Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(61)

Chapter Twenty-three





I headed to Old Wu’s restaurant.

The afternoon crowd had dwindled to a handful of tables. I slipped past the folding screens and walked over to Old Wu at his customary seat, sipping his tea and grazing on a cold plate of spiced chicken and sliced pork hock. He ignored me as though I didn’t exist.

I slammed my palm onto the table. The force shook the plates and sloshed the tea from his cup. Old Wu finally raised his eyes. I had been nervous walking in, but now my nerves were overtaken by a kind of bravery borne from desperation.

“The restaurant didn’t survive the fire, but I did. I came to you earlier for help and I let you speak. It’s my turn now and you will listen.” I pressed both hands against the table. Old Wu stared, his lips pressed into a thin line. If it weren’t for the soft rise and fall of his chest, I would have thought I was speaking to a statue.

“I want to open the restaurant, but I can’t because something’s wrong with Laolao’s recipe book. I don’t know what it is. You’re the only one left that knows her as well as Ma-ma did. I’m doing this to help my neighbors and myself. I can’t walk away from them when they need me.”

The old man said nothing.

“You say you want to save the neighborhood. But even before the fire, you said you might block me. But as one of the leaders of Chinatown, you should be better than that. You’re supposed to look out for what the community needs. Maybe I messed things up, but at least I’m trying to help us all. You’re nothing but a hypocrite.”

With my final words, my bravado fled and my voice faltered. Then the song of my heartbeat returned, thumping in a steady rhythm, marking the passage of time. One. Two. Three. No answer. I raised my chin and turned to leave.

He lowered his teacup onto the table. “Are you done speaking?”

I nodded.

“Please.” The old man gestured for me to stay.

I pulled out a chair and sat down.

“When you came back, I was certain you would sell the building and cut the last ties you have here. You’d been gone so long, what reason was there for you to stay? Then you started cooking. Fai, Anita and Wayne, and especially Celia sang your praises to me. It sounded like Qiao had returned. I wasn’t sure what to think or believe. But if even a fire cannot drive you away, perhaps I was wrong about you. Maybe you do care after all.”

He rose to his feet. “A true test of a cook is her skill. Show me, Tan girl. Let me see if you can cook. Prepare me a dish tomorrow in your kitchen. If I like what I eat, I promise I will answer all your questions about your grandmother.”



* * *





?The next day, we met at my apartment. The cat took one look at the old man before bolting off into one of the bedrooms to hide. As Old Wu busied himself reading from a stack of Ma-ma’s old issues of National Geographic, I turned the kitchen into my kingdom. No nervousness or uncertainty. I focused on the joy of creating.

I began the process of transforming the slab of pork belly in the fridge into my version of a Shanghai-style dish. I chopped the lean meat into bite-size pieces, and then blanched and browned them in demerara sugar and sesame oil. The sizzle and occasional pop accompanied the incomparable, savory aroma of rendering fat. As the meat stewed in its juices, I created a sauce comprising pink peppercorns, star anise, cloves, sweet soy sauce, and Chinese rice wine in the hot wok. I braised the pork belly, checking in at intervals to ensure the tenderness of the meat.

One hour later, I served the dish in a shallow clay bowl with diced cilantro as a garnish.

Old Wu closed his eyes. His nose twitched as he inhaled the delicious aroma. He used his chopsticks to pluck a piece off the plate. The sticks dripped with the viscous sauce as he bit into the tender pork. He nodded, bobbing his head to a phantom melody as he chewed with deliberate bites. After four more pieces, he wiped his mouth with a napkin and finally spoke. “Is the dish done to your satisfaction? Would you change anything in how you prepared it?”

“Yes, it turned out exactly how I wanted it. The pork is tender and the spices, the right balance. I wouldn’t change how I prepared it. I could have used a traditional clay pot, but the results would be the same.”

“I see.” He struggled to keep his expression blank. A cough escaped his clamped lips, followed by another, until he was overcome with a bout of coughing.

I rushed to fill him a glass of cold water. “Mr. Wu, are you all right?”

He held out his hand. After the last cough, he burst into laughter. Tears escaped the corners of his eyes. His lean body convulsed with every guffaw. What was happening to him? Meimei padded out of the bedroom and stared at him from across the room.

“Mr. Wu?” I asked. “I don’t understand.”

After his laughter died down, he sipped his water. A smile lingered on his lips. “Tan girl, you can cook. Oh, how you can cook.”

He liked it. He liked my food. He was smiling at me. I couldn’t have imagined this even if I tried. Of course, I had used my own recipe. Serving something to him from my grandmother’s book would have been foolish.

“It reminds me of hong shao rou, but your preparation is different,” he said.

“I tasted this in my travels and loved it. I think the added sweetness complements the spices I chose.” Though my voice was steady, I linked my fingers behind my back to prevent them from trembling from excitement.