Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(30)

I exhaled and leaned against the counter. The aroma from the broth alone soothed me. I was walking on my grandmother’s path, bringing a sense of fulfillment I yearned for in the turbulence of the present.

I prepared a smaller pot of water for the noodles right beside the large pot of simmering broth. The low rumble of the boil faded against the backdrop of The Magic Flute. Listening to music without the pops and crackles of well-worn vinyl was akin to experiencing the African savanna through a zoo exhibit. Authenticity in its splendor always carried flaws. The breeze swept in, carrying with it the intoxicating aromas from the kitchen and my hopes of success.

Celia was the last person I needed to help. After this, I could bury myself in the process of filling out all the paperwork to reopen the restaurant. I could have opened one before, but it would have been very difficult without the financial means to do so, and it had never felt right. Perhaps because it was that I’d never found the ideal place that enabled me to continue pursuing my dream. Maybe I had been waiting for Ma-ma’s blessing, which had never come until now.



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?Like most inhabitants of the neighborhood, the shopkeepers lived above their stores. It was an arrangement of convenience and necessity. In the past, these apartments had been like the bunkhouses of bachelors, journeymen who’d searched for Gold Mountain and then worked on the Central Pacific Railroad. The lone immigrants cramped into spare spaces like puzzle pieces until they brought their families over from China, and then their lodgings became even more cramped, transforming rooms into rabbit warrens with entire families sleeping in the same bed. The luxury of personal space that my family had enjoyed was as rare as our lineage: one daughter in each generation with no siblings to speak of.

At dusk, Grant Avenue was quiet under the glow of the green dragon street lanterns. Armed with a stockpot and a sealed container of the fresh, uncooked noodles, I ventured into the night. The upstairs windows above the gift shop were open, allowing yellow incandescent light to bathe the sidewalk below.

I squinted up at the orange polka-dot curtains fluttering in the night breeze. “Those Canaan Days” from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat blared from the stereo. Celia must have smelled her dinner as it cooked. The older woman leaned out the open window. Large rollers festooned her dark hair, weighing it down like too many summer apples on a tree. A thick cream collar trimmed the carnation pink housecoat covering her shoulders. She wore no makeup, but the same tortoiseshell frames perched on the bridge of her nose.

“I hope my dinner is ready,” she declared.

A minute later, the door to the apartment swung open. Celia helped me carry dinner upstairs. I had never been in Celia’s apartment, but its layout was similar to mine: two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a modest kitchen combined with living room. The decor was cheerful and very much a reflection of her personality: pale walls and furniture were accented with bursts of color in pillows, accessories, and posters of every successful Broadway show imaginable. Playbills in heavy plastic jackets populated bookshelves along with various souvenirs: a carved and painted lion from The Lion King, a glass slipper from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella, a sequined purse from Cats, a rainbow woven basket from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and a porcelain mask from The Phantom of the Opera.

Everyone in Chinatown knew Celia closed her gift shop two weeks a year. One week she spent in London’s West End, and the other on Broadway in New York City. I’d heard from Ma-ma that what occurred during those trips was a musical and epicurean bacchanal. Front-row seats to shows where every sequin and sprinkle of glitter was within reach. Expensive wines paired with five-course meals at tables booked six months in advance, including a rare seat or two at chefs’ tables in the intimacy of the kitchen. Was Celia still able to go on these trips, or were times too tight?

“I’ll need to use your stove to heat up the broth and cook the noodles,” I said.

Celia directed me to her tidy kitchen. It was immaculate from obsolescence. I placed the broth on the stove and searched the cupboards for a small pot in which to cook the noodles. Every door I opened contained a variety of wines, snacks, magazines, even shoes.

“I think it’s at the top over there.” She pointed to the farthest cupboard from my position. “As you can see, I’m not the best cook. I’ll burn the neighborhood down if given the chance.”

I found a small pot that suited my needs and gave it a quick rinse in the sink. “I can always teach you if you’re interested.”

She displayed her perfect manicure with an impish grin. “No, thank you. My hands are only meant for dialing takeout. But I can watch. I always love watching other people cook without the fire department being called.”

Celia set the table and brought two bowls for the soup to the counter beside me.

I scooped the noodles from the boiling water, pausing to watch them wriggling in the air, like fish battling against being parted from the sea. I submerged the noodles by ladling the fragrant broth into the bowls, covering them until they relaxed under the golden surface. I arranged chopped mushrooms and some steamed bok choy as a garnish to add more color and texture. Lastly, I sprinkled tiny rings of spring onions over the soup with my fingertips: flecks of green suspended in gold.

“It smells so good and just like your laolao’s.” She closed her eyes, sniffed, and hovered her face over her bowl. “It’s as if I’m tasting it again for the first time.”