Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(53)

I attacked the banh mi next. The crisp crust highlighted the varying textures of its filling: crisp from the pickled radish and carrots, tender from the meat, springy from the noodles. The symphony of textures sang on my tongue. Soon, golden crumbs dotted my fingertips and my lips.

I hovered my fork over the pork chops, ready to spear it into tender meat.

The telephone rang.

The shrill, metallic noise echoed in the apartment. No one had ever called me on the landline because this was Ma-ma’s telephone. Another ring. My heartbeat accelerated, flittering like a pulsing hummingbird within my rib cage. I rushed to the ancient rotary phone on the kitchen counter.

“Hello?”

“Tan girl.” The voice on the other end of the line was as ancient as the yellowed receiver in my hand. The nickname was strange, but I recognized the speaker. The last time I heard his voice, he had been screaming at me and practically chased me out of his restaurant. “This is Wu. Celia Deng came by last week and mentioned that you wanted to speak to me about running a business.”

There was no point in this meeting. My neighbors’ lives were a mess, so I couldn’t open the restaurant yet. I didn’t want to go, but avoiding the old man would tarnish Celia’s reputation. I’d already damaged our friendship and I didn’t want to do more harm. I had to go out of obligation to Celia.

I stammered out a yes.

“Hmph. Come by the restaurant in half an hour. I have time this afternoon before the evening rush comes in. Don’t be late.”

Old Wu hung up before I had the chance to reply.

The old man wanted me to come by and see him. My full stomach wobbled, protesting.



* * *





?I must have checked my reflection a hundred times at the apartment before I left. The old man was a strict adherer to etiquette and tradition. My apprehension climbed, tugging the hairs on my arms upward into fine points. The loose hairs on my head, despite being sprayed down in a severe bun, stood up like porcupine quills. My palms moistened. I grasped the edge of the counter in an attempt to steady my breathing and heartbeat.

Old Wu hated me, yet he had acquiesced to Celia’s request. If I decided to forgo this meeting, it would embarrass her. I had thought the meeting would be useful because I’d be ready to open the restaurant, but now it seemed like a waste of both of our time.

It didn’t matter. I had no choice. I must go to his restaurant and undergo the equivalent of an unanesthetized root canal.

My chances of being decapitated by the Old Tiger were slim, but it wasn’t physical wounds I was worried about. Though his claws and teeth were fearsome, his sharp tongue was his greatest weapon. I had felt its power firsthand when I came back. Nothing could diminish my foreboding that I was walking into flames.

Inside Old Wu’s restaurant, platters of Cantonese dishes floated on trays above the servers’ shoulders. Teapots emptied gallons of murky, low-grade jasmine tea for the noisy patrons who chatted in several languages. It was a concert of prosperity—the likes of which I wanted in my future, what I had thought Miss Yu’s prophecy was promising.

Despite everything that had happened, having my own restaurant was still what I wanted—and I wanted it in this neighborhood, in Laolao’s old place. Old Wu had managed it. Maybe talking to him would help me realize my next steps, if there were still any options available to me.

The old man wasn’t standing at his usual post by the counter. A server emerged from the dining room and addressed me in Mandarin. “Mr. Wu is waiting for you at a special table. Follow me.”

I nodded.

I followed her through the narrow path in between the packed tables, weaving, dodging, threading the needle until we arrived at a private table in the back, set up behind folded screens. A plate of fried tofu sprinkled with chilies was resting on a glass lazy Susan.

Old Wu sat with a folded newspaper at his elbow. His dark eyes assessed me over a cup of tea. I chose the empty chair across from him.

“Tan girl,” he said. “I am surprised you came.”

I attempted to meet his eyes. My hands shook, so I hid them under the table.

“Celia tells me you wanted to ask me something about the restaurant business.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “What do you want to know?”

In addition to respect and deference dictated by our culture—the old man would tolerate nothing less—this meeting must be approached with honesty. I was certain he expected me to ask about the restaurant business, so I proceeded as if things were running smoothly. Diverging from the purpose of the meeting would incur Old Wu’s wrath even more because I’d be wasting his time. I had only one important question to ask: “I have filled out the list of forms. One of them is the neighborhood application. I want to know if you will oppose me.”

Old Wu narrowed his eyes. “Are you serious about opening a restaurant?”

I spoke from my heart. “Yes.”

“It’s a hard business. Much harder than anything you have ever done. Have you taken any business courses or other education?”

“I haven’t, but I’m ready to learn. As I recall, my grandmother hadn’t, either, and she managed well for herself.”

“What will you do if you fail? Are you going to sell to those vultures who want to drive our people out of our own buildings?”

“I would only do that as my last resort, if I had no choice. And no, I wouldn’t sell to the highest bidder. I would choose the right buyer.”