The Last Chinese Chef (38 page)

“So they were already gone when you got the news.”

“Yes.”

She looked at him across the candle. They had been so close to each other a few hours ago, inside each other. She had seen so much about him. She felt a surge. She was aware of how much she wanted him to be happy. “Don’t worry, Sam. This thing means nothing. Your career’s going to take off. Nothing can stop it.”

“You sound like my uncles.”

That’s because I love you as they do,
was the thought that blurted up from her subconscious — but which she could not say out loud. “They know. So do I.” Then she kept talking, so the words could more easily pass by. “And in time the world will know, too. My article will help. You will be really happy with its portrait of what you do. And I wrote it before this happened” — she touched his leg — “so don’t worry.” She paused. “I didn’t expect this, Sam.”

“Neither did I.”

A smile crept over her. “Any more than I expected the food to be so great. Maybe that’s what makes the article about you glow the way it does. Do you know what they say? That writers do their very best stories on a foreign place the first time they see it — and then again the last time, when they are saying goodbye, just before leaving. That last one they call the swan song. So maybe my piece on you is just my first piece on this place and this food, and everything seems so marvelous —
is
so marvelous — that it comes out on the page.”

“I love that you got it about the food,” he said, “that you understood it, that maybe — I hope I’m not projecting — you might even be on your way to loving it.”

“I could get there,” she said, seriously. “Given time, and exposure.”

“That would best be done here,” he pointed out.

She didn’t say anything. She thought she understood what he was really saying, and she couldn’t promise to stay here any more than he could say he’d come back home. She stood up, redirected the moment by stretching a bit, then excused herself and started to walk away on the path toward the main dining room.

“Bathroom?” he said. “Restaurant’s closed. Use mine.” He pointed to a door in the corner between the room where he lived and the second dining room. She had not seen it before.

She would ask nothing, she decided, as she walked across the court. Expect nothing. A world separated them. There was no way anything between them could take hold and keep going. She knew that already now, at the beginning, and once she adjusted to the idea it gave her a certain peace. Just as being widowed had given her peace, though of a different and far more bitter kind. Being widowed had made her feel that nothing else she could ever lose, ever again, could really hurt her. But that was wrong, because this would hurt her, losing Sam. Already she knew it would hurt.

The bathroom was small and homey, with a stall shower. She felt comfortable in here. She brought his towel to her face and closed her eyes and sank into it. It was full of him, his smell. She loved it; she could stand here breathing it forever.

It was amazing how a feeling could be so powerful and still impossible. As if she could stay. She put the towel back on the rack. The city was so quiet. Was it four in the morning? Five? She walked back out under the rustling leaves. She was aware of the freedom of her body, the ease of no underwear. She had a strange, dreamlike sense that she had always lived here and had merely forgotten it, that every day of her life she had seen Sam reclining in just this way, his chest bare, his drawstring pajamas. She felt a cramp inside her.

He moved to one side of his chaise. “Come here with me. There’s room.” And she lay down next to him, nestled under his arm. As soon as he was holding her again and they were breathing together, she felt herself relax. Her thoughts and questions ebbed. “I do wish I could stay here,” she said truthfully.

“I was going to propose that,” he answered. She laughed. She did not stop to wonder if he spoke lightly or seriously. Somehow she knew at that moment, in the circle of his arm, that the few words they had just spoken were the simple and sufficient truth.

In this humble book I have tried to give the facts about the cuisine of the Chinese imperial palace. It was a place of tragic beauty. Of everything I learned there, one thing stands out. Food was always to be shared. When my master sent out his untouched dishes from the huge imperial repasts to the families of the princes and the chief bureaucrats, he would send them only as complete meals for eight people in stacked lacquerware. Never any other way. Always for eight. The high point of every meal was never the food itself, he taught us, but always the act of sharing it.

— LIAN G WEI,
The Last Chinese Chef

 

 

T
hey awakened to a sound, too early. They were naked under the blankets, their arms and legs twined like one being. With Matt, when she woke up, she had always been off by herself in the bed. This was different. She moved closer to Sam’s smell, his black hair, his body the same size as hers. Then the sound crashed through again, and right behind it she heard another sound, one she recognized — the creak of the red gate pushing open. “Sam.” She nudged him, whispered in his ear.

He stirred. Then they heard Jiang’s quavery voice calling.
“Zizi!”
Nephew!

“They’re here,” said Sam. He jumped out of the bed, his darkivory skin flashing in the daylight before her eyes, his hands quick on his pants. “Here.” He threw her clothes. “Sorry. Damn. No privacy in this family.”

“But what do I do?”

“Nothing. Just be normal.”

“It’s not,” she said. “It’s not normal.”

“I know that. But it’s the best kind of not normal.”

“Zizi!”
Jiang called again from the courtyard.

“Wo lai!”
Sam called back, Coming!

“Should we say anything?” she asked.

“Why?” he said. “They’ll know everything the instant they see you. You’re here, in my room, it’s not even seven o’clock, and look at you. Anybody can see it. You’re brimming with it. You’re a walking light source.”

“So are you,” she said. He was smiling nonstop.

He zipped his pants. “Just come out.” And he turned and slipped out into the courtyard.

She followed a minute later, stopped in the bathroom, then came out and there they were, a fussing, loving clot of old men. “Miss Maggie!” Tan called, waving her over with a smile. They were all beaming welcome. They all knew. She felt naked as she walked over and said good morning to them. She felt as if they had seen everything she and Sam had done. Yet they were happy. She was happy too, she realized. She relaxed.

Sam had gone ahead to the kitchen and now called out that he was starting breakfast — in English, which was for her.

“How was the temple?” she said to Sam’s father.

“Ah! So delicious! You have never eaten a vegetarian meal like this one. The gluten duck, the crispy pepper-salt oysters made from rice puffs — you must go.”

“Would I have to get up and pray?”

“Naturally! Four-thirty in the morning! Why do you think we are home so early?”

“I’ll go if he goes,” she joked, shooting a look toward the kitchen, where Sam was clanging pots.

“We will all go,” Liang Yeh said.

Jiang and Tan were preparing the single table in the dining room, having pulled it over by the windows to drink in the morning light. They set five places and were steeping tea of various kinds. She tried to help them, but they batted her away and sent her on to the kitchen.

Sam was at the stove. She slid onto her stool in her now-accustomed spot. The stool was hers now; it fit her body.

“I feel so humbled by what happened,” he said.

“I do too. Humbled. Awed.”

She watched him while the rice cooked, happy even though nothing was certain. “What are you making?”

“Congee. It’s the simplest food, the most basic. But it takes care. It’s like love.” He looked straight at her; she could feel him looking right through her clothes to her body, to her heart. He gave the pot a stir. “First it must have that fragrance of fresh-steamed rice. Then the toppings.” He gestured at the side counter, which was crowded with little bowls he had been preparing while the aromatic rice was cooking. There were tiny squares of crunchy pickle, slivers of greens, velvety cubes of tofu, tiny smoke-dried Hunan fish mounded up in a crispy, silvery tangle. There were peanuts, shreds of river moss, crunchy soaked fungus, and matchsticks of salty Yunnan ham. “You can take those in,” he said.

“Okay.” It felt good bearing dishes for him, having a place in the pattern. She put all the side dishes around the rim of the inner wheel. She had seen the enormous tureen for the congee; Sam was warming it now, by the sink, with boiling water. She left room for it in the center of the wheel.

He brought the tureen in. All the dishes around it made a pleasing circle. They sat down together.
“Lai, lai,”
said Sam, Come, and they all passed their clean bowls to him. The first one he filled, he handed to his father. Then he served Jiang, the eldest, and then Tan. And then her. When he handed her the bowl and their fingers touched he looked into her with a gladness that was unmistakable. She knew they all saw it. That kind of feeling could not be hidden.

She surveyed the condiments. She selected greens, pickle pieces, and the tiny fish. Following one more suggestion from Sam’s eyes she took slippery cubes of fresh tofu too. There. He looked satisfied. She felt another satisfaction bloom. He cared what she ate. That was not something she had known before either. She and Matt had been servants of convenience. There could never in their house have been a meal like this.

Chopsticks flew as they piled ingredients on top of their congee, and the Chinese conversation burst forth like birds from a box. She loved the sound of it. If she learned the language, if she understood it, would it still be so? Would she feel loosed from her old fetters whenever she heard it, freshly born? Maybe. Maybe more so.

She mixed her congee with her spoon and tasted it. Oh, so good. She shivered. The salty and piquant flavors against the delicate fragrance of rice, the crispy fish against the tofu and the soft gruel. Sheer goodness. She caught Sam’s eye and said one word, “Wonderful.”

The uncles agreed. “I would come back from the dead for this,” said Jiang. “What is that poem? The one that calls back the soul to the table?”

“Oh! From the Zhou Dynasty,” said Tan.

To their surprise, it was Liang Yeh who started to intone, in English.

He could not remember the next line. Jiang murmured to him in Chinese, and he continued:

“Ah, the soup of Wu,” said Tan as he ate his congee. Wu was the archaic word for the region around Hangzhou, which made the connection to their friend’s death complete.

“To Uncle Xie,” Sam said, raising his teacup. They drank.

After this Sam refilled their bowls from the tureen and the condiments went around again.

“You are a great chef,” Liang Yeh said to his son.

“Thanks,” Sam said, reddening. He caught Maggie’s eye. This was the moment for him, she understood. More than the prize. More than the restaurant.

“You are! I saw three nights ago. We all saw.”

“Yes,” said Jiang and Tan, on top of each other. “We did.”

Under the table she touched his knee. He caught her hand and held it.

Liang Yeh could feel the current between them. “Now, we must take your lady friend to the temple. What do you say? I am happy to go again this very week.”

“She’s leaving in a few days,” said Sam.

“Leaving? No! She just arrived! Isn’t that true?” He addressed himself to Maggie. “Didn’t you just arrive?”

“More or less,” she said. “But I have to go back. I have a job.”

His face fell.

Sam said, “Dad, it’s okay.”

“I know.” Liang Yeh raised a hand. “Because you will return.” He touched Maggie’s arm lightly. “Isn’t it so? Won’t you be back? Very soon?”

All of them were watching her.

She sneaked a look at Sam. His face was full and unafraid.
Go ahead,
he seemed to be telling her,
say it. Tell them.

“I think so,” she said. “Yes.”

“Good. You see?” said Liang Yeh. His eyes crinkled with gladness as he took slivers of ham and greens and added them to Sam’s bowl, and put another scoop of the crisp silver fish in hers. “Now eat, children. Another day lies ahead.”

The Last Chinese Chef
is a work of fiction, yet the Chinese culinary world that comes to life in its pages is real. I could never have captured it without the help of many Chinese who shared their knowledge, analyses, reminiscences, and recipes, nor could I have written it without the published works of literary gourmets, culinary thinkers, and food-obsessed poets dating back through the centuries.

In a deeper sense my research began thirty years ago when I started doing business in China. Arriving there to buy woolen textiles in 1977, just six weeks after the Cultural Revolution had formally ended, I sat down to my first government-arranged banquet and found my mind and senses exploded by a cuisine more exciting, diverse, and subtle than any Chinese food I had encountered in America. Real cuisine was available to only a handful of people in China then, for the country’s population was not only poor but traumatized by a long era of successive terrors that had turned many of life’s pleasures, including food, into ideological evils. At a time when most people around me had limited choices and rationed food, I, as the guest of one of China’s large state-owned enterprises, was given many opportunities in those first few years to experience a cuisine that was as fantastic as it was — to me, an inexperienced young woman trying desperately to figure out how to do business in a socialist country — incomprehensible.