Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(4)

The hostess greeted me at the podium, then led me to an empty table. Since Ma-ma had never left the apartment, we’d always gotten takeout, so I had never eaten inside the restaurant before.

I ordered our preferred three dishes and poured myself a cup of jasmine tea. I wished every restaurant had the customary teapot of jasmine or oolong waiting at the table. My stomach gurgled, impatient for the food to arrive. I’d purposely ordered more than enough for one person—the three dishes meant leftovers for tomorrow.

The server soon brought large platters of cheung fun and zhaliang along with various condiments for dipping. Cheung fun was a delightfully surprising dish: nestled within the flat, translucent rice rolls were plump prawns. Zhaliang were crispy, long fritters wrapped in rice noodle. This was a favorite because of the combinations of contrasting textures: tender steamed rice noodles and crunchy golden fritters. The taste of these two dishes was determined by its accompanying dressing: spicy if paired with hot mustard, salty with soy sauce, and sweet with the peanut sauce.

I helped myself to three each of the fritters and rice rolls. I first used the soy sauce on my portions, savoring the chewy noodle and prawns, then alternated between the peanut sauce and the hot mustard. Before I could dive in for a second helping, the last dish arrived.

Yin-yang fried rice was a feast for the eyes and the senses. Swirls of cream contrasted with an orange tomato sauce to form the iconic pattern. Underneath the sauces lay a bed of yang chow fried rice containing a bounty of minced jewels: barbecued pork, Chinese sausage, peas, carrots, spring onions, and wisps of egg. Slices of white onions and pork emerged from the tomato sauce while shrimp and sweet green peas decorated the cream. Which side I preferred depended on my mood. The tomato sauce was tangy and sweet while the cream was subtle.

I dipped my spoon into the cream side, heaping the rice into my bowl. This was comfort in my time of need, nourishment and a sense of stability when grief threatened to crumble the earth from under me. After this meal, I would face the emptiness left by Ma-ma’s passing.

The steam rising from the fried rice dish obscured my view of the entrance, which meant I was completely surprised by the ambush I faced next.

“How dare you come in here!” Old Wu shouted as he walked to the edge of my table. The food in my mouth lost all flavor. I instantly reverted to the cowering seven-year-old girl I had once been, fingers gripping the sides of my seat.

He pointed at me, his index finger a thin dagger made of flesh and bone. Wu’s reedy build had always reminded me of a malevolent grasshopper. “Natalie Tan. It was your fault that your mother died alone. What kind of a daughter are you?”





Chapter Three





I couldn’t answer. His question had wounded me where he had intended it to—into my very being. He was right: I was guilty of the greatest transgression. Filial piety was sacred in my culture, and my mother had died while I was 3,100 miles away. I trembled, speechless from his judgment and my shame, as his onslaught continued.

“You left her alone for years. You knew she never went out. You knew this would happen! She raised you on her own and took care of you. This is how you repay her? You come back too late to be of use!”

I could say nothing to defend my actions. If I hadn’t left her, Ma-ma would most likely still be alive. I’d have been there all along to ease the strain, or at the very least been able to call an ambulance for her this morning, when she passed. Maybe that would have made all the difference.

“You’re not welcome here. Get out of my restaurant.”

I lowered my spoon to the plate without making a sound and reached for the handle of my rolling suitcase. Eyes downcast, I pushed myself away from the table.

“Mr. Wu, please,” a familiar voice spoke, the same one from the phone earlier today. “Have some compassion. She just lost her mother.” Celia Deng stood beside me, her firm hand resting on my shoulder, resplendent in a navy frock with a white hibiscus pattern. She was five years younger than Ma-ma at forty-eight, yet despite their age difference, they were close friends. There was no trace of gray in her curled hair. Her subtle perfume smelled like cut gardenias. She continued in firm but gentle tones. “She must have arrived from the airport and wanted to get something good to eat. You can’t fault her for choosing your restaurant.”

Blood rushed to my face, bringing a welcome heat. Why was she defending me? Was this an act of pity? Old Wu’s harsh face softened. “If it was your idea, then I apologize.”

“I’ll take her home now. I’m sure she must be exhausted from her flight. I’ll pay the bill.” Celia squeezed my shoulder as a cue to leave. I reached for my suitcase and took my place beside her.

He cleared his throat. “No, it was my fault, Celia. Don’t worry about the bill.”

“No, no. Business is business, Mr. Wu. We all need to make a living.” She reached into her purse for her wallet.

“I refuse to allow you to pay for my error. Put your wallet away, Celia.”

“I’m one of your most loyal customers and I don’t want to lose my standing. Please, I insist.”

This was a familiar dance, and I’d have laughed if Old Wu were not involved. The tug-of-war to pay the bill was a common cultural occurrence involving everything from mad dashes to the till, to calling the restaurant or telling the server ahead of time who would be paying. In most cases, the end result required the server’s patience in waiting for the resolution. The performance of paying the bill demonstrated the traits of generosity and hospitality so prized by our culture.