She began the parade of eligible bachelors a few years ago, a
string of pleasant young men with good jobs, straight teeth, and not an ounce of sex appeal among them. In the beginning they were uniformly Chinese American, but as we became older—and our mother became more desperate for us to settle down and bear her grandchildren—other ethnicities were added to the mix: American-born Korean, Japanese, a few Jews. At first it was amusing, but as the dropped hints piled up to Mount Everest proportions, I began to chafe under my mother’s disappointment and concern. A conversation about something as innocent as shoelaces could instantly turn into a thicket of oblique suggestions. “You broke a shoelace?” she’d said the other day on the phone. “You could get a new pair in a men’s shop. They have dark shoelaces. And you never know who you might meet there!”
Back in New York, a younger, more yielding Claire used to go on dates with these guys, eating polite bites of chicken breast at echoing midtown restaurants before chastely kissing them good-night on the cheek. But then one day something changed. In the months before she moved to Beijing, she started to thwart her dates, never saying no, but instead inviting other friends to go with her. “I’m getting together a group of people to go bird-watching,” she’d say, effectively squelching any romance on offer at the crack of dawn in Park Slope.
Faced with the same parade of nice young men, I simply said no. As in: “No, I do not want to be set up for the prom.” Or: “No, I will not play mahjong with Uncle Clifford’s son.” Or: “No, I will not take tango lessons with the I.T. guy from Dad’s office.”
“You can lead a horse to water,” my mother would grumble, “but you can’t make it drink. Aiya! I’m getting old!” At this, I would roll my eyes. My mother, prone to dramatic displays, was surely exaggerating. I’d meet someone, someday, and he’d be intelligent and witty and charming, and, most importantly, he wouldn’t be introduced to me by my mother.
Except, I haven’t met him yet. And, in recent years, afraid of turning into a lonely spinster with a penchant for traditional Chinese medicine, no has started turning into yes.
A
fter thirty minutes of waiting, cradling our cell phones, peering out the front door, and craning our necks to stare at every other customer at Empress Impressions, Claire and I finally locate I-am-Dwayne (as she insists on calling him) sitting at a table in the corner. A table that, I might add, is occupied by two people, not one.
Dwayne’s thin moustache almost hides his surprise when I introduce Claire, but neither my sister nor I can conceal our astonishment at meeting Dwayne’s companion.
“You didn’t tell me he was bringing his mother,” Claire hisses at me as we move to a larger table.
“I had no idea!” I insist.
“Ladies, let me introduce you all properly.” Dwayne’s weedy voice rises above ours. “Mother, this is Isabelle and Claire Lee. Isabelle, Claire, my mom, Dorothy Keeg.”
“Please, call me Mrs. Keeg,” she says, patting her iron gray curls into place.
“It’s so nice of you to join us,” I say as we settle into our relentlessly upright carved Ming chairs.
“It’s such an unusual dining room,” says Mrs. Keeg. “So
Chinese
.”
“Well, we are in China,” says Claire. I shoot her a look, but she has an innocent expression on her face.
One of Beijing’s ritziest eateries, Empress Impressions advertises itself as an authentic imperial dining experience, serving a menu of the venerable Empress Cixi’s favorite dishes (camel’s hoof, anyone?) with a royal price tag to match. Entering the
dining room is like being transported into a modern interpretation of an imperial palace. Carved beams soar overhead, and a colorful school of koi dart around the pond that flows beneath the Plexiglas floor. The waitresses are all dressed to resemble the eunuch staff of the Qing court, ambiguously sexless, their hair cropped short. Though it’s eight o’clock on a Saturday evening, the restaurant maintains a quiet hush, born not of decorum, but emptiness. We’re one of three tables, I note. Not a good sign.
“We’re not going to eat those koi, are we?” demands Mrs. Keeg as a bright fish streaks by her left foot.
“Don’t offend them, Ma! They’re probably an ancient Chinese delicacy! Cut off a man’s balls and let him eat goldfish!” Dwayne’s laugh is like a donkey’s bray. Eeeh-heee, eeeh-heee, heee!
I offer a polite smile and turn my attention to the menu. “Is there anything you don’t eat?” I ask.
“Oh, we eat everything,” says Mrs. Keeg breezily. “Except shellfish. Dwayne’s allergic. Or peanuts. I’m allergic. That goes for peanut oil too. I just blow up like a balloon! And no MSG.”
“Allergic?” asks Claire, and I’m afraid to catch her eye for fear we’ll both start giggling.
“Chinese food syndrome,” explains Mrs. Keeg. “I get terrible headaches just thinking about MSG.”
“And no carbs,” inserts Dwayne. “South Beach Diet. Trying to lose a few pounds,” he says, patting his bulging waist.
I leaf through the menu, a hefty tome filled with page after page of the slimy triumvirate of fancy Chinese gastronomy: shark’s fin, abalone, and sea cucumber. Imperial cuisine is meant to impress with its array of dishes, all laden with rare and expensive ingredients, each more complex than the last, but in reality it’s my least favorite genre of Chinese food. In my heart, I guess I’m a peasant. Give me
mapo doufu
over shark’s fin soup any day.
Our waitress glides to the table, pen poised. “We’d like to start with this,” I say, pointing to the characters for cabbage in mustard sauce. “And this.” I point at tofu skins filled with pine nuts and spinach.
“Dui bu qi, jintian meiyou,”
says the waitress. Sorry, we don’t have that today.
“Okay,” I say cheerfully. “Cold chicken in sesame sauce.”
“Meiyou.”
“Flat mung bean noodles tossed with cilantro and shredded pork?” I ask hopefully.
“Meiyou.”
“Pan-fried cod fillets with chili Mandarin sauce?”
“Meiyou.”
“Hold the
meiyou
, please,” murmurs Claire.
I flip desperately through the menu, trying to locate other dishes among the thick pages. But the jumble of English words and Chinese characters make my eyes slow. Beside me, the waitress shifts edgily, and finally emits an impatient sigh.
“What do you recommend?” I ask.
“The abalone is delicious,” she replies, pointing to the most expensive item on the menu.
I manage to order a few of Cixi’s favorites that are peanut-and shellfish-free and, most importantly, available. The waitress leaves and I turn back to the table.
“Did you order any dumplings?” asks Dwayne, licking his thin lips.
“Oh no, I didn’t. I thought you were avoiding carbs—”
“We’re in China. Gotta have dumplings,” declares Dwayne.
His mother nods vigorously. “Oh yes,” she says. “We just love dumplings.”
The waitress returns with our cold dishes and I add an order of pork and chive
jiaozi
before sampling the pickled cabbage in
mustard sauce, sweet and sour and drizzled with a wimpy mustard that tastes like French’s, completely lacking in nose-tingling buzz.
Lackluster
, I scribble in my notebook.
“Ooh! Spicy!” gasps Mrs. Keeg, fanning her face with her hand. “Be careful, honey!” she says, moving the dish away from Dwayne. “He can’t eat spicy,” she says, leaning in close. “Ulcers,” she whispers.
“Mo-ther!” Dwayne’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down like a fishing lure.
“Well, it’s best to be up front about these things, Dwayne.” She leans back in her chair and surveys us. “I think it’s so exciting that you girls have come back to China!”
“Back to China?” I say faintly, but she ignores me.
“Such a wonderful thing, to return to your roots,” she gushes. “Now, tell me, I’m so curious. How does it feel to be back in your homeland?”
My eyes widen. “Well, I wouldn’t quite call it our homeland. We were born in the States, and so was our father,” I remind her. “Chinese people often find it difficult to understand that we’re American because of the way we look. But if anything, living in Beijing has made me feel more culturally American. I don’t look different from the local population, but I feel different and my reactions to things are different. Though, of course, people constantly question our ethnic identity, and wonder if we feel more American or Chinese.” I’ve explained this so many times, I can rattle off the words without thinking about them.
“So, do you feel more American or Chinese?” she asks.
“Um…” Didn’t I just answer this question? “American,” I finally reply. “When I close my eyes and think of home it’s definitely not China!” I laugh apologetically.
“How interesting,” she says in a tone that indicates she’s dis
appointed that I haven’t found ethnic salvation. “Which one of you girls is more like your mother?”
“Oh, neither of us,” says Claire, her voice brittle. “We’re both dilettantes, I’m afraid.”
“Really?” Mrs. Keeg looks surprised. “Isn’t one of you a lawyer?”
“Claire is a partner with White, Shaw and Knorr,” I insert swiftly, before Claire can come up with another flip comment.
“Oh, I’d love to have a lawyer in the family!” Mrs. Keeg clasps her hands together and gazes at Claire intently. “Are you the Harvard daughter?”
Silence.
“She is indeed,” I reply. “Yale for law school.”
“Dwayne is an Ivy Leaguer himself,” says Mrs. Keeg, nodding vigorously. “Cornell. He graduated summa cum laude.” Her eyes dart between Dwayne and Claire and I can see her picturing them side by side at the dinner table, their brood of brilliant little Keegs crowding around. “Family values are so important to Dwayne,” she says, her eyes still fixed upon Claire. “Do you want a big family?”
A strange expression comes over Claire’s face. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it looks almost like grief, but that doesn’t make sense.
“No, not a big family,” I answer for her finally. “Just a couple of kids.” I have no idea if this is true.
“Oh, yes,” exclaims Mrs. Keeg. “I don’t understand this fad of having large families these days.”
I can practically hear the wedding march trumpeting in Mrs. Keeg’s head. Before I can disabuse her of the notion, a flock of waitresses arrives with the rest of our food, setting the dishes gently upon the table and removing the silver domes with a coordinated flourish.
“Um, would you like some tea-smoked duck, Mrs. Keeg?” I
pass the plates around in an effort to dispel the awkwardness that’s flooded the table. Dwayne unloads half the dumplings on his plate and pours a river of soy sauce over them.
I carefully seize a wobbly cube of imperial-style tofu and lift it to my mouth. The clear sauce is bland to the point of tasteless, and the tofu is cold. I circle my plate, sampling a bite of everything: the sweet and sour ribs, anise beef stew, a dumpling that I’ve managed to wrest from Dwayne’s acquisitive chopsticks. Everything is ice cold and dully flat.
We eat the food, the silence punctuated only by the clink of chopsticks on our plates. Suddenly, Mrs. Keeg leans forward in her chair. “Remind me again,” she says. “Which one of you girls is…divorced?”
My heart starts thumping in my chest. Claire’s divorce is a taboo subject, something that no one talks about. Ever. Ever.
Ever.
I glance fearfully at my sister, but she’s arranged her features into a smooth mask. “That’s me!” she says before I have a chance to speak. “I took him for every penny he had. Bastard never knew what hit him.” Her mouth stretches into a tight-lipped smile. “You’re right, Mrs. Keeg,” she says. “It is good to have a lawyer in the family.”
Mrs. Keeg presses her lips together into a thin line. “There’s no need to be nasty, dear. There’s nothing wrong with a little matchmaking. You’re not going to be young forever, you know.” She takes a bite of anise beef and the corners of her mouth turn down as she chews.
“You’re right.” Claire puts her chopsticks down and pushes her chair back from the table. “But I’m old enough to know I don’t want to waste my time here.” She grabs her purse. “Sorry, Isabelle. I’ll see you later.”
“Wait!” I call as she stalks from the table. “We still have three
more courses!” But she doesn’t turn around as she leaves the restaurant.
“More food for us!” mumbles Dwayne, shoving an entire dumpling into his mouth.
I push the food around on my plate, unwilling to take another bite, even if it is my job.
Mrs. Keeg’s voice pierces the silence. “So, tell me, Isabelle,” she says, regarding me with new interest. “Where did
you
go to college?”
N
ine forty-five
P.M
. Back home in our apartment, I pour myself a glass of wine and take a healthy sip. So this is what it’s come to. Drinking alone. On a Saturday night. My stomach growls and I add a bag of potato chips to the bottle of wine that I’m carrying into my room, firing up my computer as I settle into my desk chair.
Actually, it’s not really that depressing, working on a Saturday night. After all, I have deadlines to meet, articles to write, magazines to put to bed. I bet Charlie works on Saturday nights all the time. Granted, he’s saving the world from some sort of North Korean nuclear attack and I’m just writing restaurant reviews. But, never mind, food is important too. Sometimes I really wonder if the whole Middle Eastern conflict could be resolved through distribution of free falafel.
I contemplate the empty screen as I take pensive sips of wine. Mmmm…delicious wine. Really smooth and luscious. I’ll just pour myself another little bit.
A little booze would have improved tonight’s dinner by one thousand percent. Aided by a few more sips, I start composing my review.
T
en-fifty
P.M
. Ooh, writing a bad review is kind of fun. “Better bundle up before dining at Empress Impressions, because the icy food and haughty service will definitely cause a shiver. If this is how the Empress Cixi dined, no wonder she was such a bitch.”