A Taste for Love

by Jennifer Yen

  “My children wouldn’t eat any vegetables until I brought your steamed veggie baozi home. One taste, and they were hooked. Now they eat everything!”

  “Your egg tarts saved my marriage! My husband and I have never been happier!”

  “Those multigrain mantou cured my stomach pain.”

  “I brought your taro cream buns to my boss at work and got a raise the next day. You’re a miracle worker, Mrs. Yang!”

  Yeah, right. I’ve eaten her buns for years, and I can say with complete certainty there’s nothing magical about them—unless you want a bigger butt. For her part, Mom just thanks them and offers up a taste of whatever recipe she’s working on.

  With lunch finished, I tackle the huge to-do list Mom gave me this morning. I want to finish with time to get ready for Sarah’s birthday party, especially since Mom agreed to extend my curfew by two hours. That hasn’t happened since she forgot to spring the clocks forward for daylight saving, so I’m totally making the most of it.

  I’m in the middle of printing fresh labels for the shelves when the bell connected to our front door jingles. I glance up and freeze. I know that face. It’s on the front page of our local Chinese newspaper.

  “What is she doing here?”

  There’s unbridled animosity in Mom’s voice, and it surprises me. This woman isn’t the first competitor to walk through the door, though she is the most well-known. One by one, our customers pause to stare at the local celebrity in their midst. They whisper among themselves, but it’s not hard to guess what they’re saying.

  “Is that her? Teresa Lee?”

  “The Teresa Lee?”

  Her face is unmistakable. Ever since Mrs. Lee announced plans to open the latest branch of her award-winning bakeries in Houston, every Chinese media outlet has been putting out stories about her. Even the American news channels did a feature on the owner of Mama Lee’s Bakery, including an interview with Mr. Lee and a tour of their headquarters. After all, she chose our city over Dallas, Los Angeles, and Seattle.

  Mrs. Lee’s hair curls softly around her face, the strands so black they glint blue under the fluorescent lights. Her eyes are framed with dark, winged liner, and her signature red lips play off her porcelain skin perfectly. I don’t know much about fashion, but everything she’s wearing oozes designer and expensive.

  Though she likes to be neat, Mom’s never been overly concerned about her appearance. Today, graying strands of her shoulder-length hair have come loose from the hairnet she wears when baking. Her face is bare, and she’s dressed in one of the T-shirts I outgrew and a long linen skirt.

  I catch Mom checking her reflection in the nearest display case. She surreptitiously fixes her hair and removes her apron as one of our customers approaches Mrs. Lee, speaking in a timid voice.

  “Mrs. Lee, it’s a pleasure to meet you! You’re even more beautiful in person.”

  “Thank you!” She presses a hand to her chest. “It means so much to me.”

  Another customer steps forward. “How is Mr. Lee? Is your family well?”

  “Everyone’s great. It’s so lovely of you to ask,” she answers.

  An older man steps forward, his phone in his shaking hand.

  “Mrs. Lee. May I take a picture with you?”

  The request is followed by many more. The delights of our bakery are forgotten as everyone lines up for a selfie. Mom growls, the sound low in her throat as she glares at Mrs. Lee. I nudge her with my elbow. She shakes off what I suspect are rather murderous thoughts and arranges her lips into a welcoming smile. Mom then steps out from behind the counter.

  “Mrs. Lee! What a pleasant surprise!” she greets, hand extended. “I had no idea you were going to grace us with your presence.”

  Mrs. Lee smiles, but the gesture is strangely menacing. Maybe it’s the way her lips are pulled tight across her unnaturally white teeth. As the two women size each other up, I settle in for some entertainment.

  “Ah, Mrs. . . . Yang, is it?”

  (Translation: I think I’ve heard your name somewhere.)

  “Yes,” Mom says, mimicking Mrs. Lee and pressing a hand to her chest. “I’m honored you know who I am.”

  (Of course you know who I am. Everyone knows.)

  Mrs. Lee gestures around the room. “It’s quite a cute shop you have here.”

  (Unlike my incredibly stylish, museum-quality stores.)

  “Well, thankfully my many customers don’t mind that it’s a bit small,” Mom answers with a dismissive wave. “They really come for the pastries.”

  (Flash won’t make up for subpar baking, lady.)

  “I’ll be thrilled if my new branch is half as successful as what you have here.”

  (I’m going to drive over you with a truck filled with my famous breads.)

  “Then I must make a trip out to see it.”

  (More like criticize how your buns are bland and your breads are hard.)

  Mrs. Lee flutters her lashes. “A little birdie told me you also run quite the local baking contest every year.”

  (I’d never heard of it, so obviously it’s not that big a deal.)

  “Yes, we’re heading into our fifth one. It grows bigger every year, especially since we offer a scholarship to the winner,” Mom replies, patting her hair. “It’s a lot to do by yourself, but there’s nothing more rewarding.”

  (Unlike you, the face of an assembly line. I’ll bet you don’t even bake.)

  I snicker at the last bit. Suddenly, they both turn my way. Mrs. Lee walks over and looks at me from head to toe. She peers over her shoulder at Mom.

  “Is this your daughter?”

  Mom moves to stand beside me and puts a hand on my arm.

  “This is my youngest, Liza. She’ll be graduating high school in a couple of weeks.”

  “How lovely.” Mrs. Lee meets my eye. “You’re as cute as this shop.”

  I grit my teeth. Forget Mom; I’m going to kill her.

  “My older daughter, Jeannie, is in New York.” Mom can’t resist boasting. “She’s a very successful runway model.”

  Thanks. That makes me feel so much better.

  “Is that right? Well, I hope I’ll have a chance to meet her too,” Mrs. Lee comments, baring her teeth again.

  “You must be too busy to have a family of your own, I imagine,” Mom counters. “Juggling all these locations.”

  Mrs. Lee rears back as if slapped. She’s quick to resume looking unaffected.

  “Actually, my husband and I have a wonderful son together. He’s my little prince, although I suppose he’s not so little anymore. He is, however, handsome, smart, and very popular.”

  I bet Prince Lee is just as conceited as she is. At least Mom won’t set me up with this particular Asian boy, a small but important victory.

  “Is he in town?” Mom asks.

  Or will she?

  Mrs. Lee straightens. “Actually, he’s been busy with college and work, but I’m sure he’ll come down and visit once summer starts.”

  She pans a smile across the shop to grace everyone inside. Even the dining room has fallen quiet, the restaurant customers listening closely to the exchange. They recognize good gossip when they hear it.

  “Well, you’ll have to excuse me, Mrs. Yang. There’s still so much to do before the grand opening.” Mrs. Lee peers down her nose at Mom. “Be grateful you don’t have to deal with all those pesky permits and regulations. Ah, well. It’s all part of running such a big company.”

  She pivots like a dancer, smirking right before giving Mom her back. With a practiced laugh, Mrs. Lee pauses for a few more selfies before sweeping out of the shop. Some of the customers follow her out, even though they came in to buy something. It’s the last straw for Mom. She stomps through the curtain into the back, cursing in Mandarin all the way.

  Chapter 3

  A
couple of hours later, I cross the last thing off my list and get ready to head out. There’s just one more thing I need to do. With a deep breath, I poke my head into the back.

  “Mom, would you mind if I use the kitchen after closing?”

  She glances up from wrapping chicken and vegetable buns, but before she can offer a reply, the words tumble out of my mouth.

  “It’s just for a few days, and I’ll clean everything up before I leave.”

  In middle school, I helped out at the shop every weekend. I was obsessed with the magic of rising dough and the alchemy of blending flavors. Mom taught me so much during that time—the different kinds of flour she used, the techniques for making various pastries, and how to balance the bread-to-filling ratio. It was the one thing we could do together without getting into a screaming match.

  Mom even encouraged me to enter several children’s baking competitions. She never looked prouder than when I took home first place. It wasn’t long before I had a shelf of trophies in my room to rival Jeannie’s many ribbons and awards. As I got older, I started experimenting with my own recipes. Some were unmitigated disasters, but others impressed Mom so much she added them to the bakery’s menu. The notebook I wrote them in still sits on a shelf in my room.

  Mom arches a brow. “Why the sudden interest again?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve just been thinking about it lately.”

  It’s only half a lie. I never stopped thinking about it. Baking is such a part of me I’m positive cream runs in my veins. As soon as I hit high school, I even asked Mom and Dad if I could attend culinary school instead of college. I figured with both of them in the industry, they would understand. Instead, it went over about as well as a slap in the face.

  “Why would you want to do that?” Mom demanded. “We didn’t sacrifice for this many years so you can pay someone else to learn what we can teach you at home.”

  Dad nodded. “Mom’s right. Get a college degree first. Something useful. Don’t waste our money on English or communications. Then we’ll see.”

  “But I’m really good—”

  “So is everyone else,” he continued smoothly. “How about a degree in accounting? We need help working the numbers at Yin and Yang. It’s taking up too much of our time, and I need someone good with a computer.”

  I tried several times to reason with them, but they refused to hear me out. It was decided last year that I’d attend Rice, close to home, next fall. I stopped baking soon after. What was the point? It was now a cruel reminder that my parents would only ever support Jeannie’s dreams. I never told Mom and Dad the reason I quit, no matter how many times they asked.

  It’s only recently that my fingers started yearning for the feel of dough again. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent the last two weekends binge-watching every baking show on Netflix. There’s nothing quite like the high of a successful bake, after all.

  “I do remember how much you used to love baking.”

  Mom’s voice drags me back into the present. She inhales as if planning to say more but stops herself. I recognize the look in her eyes.

  You used to love baking with me.

  Again with the guilt. Still, I can’t deny we had a lot of fun together.

  I smile. “It’s been a while since you added anything new to the menu. Maybe I can work on a few things while I’m here.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” she answers after stacking the last wrapped bun on a tray. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. I wouldn’t mind hearing your thoughts.”

  “Really?”

  “Why not? Some of our customers’ favorite buns are your creations.”

  My smile broadens. I’m glad she remembers. Maybe there’s hope for my dreams yet.

  “Okay! Um, I’ll start working on some recipes.”

  “Good, and don’t forget I want you home by ten,” she reminds me with a pointed look. “You promised to help out again tomorrow, remember?”

  No, I didn’t remember, but I’m not about to risk her saying no to the party now.

  I nod. “Yes, Mom.”

  I skip out of the bakery with a smile and head to my car. As I slide into the driver’s seat, my phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket. My heart sinks a little; it’s just Grace saying she’ll be a few minutes late. Brody still hasn’t replied to my text from this morning. I send him another message and drive out of the parking lot.

  On my way to Sarah’s party, cotton candy clouds dot the summer sky, playing hide-and-seek through the trees. I drive past dark redbrick and white stucco houses before parking in her circular driveway. Sarah’s house is a blend of neutral-colored brick and tan exterior walls. The second-floor patio extends out over the garage, framed by three arches and a wrought-iron railing. I ring the bell.

  “I’m coming! I’m coming!” I hear Sarah shout.

  Footsteps race toward me from the other side of the door. A second later, Sarah swings it open. Her auburn curls are pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s dressed in a cute floral pajama set. A smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks stands out against her creamy skin.

  “Liza!”

  She throws her arms around me before tugging me inside. “Where are your pajamas?”

  I groan. “I totally forgot about that.”

  There’s a glimmer of disappointment in her green eyes, but she blinks it away.

  “It’s okay!” She waves a hand dismissively. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

  I kick off my shoes as Sarah shuts the door behind us.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that!”

  “It’s okay,” I say, setting them neatly by the wall. “I don’t mind.”

  I follow her past the curved staircase and into the house. Soft yellow walls are covered in family photos and oil paintings. Tucked between a pair of floor-to-ceiling windows clad in heavy drapery, there’s a canvas print of Sarah from one of her local opera performances. In the living room, a flat-screen TV three times the size of ours at home hangs over the fireplace.

  On the other end is a massive kitchen, where stainless steel appliances contrast with dark wood cabinets. Crystal bowls and pristine white plates sit laden with chips, wrapped candy, and various dips on the island. My mouth waters at the sight of all the forbidden food. Sarah hands me a plate.

  “Mom said we could order whatever we wanted,” she says matter-of-factly. “I was going to get some pizza, unless you want something else.”

  A chip freezes halfway to my mouth. “Is your mom not home?”

  “Nope. She and Dad went out of town on vacation. They won’t be back until tomorrow night.”

  Okay, definitely something Mom does not need to know.

  The doorbell rings, and Sarah sprints to the door.

  “Becca! Tiff!”

  I poke my head out from around the corner. I don’t recognize either of the girls. They must be part of the same music program at school. Sarah inhales opera like I do baking. Becca and Tiff take turns staring at me while we exchange awkward greetings. As they grab their plates, I swear I hear one of them say Brody’s name. With no polite way to ask if they’re talking about my boyfriend, I shove another chip into the salsa.

  Over the next hour, more and more guests arrive, until the once-spacious area feels uncomfortably cramped. Caught between the rise and fall of voices, I suddenly realize I’m the token Asian in the group. I snap a pic to text Grace, my best friend.

  Please tell me you’re on your way.

  A second later, my phone pings.

  Sorry. Was looking for some cute PJs.

  Of course she was. Grace never leaves the house without looking runway ready. It’s no surprise people always assumed she was Jeannie’s sister when we’d hang out together. I quickly tap on Brody’s name in my messages—still nothing. I sigh and tuck my phone back into my pocket just as Sar
ah waves me over.

  I endure fifteen minutes of well-intentioned introductions and fake smiles. Thankfully, Grace arrives right before the pizza, and the tension in the room evaporates. After all, nothing bonds people together like cheese and bread—especially if you’re on team no-pineapple-on-pizza.

  By the time we reach face mask heaven, I’ve nearly figured out which of the three Jennifers is which. That’s when the alarm on my phone blares. Seriously? It can’t be almost curfew. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray for some timey-wimey stuff to happen.

  Sadly, the clock still reads nine thirty. I pick my way past the limbs spread across the floor. Sarah’s making a TikTok in her panda face mask, and she calls out to me.

  “Do this one with me, Liza!”

  “I can’t,” I groan. “I have to go home.”

  Her face falls. “What? Why? The party’s just getting started!”

  Because life isn’t about having fun. It’s about hard work and long hours and studying until you die.

  “I promised to help my mom at the bakery tomorrow,” I say out loud.

  Sarah pouts. “You really can’t stay?”

  “I wish I could. Maybe next time,” I say, shoving my phone into my pocket. “Thanks for inviting me.”

  She starts to get up to walk me out, but one of the Jennifers grabs her and pulls her onto the couch for a selfie. I head to the front to put my shoes back on.

  Grace plops down next to me. “I’ll probably leave soon too. It’s kind of boring. They’re arguing over which celebrity Chris is the hottest.”

  “Hemsworth, obviously,” I answer instantly.

  She grins. “See? You’re not missing anything.”

  She tugs me in for a quick hug before I open the door. Sarah pops her head up from a mound of pajama-clad girls like a gopher.

  “Bye, Liza!”

  I shut the door behind me and get in the car. With a final glance in my rearview, I drive off.