Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune

by Roselle Lim

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I awoke the next morning energized by my nocturnal reverie. Today, I would start fixing my neighbors’ dilemmas—starting with the Chius’ marriage.

  After texting Celia the scheduled time for Mrs. Chiu’s arrival, I started the preparations for the dish. I planned on calling Mr. Chiu with a faux emergency when the meal was almost ready.

  Snow Pea Leaves

  (Natalie’s Recipe)

  Garlic

  Oil

  Snow pea leaves

  Salt

  Pepper

  Mince the garlic into tiny cubes. Heat the oil in the wok, then toss the garlic in. Watch the color change from pale yellow to gold. This is the indication it is ready. Too soon and it will lack the crispy texture. Too late and it will become bitter. Scoop the pieces out of the oil and set aside.

  Rinse the snow pea leaves under cold water. Stir-fry the leaves in the hot wok for about a minute until they wilt into a mountain of emerald. Add salt and pepper to your taste.

  Garnish with the toasted garlic on top.

  Note:

  My mother made this dish for me one Sunday afternoon. We didn’t have much, but it was enough. Nothing gave me more comfort than this humble dish. No other dish reminds me more of home and Ma-ma’s embrace than this.

  Cook this for those who are in disagreement. The simplicity of the ingredients will facilitate communication. I served this to the Chius to help them remember the love that was the foundation of their marriage.

  Using my mother’s cleaver, I minced the garlic, tapping the knife’s edge against the wooden chopping board to a woodpecker’s rhythm. The pale yellow bulbs dwindled into tiny cubes. I transferred them to a sauce bowl. I rinsed the emerald green snow pea leaves in the sink before placing them in a stainless-steel colander.

  The recipe called for only a handful of ingredients: garlic, salt and pepper, oil, and the snow pea leaves. Despite its simplicity, the flavor was profound, and the dish was a favorite of mine. I adjusted the heat of the stove. The temperature was key for success. Too hot, and the dish would burn. Too cold, and it would grow soggy and be ruined. I dipped a chopstick into the drizzle of vegetable oil in the wok. The tip bubbled from the heat—it was ready. The minced garlic took the initial plunge, bathing in the heat, tanning into crisp golden brown before I scooped the pieces out to toss the greens in. With a sprinkle of sea salt and pepper for taste, I continued to stir to avoid burning them. The green leaves wilted, changing into a deeper hue, the shade of moss on the forest floor. The color signaled peak tenderness and texture.

  I scooped the cooked snow pea leaves out of the wok and onto the two plates, arranging them over a bed of fragrant jasmine rice, and adding the toasted garlic as a garnish. The dish wore a palette of gold, green, and white.

  It smelled delicious. Sometimes, it was the simplest things in life we needed most.

  I picked up the rotary phone’s receiver and dialed the number for the convenience store. The dial rotated, making a whirring sound, clicking as each number registered.

  “Hello?” Mr. Chiu called out over the line.

  “Mr. Chiu, it’s Natalie,” I said. “I need your help. There’s a problem in the apartment. I think I have rats.”

  “Aiyah!” There was muffled shuffling on the other line. “They must have come out because of the fire.”

  “Please help me. I think I saw a few of them running around. I’m terrified of them,” I pleaded.

  “I’ll be right over.” Click.

  I returned the receiver to its cradle. Rats. Celia would be impressed at my fibbing ability, but horrified by the subject of the lie. I let Mr. Chiu into the apartment five minutes later. He’d come armed with traps.

  “Where did you see them last?” His eyes darted to and fro, scanning the apartment, moving in a frenzy rivaling the action of the ball in an Olympic Ping-Pong match. “Kitchen? They always migrate to where there’s food.”

  I made a vague motion toward the bottom cupboards.

  Mr. Chiu lowered himself to all fours to check the baseboards. “The cat should have caught one. They’re really effective in keeping away rodents. My cousin in San Rafael is a cat breeder. He breeds those fluffy white pancake-faced types. Persians, I think they’re called. Your mother bought her cat from him.”

  I smiled. Of course, it made sense that Ma-ma had done this.

  There was another knock on the door. I excused myself and ran down the stairs to open it. Mrs. Chiu was waiting for me. The corners of her eyes were deepened with creases, her shoulders drooped, and she could barely handle her massive quilted tote.

  “Celia told me you were in trouble. Something about misplacing the insurance papers?” Weariness permeated her voice.

  “Uh, yes, I can’t remember where you said you left them. I’m sorry, Mrs. Chiu. I know you’re busy.”

  “It’s all right, dear. After what you’ve been through, it’s natural to forget things.”

  She followed me up the stairs.

  I walked to the kitchen and pulled out the two chairs I’d set for the couple.

  Mrs. Chiu dropped her purse when she saw her husband crawling on the floor on his hands and knees. “Wayne! What are you doing? Get up.”

  Mr. Chiu bumped his head against the edge of the counter. “Anita, what are you doing here?”

  I gave the couple my sternest glare. “Both of you, please sit.”

  “There are no rats, are there?” Mr. Chiu asked, rubbing his head.

  “No. Please, sit. All I’m asking for is a meal. You don’t need to talk.”

  Mrs. Chiu sighed. She took the seat on the left. Her husband took the seat on the right. They avoided each other’s eyes and focused on their plates. I noted that, for a couple in disharmony, they still took their first bites at the same time.

  I stood back, my heart in my throat, watching, waiting, hoping for a sign. If nothing out of the ordinary happened, everything I had done before this was for naught. And then, after the third bite, something happened, a most subtle change that would have gone undetected had I not been so vigilant.

  A fine thread made of shimmering gold appeared, connecting the top of Mr. Chiu’s salt-and-pepper hair to Mrs. Chiu’s dark brown hair, then another connecting each of their shoulders, more and more of these nearly translucent threads materializing, encasing the couple in a beautiful display of a cat’s cradle. The couple was connected by strands of starlight, as lovely as any constellation in the night sky.

  Once the food had disappeared off their plates, they both looked up, meeting each other’s eyes. Their mouths opened, but no sound came out, or none I could hear. I turned away to give them privacy. They were speaking and listening to each other, although silently.

  The dish was working! I walked to the sofa and opened a magazine, skimming an article on the hidden beauty of Micronesia. I must have escaped through the pictures because I was startled when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  “Natalie?”

  I snapped the periodical closed. “How was the meal?”

  “Quite delicious,” Mrs. Chiu said.

  The couple was holding hands, fingers intertwined, wedding rings glinting off their respective ring fingers. Mr. Chiu looked at his wife with the same longing I had seen when he’d confessed the situation of his marriage to me.

  “We talked,” he said. “It was good.”

  “Better than I hoped,” Mrs. Chiu added. “Not perfect, but it may get there again in time.”

  “It will,” Mr. Chiu said before placing a kiss on his wife’s temple. “We both want it to. We decided to retire and spend more time with family.”

  I smiled.

  Perhaps I should have been more cautious, but I had no nagging doubts this time. My recipe had worked, and I couldn’t be more pleased. It was as if the Chius had shared their happiness with me. This
must have been how Laolao felt when she helped others. A familiar shot of adrenaline coursed through me along with a thrumming sense of joy; an exhilarating jolt of vitality.

  Yes, this was what had been missing from the previous botched attempts.

  I still had to cook for one more person. I ushered the happy couple out of the apartment and readied the kitchen for the next round of cooking.

  Older Shen’s predicament required me to think of not what was best for the neighborhood, but what was best for him. If he wanted to sell and leave, he should, but with eyes open to all consequences. The recipe for courage had unearthed a restless streak in him that could lead to unhappiness if untempered.

  Minced Pork in Lettuce Cups

  (Natalie’s Recipe)

  Carrot

  Ground pork

  Mushroom soy sauce

  White wine

  Green peas

  Mushrooms

  Salt

  Pepper

  Iceberg lettuce

  Sauce:

  Mustard

  Hoisin sauce

  Hot sauce

  Chop the carrot into tiny cubes. In a heated wok, add the ground pork, mushroom soy sauce, and white wine. When the meat has been cooked, add the green peas, mushrooms, and carrots and stir for a minute. Sprinkle some salt and pepper to taste.

  Pull the iceberg lettuce apart, rinse, and let dry. These will act as the cradle to hold the filling.

  Mix equal parts mustard, hoisin, and hot sauce into a small bowl. Stir the yellow, brown, and red until they turn into a rich brown.

  Serve the iceberg lettuce, filling, and the sauce.

  Note:

  This dish is a marriage of different textures: the crispiness of the lettuce, tenderness of the pork filling, and silkiness of the sauce.

  This dish is to encourage temperance. Serve it to those who need restraint added to their impulses—just as the lettuce holds the filling together and keeps it from falling out.

  I hovered over the sink and pulled the washed iceberg lettuce head apart. The crisp leaves squeaked under my fingers. A firm but delicate touch was required to retain the integrity of the leaf—the perfect receptacle for the minced pork filling.

  A snowfall of white pepper floated down from my fingertips into the hot wok where the minced pork, shredded carrots, and sliced Chinese mushrooms sizzled. Puffs of steam bloomed upward, prompted by the turn of the wooden spatula. More spices, more steam, more flavor. I prepared my own version of hoisin sauce to include with the dish.

  It was three in the afternoon and time to call in my final visitor.

  I dialed the number Celia left for me. “Mr. Shen?” I asked as the call went through. “It’s Natalie.”

  “Oh, hello there. I saw the fire trucks. I wanted to come by, but Celia said you needed space. I didn’t want to intrude. It must have been traumatic. Are you all right?” The concern in his voice touched me.

  “Yes, I am,” I replied. “Can you please come by the apartment now? I have something for you.”

  “Of course. I just finished with an appointment. I’ll be right over.”

  Older Shen appeared in under five minutes at my doorstep with an unopened bag of White Rabbit candies as a gift. “These are for you,” he said. “I hope they cheer you up.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured, accepting the gift. Though I was in my late twenties, my joy at seeing these candies was undiminished.

  I helped him up the stairs because of his crutches. His gaze fell upon the potted orchids on the windowsill, then to the stacks of magazines. Older Shen picked up the current National Geographic issue and smiled. “Did you know Miranda didn’t even know these existed until I gave her a copy years ago? I was so pleased when it became her favorite.”

  “Celia told me that you’d all helped Ma-ma when I left. Thank you,” I said.

  He set the magazine down and made his way to the kitchen table. “Miranda was one of us. We try to take care of our own.” Older Shen took his seat and marveled at the meal I’d prepared for him. “This looks lovely, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I hope you like it.”

  A shy smile emerged from his face, one I recognized from before his transformation; as much as I liked the current version of Fai Shen, I missed some aspects of the previous one. My prescription for this dish was one I thought was perfect for him.

  Cradling the curled lettuce leaf in one hand, Older Shen spooned the minced pork filling into it with the other and drizzled the hoisin sauce on top. The touch of added sweetness completed the savory profile of the dish. The contrasting textures might be the reason I had chosen this. The crunch of the lettuce combined with the juicy, tender filling created harmony for the palate.

  Older Shen took his first bite.

  A discordant symphony rose from each nibble; the kind one would expect on the first day of band practice. If Shen heard the cacophony, he made no indication. Tiny balls of light appeared over his head, all mimicking the audible chaos by pinging this way and that. With every chew, the noise became more organized as if each hapless instrument were being replaced by a skilled performer. The lights followed, falling into an ethereal formation—that of an unbroken circle.

  Temperance.

  And then I felt it, the adrenaline, the joy.

  I refilled his cup of tea and took the seat across from him. “Have you sold the store yet?”

  “No, but I have offers already. I haven’t made the final decision,” he replied. “I’m sorry, Natalie, I know you wanted me to stay and run the bookstore, but I don’t have the heart to do it anymore. I can’t keep doing this when I know someone else can do a much better job.”

  “What do you want to do after you sell?”

  “I don’t know yet. I thought about getting an apartment nearby, somewhere close enough to visit, but far enough so that I get a change of scenery. Maybe travel? It was a luxury I denied myself for years.”

  Though I was saddened by his departure, the mention of visits comforted me. When he did leave, I would cook him a worthy feast as a send-off. “Our street won’t be the same without you and the store. We’ll miss you,” I said.

  Older Shen sipped his tea. “I’ll make sure whoever takes my place will bring life back into the neighborhood.”

  “Maybe it should be a young family?” I suggested. “New blood. It’d be nice to see children again around here.”

  He laughed. “Yes, we’re all getting older.” He nodded as if contemplating my suggestion. “The street does need the influx of new blood. I’ll make sure to keep an eye out among the prospective buyers. Although I’m not looking forward to Melody’s reaction when I tell her what I have decided.”

  The neighborhood would be saved. Seeing younger families take over for the retiring shopkeepers would be a blessing to my community. In time, I might be able to see it prosper. This gave me hope for the future: I felt excited at the prospect of meeting this next generation of neighbors.

  I’d been wrong in thinking that shackling the shopkeepers to the neighborhood was the answer to their problems. It had been my misguided solution. Helping them was to allow them to move on to wherever they needed to be. Like Older Shen and the Chius, it was to retire and make way for others.

  “She shouldn’t complain if she’s still getting a commission from the sale.”

  “And what about you? How are you faring? I hope the fire hasn’t dashed your goal of reopening the restaurant.”

  I told him about Old Wu and my mentorship.

  “You have the best teacher in Chinatown,” he said. “You will do well. What about your beau?”

  “Who?” I asked.

  He winked. “The young man I’ve seen come and go by the restaurant. Forgive me if I’ve overstepped, but one of the hobbies of the aged is to stare out the windows. Celia calls it gossip b
ut I call it mindful observation.”

  Daniel. I blushed when I remembered the terms on which we parted.

  “I messed it up between us,” I replied.

  “For someone as eager to fix things as you are, I find it hard to believe that you wouldn’t at least try to make it work with your sweetheart. Love is one of those rare things that may seem fragile, but it’s stronger than it looks. Much like me.” He patted his chest.

  I smiled.

  Older Shen leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “You never know, he might come back. Love, like life, has the highest risk, but the greatest reward. If you jump and fail, the chasm below is endless, but if you fly, the sun will be yours.”

  “I’m not aiming for the sun, Mr. Shen,” I said.

  “Maybe you should be.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  With the neighbors and my friendship with Celia in a better state, and the renovations for the restaurant about to start, I settled in that evening to read more of my mother’s journals. I picked up the next in the stack. There was so much of her past that she had left unsaid.

  Mother, when I told you about him, you were disappointed.

  Not the proper husband. Not secure enough. Not good enough.

  He wasn’t what you wanted.

  He wasn’t what you expected.

  He knew nothing about the restaurant. It infuriated you that he agreed with me about leaving Chinatown.

  All you saw were his imperfections. The cracks, the inelegance, how un-Chinese he was. His skin was the same as ours and his name, written in ink brushstrokes. He was born in San Diego from a respectable family, yet it wasn’t enough.

  What did he need to be?

  Like the father I never knew? The man you never married. I have heard the whispers about the one who stole your love and brought it back with him to Shanghai when he left. How you wanted to follow, but your pride kept you planted on this side of the ocean.