The Last Chinese Chef (13 page)

“I’m sorry, Sam.” Her voice seemed full of feeling. “I hope you get your ticket.”

“I will,” he said. And then, into the pool of silence, he took a risky plunge. “Who’s going with you?”

“Zinnia. She works in the local office of my husband’s law firm. She set up the meeting with the grandparents — called them and got them to agree to meet with us.” She paused and he could almost hear her mind ticking. “Sam,” she said, “you’re not asking me if you can take her place, are you?”

“Of course not,” he said. He was sincere, even if he protested too much. “I want to make sure you have what you need.”

“Thanks. I’ll muddle through.”

“Try me when you get back. Maggie? I’m in the lobby of a building now, about to get on an elevator. I’ll have to go.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Have a good trip.”

“Thanks.”

He clicked off and the doors whooshed shut behind him. The car rose twenty stories at the kind of showoff speed that always left a barometric drop in his midsection. Well, he was high up in a building now, at least, close to heaven, so he sent off a small prayer to any deities who might happen to be nearby.
Help Third Uncle live until I can get there. Let me see him one more time before he goes.

Sam stepped into a plush waiting room lined with refrigerated cabinets and one wall of bubbling crystal aquariums. After he sat he refocused his thinking and sent out a new set of prayers, these concerning fresh fish. First Uncle would be here soon. And they had to make the most of this meeting.

 

While Sam was rising in the elevator and stretching out to half close his eyes in the quiet of the waiting room, Jiang walked up An Ding Men Boulevard toward the Century Center. At first he had liked all the new modern buildings. They were a relief to him after the square stone mantle Beijing had worn for so long. But they had quickly grown too numerous. A good many were not aging well, either, and already showed signs of disrepair.

Yet life for the food lover was fine. Restaurants were booming. Cuisine was back. With good food everywhere and top cooks in agreeable competition, the art form was riding another curve. And the gourmet, the
meishijia,
was back in the equation, for once again there was an army of diners. As in the past, they were passionate. They had money to spend and discernment to spare.

Yes, they were in a high cycle now, a flowering — surely one the food historians would remember. Perhaps he could develop a future lecture out of this idea.

Though retired, he still came back to the university annually to speak on restaurant and food culture. This past year his topic had been a single phrase:
xia guanzi,
to eat out, to go down to a restaurant. In an elegant sixty-minute loop he conjured all of
xia guanzi
’s meanings over the last eighty years. At first it meant something positive and exciting — pleasure and company, good food. There was the embroidered charm of teahouses and pavilions, the urgency of urban bistros where men met to plan China’s future, and the magnificent clamor of great restaurants. Then came the mid-1950s.
Xia guanzi
became a forbidden phrase. It was counterrevolutionary, bourgeois, a hated reminder of decadence. There followed a long, gray era of enforced indifference and even, during some stretches, communal kitchens. Finally there came a loosening, and then privatization, which hit restaurants almost before it came to any other industry. Eateries sprang open. People swarmed to them. To eat out was glorious! To go down to a restaurant was once again a wonderful thing. It was not just food — it was friends and family and togetherness. It was life coming full circle, a society learning to breathe again. When he was done the audience rose and applauded. Ah, he was a lucky man in his retirement, especially as he had lived to see this day when once again there was real cuisine, everywhere.

He crossed the lobby and rode the elevator up. He was here to introduce Nephew to a seafood purveyor named Wang Shi, whom they all delighted in calling the Master of the Nets, after Wangshi Yuan, the Garden of the Master of the Nets, which was a famous place in Suzhou. Homophonous humor — Wang Shi being close in sound to Wangshi, though the characters were different — was one of Mandarin’s little pleasures. Wang had heard the nickname and approved. Association with such a sublime and enduring work of art as this garden was a compliment, and he knew it.

Jiang was here to ask Wang to take Nephew as a customer. For success, the boy needed a peerless purveyor of fresh fish. Yuan Mei himself said that the credit for a great dinner went forty percent to the steward and only sixty percent to the cook.
A mackerel is a mackerel, but in point of excellence two mackerel will differ as much as ice and live coals.
So the great man had written, two hundred and twelve years before. Yes, Jiang knew how vital it was to help the boy get the right source for fish.

Nephew already had a source who did preserved seafood, top-grade dried shrimp and squid and cuttlefish from all over China. This man sold the best miniature smoke-dried fish from Hunan and the subtlest, most musky freshwater river moss from the Yangtze delta, so beloved for mincing with dried tofu in a cold plate, and adding a complex marine taste to the batter for fried fish . . . Perhaps, Jiang thought with a dart of excitement, this could be next year’s lecture. Preserved seafood and aquatic vegetables.

Seafood became prized very early in China’s history. Everyone demanded it, even the vast population in the interior. Preserved seafood — dried, salted, or smoked — was soon sought after and expensive, for it yielded powerful flavors all its own. It often cost more than fresh. Perhaps, thought Jiang, Nephew should prepare for this contest a tangle of tiny silver fish — crispy, slightly smoky, lightly salty, almost dry, with a touch of sauce and wafer-thin rings of bright-colored hot pepper . . .

But to fresh and live fish. This was what Nephew now needed. Unfortunately the Master of the Nets was much too exclusive to take new customers. Still, he was an old friend. Jiang had to try.

“Uncle,” the boy had said, “he doesn’t take
anyone.
”

“Speak reasonably,” Jiang had reproved him. “I’ve known him a long time.”

And so the boy had come, and waited here in Wang’s reception area, with its tanks and its refrigerators. It was smart to have the office this way. Fish was visceral. It had to be seen, smelled, observed. Ah! Jiang thought. It would be good to see his old friend again.

“Liang Cheng,” he said to Nephew with affection. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes, Uncle.” Sam rose. “You?”

“Yes. What about your travel? Did you get a ticket to see Third Uncle?”

“No. I’ve tried everything. I can’t get a seat anywhere. Not for a week.”

“I fear he will not last that long.”

“I know.”

The click of the door, and they stood as a solid man with a bull’s neck and white hair bobbled out. Wang Shi. He had a jovial mouth and small eyes that lifted happily when he saw Jiang.

Right behind Wang came another man, young, floppy-haired — it was Pan Jun. Sam knew him. He was one of the ten competitors, a young lion of Shandong cuisine.
He
was a customer of the Master? How was that possible? He was not so very famed for his skills. Indeed, he was one of the lesser-ranked chefs among the ten contestants. Sam was surprised he’d even been chosen.

“Good to see you!” Sam said, jumping to his feet. “How’s it going? Are you day and night working? I know I am.”

“Oh, yes.” Pan rolled his eyes. “I never sleep.”

Sam grinned in his frank Midwestern way, which worked to dissolve the whiff of rivalry. “I wish you luck,” said Sam.

“Same to you,” Pan said with a smile.

“But you will both prevail!” Mr. Wang cried. “There are two northern slots on the team — is it not so?”

Yes, yes, they all smiled at each other. But there were others, eight of them, and they were very good. Especially Yao. Pan Jun said his goodbyes and moved toward the door.

Finally all the warm wishes were finished and the door closed, and at that moment Wang changed abruptly. He burst with apologies. “Old Jiang! Esteemed friend! And your nephew, of whom so much has been heard — how miserable I am to have kept the two of you waiting! It could not be helped! When Pan stopped by, I was as a fish swimming in a cooking pot. I had to drop everything. And not because of his cuisine, for all say that you outshine him — you and Yao Weiguo both. That’s the real battle, isn’t it? You and Yao! But oh, there is no question, when Pan arrives I must jump.”

“Why is that?” Jiang asked.

“You do not know? He is the son of Pan Hongjia.”

This brought a gasp from First Uncle.

“Who’s Pan Hongjia?” Sam said.

First Uncle whispered to him in English, invoking a moment’s shield of privacy. “He is the vice minister of culture.”

Sam’s heart dropped. All the hidden parts of the pattern came suddenly into view. “I see.”

“And the Ministry of Culture is the
danwei
over this event.”

“Right.” Sam knew what that meant. It was more than just rank. He was cooked. Cronyism, for better or worse, was how China worked. The key was to always know it, to always be aware, be Chinese. Face the truth.

If Pan Jun was a vice minister’s son he would certainly be given one of the two northern spots on the team.

That meant one spot left. That one would be between himself and Yao.

“Fu shui nan shou,”
First Uncle said softly now, in his ear, Spilled water is hard to gather. “You must go ahead.”

Sam nodded.

The old man turned to the Master of the Nets. “Old friend,” he said. “Dear friend. This will be a battle to the finish line; you can see that. You and I have known each other a long time. Young Liang needs the finest, the freshest fish.”

Wang Shi nodded.
“Wo tongyi,”
I agree. He hooked a puffy, inclusive hand around each. “Come inside.”

Sam felt a glad rush of surprise.
“Zhen bang,”
he said, Great. He walked with them into the rear office, the wide double entry open. This is the back door, the
hou men,
he thought, glancing up at the frame as it passed over his head. Right now I am walking through it. He watched First Uncle and Wang Shi exchange smiles. “My old friend,” he heard Wang Shi say. “How good it is to see you.”

 

Maggie’s cell phone rang. It was a long number, a phone in China. Not Sam’s, though. That one she already knew. “Hello?”

“Maggie, it’s me.” It was Carey, his familiar voice sounding aged right now, even though he was only a few years past her.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“Yes. Look, I’m standing outside. I need to talk to you.”

“Outside here? Did something happen?”

“Can I come in?” he said.

“Of course.”

“You have to buzz me.”

“Oh.” This was the first time she’d had a visitor. She had to look around the living room wall for a second or two until she found the button. He came up the elevator, and by the time his tall steps whispered down the hall she had the door open. “Sorry,” she said when he walked in. “I didn’t know how to do it.”

He waved this away. “How are you, Maggie?”

“Energized,” she admitted. “We leave in a few hours.”

“I know. That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

She felt the black bolt of an all-too-familiar fear, that things would come apart. “Tell me,” she said.

He walked over and looked out the window, as if it was easier without facing her. “I feel bad about this. It happened suddenly. We have a big presentation tomorrow. The client I went to see in Bangkok? He’s coming. Bad timing — I’ll be working all weekend. We have to do the whole show.”

“Is it that you need our tickets?” she said, not understanding.

“Tickets?” He stared. “No. I need Zinnia.”

“Oh.”

“I know I promised her to you. And she’s great, isn’t she? Whatever it is, she does it. But that’s why the firm needs her tomorrow. I’m sorry. It’s not easy for her either. Most people have the whole week off for National Day.”

“I understand,” Maggie said, but still, now what? Carey was right about Zinnia — she had the steady power of a rolling train.

“Now look, you’ll still leave, same schedule. I’ll get you another translator. I’ll have someone within the hour — not Zinnia, no one can be her, I can’t promise that. But someone good.”

“Someone from your office?”

“No. From a service. But they’re excellent. We use them all the time.”

“Carey?” She waited until he turned from the window. She wanted his clear attention. “I can’t say I’m happy about this — I was counting on Zinnia — but I understand. I really do. And I do appreciate your coming over here to tell me in person.”

“I had to come in person,” he said. “I feel awful about it.”

“I know. But this is out of your hands.”

“Yes,” he said, looking grateful.

“Look, you have a lot to do. I don’t want to keep you. But there’s one thing I’m going to ask.”

“Anything,” said Carey.

“Hold off on getting this person. Twenty minutes. Maybe half an hour, tops. Just until I call you.”

“Why?” he said.

“Because I might have my own person.”

His eyes bored into her. “Your own person?”

“Just give me a few minutes to check something.”

And he raised his hands, acquiescing, gracious. It was the least he could do.

 

She waited until she’d heard the elevator doors close behind him before she picked up the phone. Calling Sam Liang was not something she wanted to do in front of Carey.

And once she picked up the phone she found herself dialing Zinnia first, quickly, just to make sure she knew everything she’d need to know.

“Duibuqi,”
Zinnia said as soon as she picked up the phone, “I’m sorry. Carey called me. Now I have to be in the office tomorrow.”