Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(20)

The Chius were the perfect candidates for the second recipe—they needed a love potion of some sort. As for their financial problems, if the prophecy were true, and the restaurant were to open and succeed, there was a chance the neighborhood could be saved. Prosperity could spread once it had been established. A little hope went a long way to furthering a purpose.

“Natalie, you can come out now,” Mr. Chiu called out from his booth. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

I stepped out from the side aisle. He was no longer staring at his screens. Instead, he gazed at the door—miles away, following his wife wherever she had gone. I knew how he felt because I’d pined this way for my mother during our separation. It hardened my resolve to help the Chius as much as I could before it was too late.

“My family ran this store for decades. I didn’t want it to stop with me. My children don’t want to run it, and I refuse to be the one abandoning my family’s legacy. Why can’t I have both my wife and the store? It worked so well before. Now, my wife and that agent want me to sell. You know, we were happy . . .” Mr. Chiu averted his eyes.

I gathered my courage and approached the counter. “I have a dish for you and your wife that I’ll bring by soon. You were so kind to me during my mother’s funeral. It’s the least I can do.”

He nodded and waved goodbye.

I had three people to cook for and two problems to solve. I could no longer deny that I genuinely wanted to assist them. These weren’t strangers I could dismiss. I realized this must have been how Laolao felt about her neighbors and her community. I still had to find the third person, but it wouldn’t hold me back from cooking for the people I had already found.

Tomorrow morning, I would cook in Laolao’s kitchen and prepare her dishes. Time to shake the cobwebs off and test my culinary skills.





Chapter Eight





Nothing made me happier than the act of cooking. My happiest memories were of spending time in the kitchen with Ma-ma as we prepared our meals. The best cooks doubled as magicians, uplifting moods and conjuring memories through the medium of food.

Cooking had always been a source of personal joy, but now it had an added purpose: it would be the key to achieving my dream of running a restaurant of my own. Ma-ma had loved me with the same fierceness that Laolao had possessed for the restaurant. I now understood she had feared I would be caged by my dreams and that she thought she was protecting me. If given a choice, I’d want both a restaurant and a family to call my own. The closest I had come to having my own family was a failed engagement to a wonderful man in Manila, which fell apart because of my inability to commit.

This was my paradox in love: to want something so badly, but to also be afraid of being tied down by it. I couldn’t allow this to cross over and hinder me in my mission to open the restaurant.

This restaurant must succeed.

But before I could cook Laolao’s recipes for the neighbors, I needed to practice. I had seen a dumpling recipe in the book that I wanted to try.

I moved the Victrola downstairs to keep me company, and Bizet’s Carmen echoed through the restaurant. The ruined statue remained on the counter, but now it was flanked with pots of orchids borrowed from the windowsill upstairs. A small wooden bowl was set before it as an offering, filled with various hard candies.

Earlier, I had removed the last of the plywood from the windows, the planks crackling against the steel of the crowbar as I revealed what had been lost in the last thirty years. The now-clean picture windows showcased the dying grayness of the neighborhood. I glanced around and realized the monochromatic palette had spread to the interior of the restaurant. The inside windowsill took on the gray tinge. I brushed my fingertips across the surface and they came away with silvery pigment, but without the sheen; as if I had painted it yesterday.

The gleaming windows served as a reminder of my final goal: to see the sparkle return to the place, inside and out. As the “Habanera,” my favorite piece in the opera, wound down, I found my attention wandering to the few people hurrying by. Had it been so long ago that tourists lingered? What had happened to this place to cause the decline?

According to Ma-ma’s lawyer, whom I had spoken with on the phone earlier that morning, everything was in place if I wanted to operate the restaurant. He pointed me to resources for the permits and licenses I needed, and he also disclosed an extra stipend that Ma-ma had set aside in the will. The extra cash would help pad the emergency fund and pay for a new fridge, as I had discovered the current one was shot.

I’d ordered a cheap replacement early this morning from an online clearance sale and scheduled for it to be delivered in the afternoon. I unlocked the door and stepped outside to take a look at the restaurant from a stranger’s perspective. I sighed. The sign above was faded beyond recognition, but for now, it would have to do. I headed back inside.

The finishing touch this place needed was the smell of good food. It was time to cook.





Fried Dumplings


Dough:

Flour

Salt

Sugar

Water



Filling:

Water chestnuts

Bamboo shoots

Ginger

Garlic

Green onions

Minced pork

Brown eggs


For the dough, combine the flour, salt, and a pinch of sugar in a large bowl with the water. Knead, cover the bowl, and let the dough rest for thirty minutes.