Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(79)

My neighborhood was restored.

The cracks on the sidewalk from the Chius’ marital discord had healed into fine hairline fractures. When it came to the affairs of the human heart, a scar would still be left after the problem was mended, a physical reminder of survival and hope.

My restaurant underwent a transformation. The rock concert of electric drills, hammers, and band saws from the construction had tested my delicate sensibilities, but even I couldn’t deny the wondrous metamorphosis that had taken place downstairs.

At Old Wu’s suggestion, the galley kitchen had been widened to accommodate more than one person at a time. Shiny updated appliances were unwrapped from their plastic cocoons and readied for service. Slate replaced the chipped laminate wood of the long countertop, and fresh flowers filled the vases flanking the goddess, who now graced her own niche in the wall. The permits and licenses were displayed prominently. The renovation had been completed two days ago, and now the grand reopening was scheduled for tomorrow. I would open the restaurant to the public before closing early to cook ten courses—with the help of Old Wu—for a private neighborhood party.

I arrived at Old Wu’s restaurant for our weekly meeting ten minutes early. One minute longer and I would have been considered late. This wasn’t our usual time but, waving to the host, I let myself in, weaving through the crowded tables of the lunchtime rush to reach the table surrounded by folded screens.

My mentor sat with his stack of newspapers and his customary cup of jasmine tea. Baskets of dim sum rested on the glass lazy Susan: spicy phoenix claws, plump purses of har gow, shumai topped with green pea crowns, and airy wu gok.

I had learned from previous meetings that the old man was adamant about following tradition, which meant I had to arrive with an empty stomach. Refusing offered food was an insult Old Wu didn’t take lightly.

I helped myself to a sample of each dish. Made of minced pork with a paper-thin wrapper, the steamed shumai was tender, and the har gow was juicy with the shrimp with bamboo shoots highlighted by a peekaboo skin. Then I bit into the wu gok, a fried taro puff with a wispy, crunchy shell and a dripping shrimp and pork filling. The powdery creaminess of the dish made this my favorite of the bunch.

I wiped my mouth with the cloth napkin. “Good afternoon, Lao Shi.”

He glanced up from his newspaper and greeted me with a smile. “Are you ready for the grand reopening?”

“Yes,” I replied before listing the completed preparations for my mentor. “With all of that done, I’m still left with the decision of what to choose for the first daily special.”

The old man laughed. “I thought you were going with the duck. Have you changed your mind back to the shrimp and mushroom dish, Ye Ying?”

I winced and shook my head. “I want it to be perfect. Maybe I should serve both.”

“It is your restaurant and your decision. As it should be. You know what is best.”

The decision about the two dishes was the last detail I needed to confirm. Everything else was accounted for. I’d even hired and trained one assistant based on my mentor’s recommendation. Old Wu had insisted that the restaurant would soon be busy enough and someone needed to take care of the front of the house while I cooked.

“You still have the permit for our special party, yes?” he asked.

“It arrived two weeks ago. I made sure I filed before the ninety-day-window requirement. The neighborhood can’t wait to celebrate.”

“Good.” Old Wu reached under the table and withdrew a small, flat box wrapped in decorative red foil. He placed it on an empty spot on the glass and spun the revolving stand so that the gift arrived to where I was seated. I cleared my spot before pulling the present toward me.

“What is this? You’ve already sent a beautiful bouquet, Lao Shi.”

He shrugged. “Why not open it and find out?”

My fingers found the edges of the slippery foil, tugging it loose from the small pieces of tape. The present was roughly the size of a hardcover book, about two inches thick. I should have known that the old man would have something up his sleeve. The one takeaway lesson I’d learned from my mentorship was never to underestimate my teacher. The box underneath was simple but elegant with an etched lotus design.

I lifted the lid.

A familiar face with my eyes stared back at me from a picture frame, a black-and-white photograph of a woman with a determined brow and angular features. I had seen this woman before.

Laolao.

“Thank you,” I murmured. My throat tightened. “The only picture I had of her was claimed by the fire. Her book survived, but the memento didn’t. Up until this moment, I thought I had lost her face forever.”

“It is not right that you do not have a photograph of her for your family shrine. I believe that is the only surviving photograph of your grandmother. She belongs with you.”

“But—”

“Qiao lives on in here,” he said, pointing to his temple. “And in here.” He patted his chest. “I was a friend, but you are family, Ye Ying. There’s more.”

I checked the box and, at the bottom, found three sheets of paper. These were recipes written by Laolao’s hand: ones I hadn’t seen before. “What is this?”

“These were given to me by Qiao. We developed those recipes together. They’re now yours. Consider this your graduation gift.”