricked, scraping the delicate skin of my collarbone hidden underneath my blouse. The tiny cuts bled, stinging.

  Was I truly unworthy to inherit my grandmother’s legacy? Was that the reason the recipes had failed to work for me?

  “Tell me, Tan girl,” he said. “Why do you want to run the restaurant?”

  The answer eluded me. What had once seemed so clear was now lost in a fog of anxiety and doubt. My shoulders rolled inward. I wanted to disappear, to vanish like grains of sea salt into a hot broth.

  The old man rapped his knuckles against the tablecloth. “Well?”

  I blinked and stammered, “I care about the neighborhood.”

  He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, his inflection implying a curse. His hand on the table curled into a fist. Though Old Wu was in his seventies, he possessed a strength cultivated from a life with little leisure. As far as everyone in Chinatown knew, he’d never taken a day off. The restaurant never closed, even for Chinese New Year. His was one of the oldest and most successful businesses in the area. And I was nothing.

  “You are lazy, irresponsible, and selfish.” The old man spat out the words as if he were spitting out salted watermelon seeds. “All you ever did was run away. You left home and never looked back. You tell me you care about the neighborhood now? Where were you when your neighbors had to scramble to feed their families? Did you help then? No, because you were traveling, seeing the world, and not caring about what happened here. You abandoned them. You are a disgrace to your family’s legacy. Just like your mother.”