Soy Sauce for Beginners (9 page)

Frankie tapped her pen on the table. “Makes perfect sense. Especially if it all basically tastes the same, right?”

I didn’t hide my incredulousness. “We can’t go any further until you try some sauce.” I reached over, closed Frankie’s laptop and ordered her to move her papers aside.

And so I staged a spontaneous soy sauce tasting right in my office, exactly like the ones I’d seen Ba lead dozens of times. Despite curious looks from co-workers passing by, I made Frankie take one sip after another of our premium sauces, until I was sure she understood the value of our clay jars—jars that were rinsed every six months in tepid water and left to dry in direct sunlight. This special treatment protected fifty years’ worth of golden residue that coated the jars’ insides and gave our sauce its signature earthiness.

“Incredible,” Frankie said, smacking her lips. “I’ve had plenty of soy sauce in my lifetime, but this sauce isn’t even remotely the same species.”

In a few weeks, I promised, when this season’s batch was fully aged and ready to be strained, I would take her downstairs to inspect the tawny glaze.

When the tasting was over, I mixed two Sprite cocktails and handed one to Frankie. Her face contorted in a wince but when I stared her down, she accepted the glass and took a tiny sip before admitting—as everyone did—that the drink was surprisingly tasty. I told her that when Ahkong really wanted to impress guests, he used to add a couple drops of Tabasco sauce and a lemon wedge—a nod to a classic Bloody Mary. “Next time,” I said to Frankie, who was draining her glass.

By the end of the day, we’d done enough research to conclude that consumers were growing more discerning than ever. Despite my uncle and cousin’s certainty that customers wanted a less expensive product, it appeared that demand for artisanal soy sauce was on the cusp of taking off. Lin’s was moving in the wrong direction. If we proceeded as planned, some other company would swoop in to fill the space we’d left behind.

That evening, Ba and I drove home together, and I had dinner with my parents for the first time in days. The next morning, Frankie and I got back to work, compiling our research into a report to present to my father and uncle. By the time we were done, those same colleagues who’d snickered at Frankie’s never-ending questions now spoke reverentially about her work ethic. They no longer paid attention to me.

Frankie and I were so engrossed in our work, I didn’t have a chance to reveal my previous interaction with James. Or else I didn’t allow myself the chance. Given that the likelihood of his calling dwindled with each passing day, I ordered myself to forget I’d ever asked him out. I only hoped I wouldn’t run into him anytime soon.

Near the end of Frankie’s first week at Lin’s, Kat called to inform me that all the usual people were meeting for drinks; Frankie and I absolutely had to come. If anything, the previous weekend had confirmed how little I had in common with my old friends, but still I agreed, mostly because it was easier than arguing with Kat.

Frankie and I were leaving the office when my cell phone rang a second time. I considered letting the call go to voicemail, then turned away from my friend to answer, simultaneously hoping it was and wasn’t him.

With Frankie’s eyes boring holes into the back of my head, I tried to keep the conversation as short and as neutral as possible.

“Tonight?” I said. “Like in two hours? What makes you think I don’t have other plans?” I knew I should have been offended by the last-minute nature of this call, but I was thrilled to hear James’s voice.

“Well, do you have other plans?”

I didn’t answer right away. I glanced back over my shoulder at Frankie who was waiting with her hands on her hips, a suspicious look on her face. I went through the motions of weighing my options, then said, “I’ll see you at seven.”

“Who was that?” Frankie grinned wickedly.

I hurriedly explained how James had obtained my number, and Frankie listened, amused. “If it’s so not a big deal, then why’d you keep it a secret?”

I ignored her question. “I’m really sorry I have to bail on you.” If I hadn’t been so excited about my date, I would have felt guilty about spoiling Frankie’s night.

To my surprise, she assured me she was perfectly happy to meet up with my friends on her own. She wrote down directions, entered Kat’s number in her phone, and promised she’d do her best to downplay my absence. “Have a good time,” she said in a tone weighed down by a string of caveats.

Two hours later, showered and blow-dried, painted and powdered, I was in a taxi speeding toward the restaurant, my ambivalence intensifying with the rate of my pulse. The same thoughts I’d considered and dismissed rose up once again: Did he really expect me to drop what I was doing and rush to meet him, especially after taking five days to call? Why was I doing precisely that?

“Uncle, don’t mind turn up air-con can?” I asked the cab driver. I reminded myself to breathe.

James and I were meeting at Clarke Quay, a strip of bars and restaurants on the banks of the Singapore River—our island’s most famous river, which was puny enough to be mistaken by tourists for a canal. Back in the nineteenth century, the Clarke Quay area had been a major port, and the government had done its best to preserve that historical charm, albeit in sterilized form. Crumbling godowns had been gutted and given fresh coats of candy-colored paint. Smooth cement boardwalks were laid down around evenly spaced palm trees. An army of neon green-clad workers was on hand to sweep up any traces of litter that had fallen short of the ubiquitous trash cans, themselves sleek and glossy enough to be mistaken for sculpture. Here in Clarke Quay, every table was clogged with local yuppies and Caucasian expats and Australian and Japanese tourists, yet the bars and restaurants turned over each year.

James’s pick was a new tapas bar pragmatically called Tapas Bar. The space had formerly housed a seedy bar slash lounge that had gone by the more enigmatic name of China Black. I’d been there once or twice in my twenties—just frequently enough to be able to reference it whenever my friends and I needed an example of what we
didn’t
want to do on a Saturday night.

James was already standing outside the restaurant door, immaculately dressed in a periwinkle-blue button-up shirt and jeans so stiff, they had to have been ironed. His fauxhawk had been flattened and artfully tousled. Just as I raised my hand to get his attention, he pulled his phone from his pocket and began tapping on the screen. I pulled back my hand and slowed down, hoping no one had witnessed my awkwardness.

A moment later, he caught sight of me. Before I could hesitate, he came forward and gave me a hug. “Glad you could make it.”

I took a step back and waited for him to explain why he’d taken so long to call, and when no explanation came, I said, “It was a challenge to clear my schedule, but I managed.”

He laughed like it was the best joke he’d ever heard, then dropped his voice a notch. “By the way, you look amazing.”

“Why, thank you,” I said extravagantly to mask my pleasure.

“Shall we?” He whisked the door open and motioned me through with a bullfighter’s grace, something Paul never did—out of principle, he claimed.

As I stepped into the cool entranceway, the toe of my pump caught the edge of the rug, and I fell forward. I let out a yelp and grabbed onto James with both hands.

“I got you,” he said in a low voice.

The muscles in his arm were hard and lean beneath my fingers. I dropped my hands to my sides, startled by the comfort of his touch.

“You okay?” he asked, his gaze locking onto mine.

I brushed my hair away from my face and choked out that I was fine.

A waiter who had caught my gaffe hurried over.

“She’s just really excited to try your food,” James said.

Tapas Bar’s new proprietors had renovated extensively since I’d last visited this location. Gone were the low-hanging lanterns, leopard-print couches and faux sheepskin rugs. The space had been stripped down to its concrete floors and ceiling beams. The restaurant’s sole embellishment was an oversized canvas of wild paint splotches that spanned an entire wall.

The waiter led us to a spacious corner table. We were taking our seats when a slender man, his trimness amplified by his narrow pinstriped suit and skinny black tie, materialized before us. “I thought I saw your name on the list,” he said, pumping James’s hand. “So good to have you.”

James asked how business was, and the slender man waved a hand over the packed dining room and said, “No complaints, no complaints.” He instructed us to flag him down if we needed anything. Then he glided down the aisle, nodding and smiling at patrons as he went.

I lifted a questioning eyebrow at James, who shrugged and said, “Restaurant industry. Small world.” He opened his menu and fell silent.

I, too, pretended to read while I studied him from across the table. Here was a guy who was comfortable in his own skin and was used to being treated well. He was the antithesis of scruffy, defensive Paul, who dismissed all codes of etiquette as elitist and stiffened in the presence of cloth napkins and weighty silverware. How Paul would have disapproved of this lively, airy room, this impeccably groomed man. I smoothed my napkin over my lap and resolved to enjoy the evening.

James continued to study the menu. When he flipped the page, a small, sapphire-blue sphere glinted in the buttonhole of his French cuff.

“They’re not going to quiz you on that later,” I said.

He laughed and rubbed a palm across his smooth chin. “Menus are like poetry,” he said.

I tilted my head. I couldn’t tell if the tugging in the corners of his mouth was the beginning of a smirk or a smile.

He spread the menu on the table. “The way it’s structured into smaller sections, the way each line prepares you for the next. Every good menu tells a story: the chef’s history, his inspirations, his hopes.” He looked up at me expectantly.

“When was the last time you actually read a poem?” I asked.

James pushed aside the menu and laughed.

The waiter appeared carrying a peculiar vessel with an extra-long, narrow spout. “Aperitif on the house,” he said. “This is a cava from the Penedès region of Spain. A
brut nature
.”

James glanced over to verify I understood, and I felt my spine straighten in indignation. “My favorite kind,” I said, though in truth there was something endearing about his concern.

“Super dry, super crisp, and excellent with food,” the waiter said, before raising the vessel high above his head and aiming the spout in my glass. The sparkling wine formed a perfect arc that made my mouth water.

“That pitcher is called a
porron
,” James said, rolling the
r
’s with gusto. “Traditional Catalonian wine vessel.”

I could almost feel the toe of Paul’s shoe, nudging me under the table. “Can you believe this shee-shaw?” the look on his face would say. And yet, I knew I would have defended James.

The waiter explained that
porrons
were typically brought out for birthdays, weddings, and other festive occasions. The long spout was designed to be aimed directly into a waiting mouth.

I said, “Very efficient.”

“Not to mention environmentally friendly,” said James.

The waiter waited for our banter to taper off before asking if we were ready to order.

“You start,” I said, scanning the endless list for the first time.

James studied me. “How hungry are you?”

The question felt like a test. “Starving.”

“Good. Me, too.” He clapped shut his menu. To the waiter he said, “We’ll have one of everything.”

He had to be kidding. The restaurant served at least thirty different dishes. But James handed his menu to the waiter and waited for me to do the same.

“Hang on, cowboy,” I said. “The last time I checked we were ordering for two.”

James placed one hand over mine and told me not to worry. The portions would be manageable. “See?” he said pointing at my menu. “
Small
plates.”

His palm was as warm and smooth as I remembered. I could still feel its fading imprint on the back of my neck. In spite of myself, I surrendered my menu.

Before long our entire table was covered in food: an earthenware ramekin of pearly-pink prawns bathed in garlic butter; translucent, paper-thin slices of cured ham fanned out on the plate;
tortilla espanola
with nuggets of potato and sweet onion; candy-stripe beets studded with goat cheese and almond slivers; slow-cooked short ribs almost silky in their tenderness; thick chorizo stew.

James ate with great concentration, head lowered, eyes trained on his plate, face flushed. Occasionally he looked up and declared that the beets would benefit from a touch of
fleur de sel
, or that the short ribs were out of this world. I admired his lack of self-consciousness, his unabashed passion. When we weren’t discussing the food, we told each other what we missed most about America: greasy-spoon diners, red plastic cups, buying in bulk.

“Good bagels,” I said.

He closed his eyes and nodded approvingly. “There was this one bagel place by NYU that I used to go to at least three times a week. I still dream of those bagels.” His eyes darted open. “But you’re from California, so I’m not sure you know what a good bagel tastes like.”