Kitchen Chinese (31 page)

She continues in a happy rush. He approached her as she was examining a plaster sculpture of a gigantic Mao suit, and asked her if she was “the acerbic Geraldine Elenski of
Beijing NOW.
” At first she thought he was trying to pick her up, but as their conversation progressed it became clear that he wasn’t interested
in, well, women. They wandered over to the Star Gallery and then the Beijing-Tokyo Art Project, discussing recent Chinese avant-garde movements, “cynical realism,” and the postseventies generation.

“It turns out he owns 508 West!” She beams and looks at me expectantly.

“Er…remind me again…”

“You know, the gallery in Chelsea. Gillen—that’s his name—discovered all these young artists before they were famous…Jeff Koons, Chuck Close, Matthew Barney…And get this!” She takes a deep breath. “He wants me to open up a branch of 508 West in Beijing!”

“Oh my God!” I shriek, loud enough so that half the restaurant turns around to stare.

“He’s been checking out my columns online and thinks I’m the right person for the job! Can you believe it?”

“Of course!” I squeeze her arm. “You have great taste.”

“After all those years I struggled in the gallery world in New York…eating Top Ramen and walking home to save money on subway fare…I can’t believe this is really happening.” She slowly pulls the meat off a kebob. “Isn’t it ironic? Fifty years ago our grandparents left their native countries to make a better life in the new world. And yet two generations later we’re in China, finding better opportunities than in the States. Back home we’d just be cogs in the wheel. Here, we’re inventing the wheel.”

“Yes, but compared to most Chinese, we’re extremely privileged. We have college degrees and earn middle-class salaries,” I point out. “But…then again, when I lived in New York, I made grilled cheese sandwiches on my waffle iron.”

“And I bet you never thought you’d have a front-page feature in the
New York Tribune.
”

“Front page of the arts section,” I correct her. “But…no, you’re right. I would never have even tried.”

“Have you started pitching your next story yet?”

“No…still trying to come up with a good idea.”

“You could always do something on Jeff,” Geraldine suggests.

“Like a piece on break-up texts? I don’t know…Don’t you think I’ve done enough damage?” I tear off a chunk of bread.

“Are you kidding? You inspired him! His new single just hit the Billboard Hot 100!”

“What?” I examine her face for sarcasm, but she appears to be serious. “Single? What single?”

“It’s called…” She pauses for dramatic effect. “…‘I’ve Been Texted.’ I can’t believe you haven’t heard it yet. They play it at Babyface like forty times a night!”

“Oh my God.” I cover my face with my hands. “Please don’t tell me it was inspired by…”

“Er, yeah. I think it was. Sorry.” Geraldine pats my arm. “But don’t worry. The lyrics use your Chinese name!”

“Great.” I drain my beer.

“Besides, you’re off the hook now. There’s no way Jeff can be angry with you now that he’s got a platinum album.”

Our waiter sets down a heavy dish of stew. Chunks of chicken fall off the bone in a savory sauce laced with tomatoes, onions, and peppers. Underneath lurk cubes of potato and flat, doughy noodles, rough with a handmade edge. I scoop a spoonful into my bowl and breathe in the chickeny scent before dipping into the rich liquid. “Yum! What is this?” I dunk a piece of bread into the delicious sauce.

“
Dapanji
. Big plate chicken.”

“That’s it? No fancy name like ‘Phoenix Entwined in Earth’s
Stalwart Roots’? Just big plate chicken?” I peer at her. “Are you sure this is Chinese food?”

She laughs. “The Uighur separatists would love you, Iz. Did you know that even though Xinjiang is technically three time zones away from Beijing, they still have to operate on official government time? When I visited Kashgar, we ate dinner at ten
P.M
., except it was actually seven.”

I slurp up a fat noodle and try to imagine a place where the sun rises at eight o’clock in the morning. “Instead of ‘one country, two systems,’ they should call it ‘one country, one time zone.’ The great unifier of China.”

Our laughter drowns out the loud voices around us, making us oblivious to the stares.

I
n the cab home, a tiny fender bender on the Third Ring Road radiates traffic like an open wound seeping blood. I crank open the window and lean back against the seat, contemplating tonight’s conversation. Geraldine is right, of course. She and I, Ed, Claire, Gab, Charlie—all of us came to China for different reasons—study, work, Sinophilia, the chance to start over—but it’s the opportunities that have kept us here. Beijing is our new frontier, offering us freedom, privilege, and possibility—the chance to leave our mark on uncharted territory.

Before I left New York, my old boss, Nina, sent me an e-mail. “Good luck in your new adventure,” she wrote. “How wonderful that you will have the chance to discover your roots.” It only took a second to delete the message from my in-box. After all, my roots were in Manhattan.

Living in Beijing hasn’t changed that, of course. But I’ve still spent the past months looking for perfect Chinese moments, experiences that prove I wasn’t crazy to move here. Because I love
food, it’s not surprising that I’ve found most of them at the dining table, in that first scalding bite of a
xiaolongbao
, or in the numbing, burning thrill of anything Sichuanese.

But there are other moments. Like the night I sang an entire Mando-pop song at karaoke, and didn’t flub one word. Or the first time a thirty minute cab ride didn’t involve the question, “Where are you from?” Or the day my article was published in the
New York Tribune.
Or every morning, actually, that I walk into the newsroom, ready to begin another day of writing about food, fashion, and culture—all the things that I love most.

Maybe I could have been a journalist in New York, but there were enough talented, witty, and accomplished writers to intimidate and stop me. Here in Beijing, however, I’ve flourished in the small pond, the growing international interest in stories about China, finally giving me the confidence to try.

In the end, perhaps this is the gift China has given me: not the chance to discover my roots, but the opportunity to realize a dream.

T
he white floors of the Green T. House Living are shiny enough to reflect the bright colors of the silk and satin cocktail dresses swirling above. Claire and I are at the gala celebration for the Year of Italy in China, and while the free-flowing Prosecco and wheels of Parmagiano-Reggiano cheese mean it’s not quite like every other Beijing social event, it certainly has the major characteristics: lots of air kissing, flashy jewelry, and smiles as stiff as the hairstyles above them.

“I’m so glad we came, darling.” Claire sips from a flute of Prosecco, carefully holding the stem between her long fingers. Almost two weeks have passed since she dropped her bombshell news, yet she still hasn’t made a decision about whether she’s
going to keep the baby. Whenever I’ve tried to broach the topic, she sidesteps it, as if she’d rather pretend the situation doesn’t exist. I think that’s why she’s drinking Prosecco tonight, though her sips are tiny enough to be inconsequential. Outwardly, she’s the same Claire, a blur of busyness keeping her unapproachable, though I suspect she’s been hiding out at her office in an attempt to dodge the Beijing social scene. And, late at night, I’m pretty sure I’ve heard muffled sobs from behind her closed door.

She surprised me this afternoon, asking if I would attend the party with her. Of course I was inclined to say no, but as I watched her fingering the gilt-edged invitation with a wistful expression, I found myself agreeing to go. An hour later she’d buried all traces of unhappiness beneath a silver sheath in wild silk, its severe cut revealing her still thin figure. In the car, I was so busy navigating the Airport Expressway and narrow back roads of Shunyi while she drove (her driver is away) that I didn’t have a chance to ask her any questions.

A waiter brushes past and I snag a glass of Prosecco as well as a chunk of Parmagiano-Reggiano from the enormous, hollowed wheel of cheese. Claire holds out her glass for a refill. Should she really be drinking so much? I’m trying to think up a way to ask her diplomatically when I hear a voice trill behind me.

“Ooh! Do I see the Lee sisters?” My heart sinks when I see a tall blonde striding confidently toward us. Kristin from the American embassy.

“Hel-woah,” I manage from beyond my mouthful of cheese. I hastily swallow and manage a tight-lipped smile.

“Great to see you, mwah, mwah.” Her perfume, lingering and musky, washes over me. “Eileen, have you lost weight?” she exclaims, eyeing my dress, black brocade with a flattering fitted bodice.

“It’s Isabelle,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Oops, sorry sweetie. And Claire! Gorgeous dress, darling. How are you? You look tired.”

Claire opens her eyes wide. “I’m fine!” she says with a breezy laugh. She fingers her double strand of dove gray Tahitian pearls.

“How are you holding up?” Kristin cocks her head to one side. “Enjoying life as a single gal again?”

“Absolutely,” Claire says with a confident smile. “Never been better.” She crosses her arms on her chest and looks Kristin in the eye with a cool gaze. Suddenly, I realize why Claire wanted to come tonight. She needed to make an appearance, to show people that she hasn’t collapsed in a heartbroken heap of misery. She may be pregnant (though no one knows) and dumped by Wang Wei, but she’s holding her head high.

Kristin turns away from Claire with a disappointed air and regards me. “Have you seen Charlie lately?”

“No, not lately. Not since Shanghai.” I shrug like I don’t care, though my skin prickles at the mention of his name.

“Isn’t he here tonight?” Claire moves forward slightly. “I thought for sure he’d give his support to the Italian year.” To my surprise, she seems disappointed. She clenches her jaw, a look I recognize from our childhood when she couldn’t get her away.

“So you haven’t heard the news?” Kristin babbles on, oblivious. “Charlie’s moving to Paris! Isn’t that amazing?”

My heart swoops into a nosedive. “Wow, he’s going to be the, um, ambassador to France?”

“Of course not! No!” Kristin bats at my arm with white-tipped fingernails. “You really don’t know anything about U.S. foreign affairs, do you? The ambassador to France is always a political appointee. No, Charlie’s taking a sabbatical to teach at See Ahnse Po.”

See Ahnse Po? I nod knowingly, though I haven’t the foggiest idea what she’s talking about.

“Is he teaching a course on contemporary American politics?” Claire breaks in. “What a great opportunity for him.” She turns to me. “Didn’t our cousin Michael spend a year there?”

Oh, she must mean that French political institute, Sciences Politiques, or something like that. Trust Kristin to be pretentious and use the French nickname. “Yes he did!” I shoot Claire a grateful look.

“Will Charlie be leaving Beijing soon?” asks Claire as a waiter refills her glass again. Suddenly, I find myself hanging on Kristin’s every word.

“In time for the fall semester, I think,” she says vaguely, her eyes scanning the room. “Ooh, is that Mimi Zhou over there? I must say hello. Wonderful to see you both. Let’s catch up over dinner. Byeee!” With a click of her heels, she is gone.

“What a shame about Charlie, darling,” Claire remarks casually, though her dark eyes scan my face a little too closely. “We should invite him over for dinner sometime before he goes.”

I swallow hard against the lump that’s suddenly appeared in my throat. “That would…be nice,” I finally manage.

My sister reaches out to squeeze my arm with a hand that is surprisingly gentle.

I want to slump in the corner, but it’s occupied by a troupe of white-faced mimes mutely acting out a scene from Dante’s
Inferno
. Instead I take the last sip from my glass and go in search of the bar. But when I find it, the white-clad bartender informs me they’re out of Prosecco and so I settle for San Pellegrino, gloomily slugging the sparkling water directly from the glass bottle. Charlie is leaving Beijing? A dull ache in my stomach reveals a disappointment I wish I could ignore. I’m always looking for him, in the lobby, in the elevator, always hoping to run into him. What will it be like after he leaves? I know it seemed far-fetched that something could happen between us. But some small part of
me thought that maybe he perceived me, the real me, and liked what he saw. Now that he’s leaving, I’ll never have a chance to find out.

At dinner, I’m seated between two impeccably preserved women with deep tans who smile and nod politely and then proceed to lean over me to chatter in Italian. I concentrate on the food, plates of cured meats, followed by penne dressed in a drizzle of sharp green extra-extra-extra virgin olive oil. Over the main course (veal chop) I watch Claire across the table laughing with her handsome neighbor, a suave Italian whose picture could be in the dictionary next to the word “gigolo.” He adjusts his shirtsleeves, crisp with European polish, and gazes at her, a small smile on his lips. Claire tosses her hair, cheeks flushed, eyes dark and flashing, and I realize with a start that she is drunk. Not mildly tipsy, but flat-out, sorority-style wasted. Why is she doing this? Doesn’t she know she could hurt the baby? I catch her eye in a stern glare but she ignores me. It’s as if she’s trying to freeze all her problems through alcohol.

I push back my chair and stalk over to her side of the table. “Claire,” I whisper urgently. “I’m going to powder my nose.” I glance meaningfully toward the bathrooms.

“That’s nice, Izzy.” She turns to the man beside her. “Marco, this is my ba-by sistah, Isabelle. Isabelle has to pee and is going to the bathroom.” She smiles at me and gives me a slight push.

“Come with me,” I urge.

“I’m fine here, just enjoying my wine.” She takes another slug from a glass of Chianti.

I grab her hand and pull her out of her chair. “What are you doing?” I demand in the fluorescent chill of the bathroom.