Kitchen Chinese by Ann Mah Read Free Book Online

quit. No hard feelings. And if you’re not up to snuff, don’t worry. I’ll fire you.” Ed roars with laughter.
    I chuckle a tiny bit to prove I’m a good sport, but inside, my heart beats fast in a mixture of terror and excitement.
     
    M y new desk is part of a square in the center of the room, facing Gab and Lily, with Geraldine sitting to my right. Only Tang Laoshi has a private corner, with his desk angled so he can watch us. The room buzzes with activity—the phones ring constantly, bilingual conversations flow over one another, ideas and suggestions are tossed around.
    Lily finds me a stack of back issues and I start leafing througha copy. Typos and awkward layouts litter the pages, but the articles strike just the right note of informative and sassy. Scattered as Ed seems, he seems to keep a sharp eye on the writing. I’ve just started reading his weekly “Editor’s note” when my cell phone rings.
    “Did you get the job?” Claire’s voice is high with excitement.
    “Er, can you hold on a sec?” I feel self-conscious talking in front of everyone, and leave the newsroom to slip into the corridor.
    “Don’t you love Ed? Isn’t he totally hilarious? And come on, you have to admit that Beijing NOW is the perfect place for you to work.”
    “Everyone does seem really energetic and full of great ideas,” I admit.
    “So, was I right, or was I right?”
    “You were right.” I resist rolling my eyes, even though she can’t see me.
    “See? You should listen to me more often.” She laughs. “When do you start?”
    “Soon. Right away. Actually, tomorrow.”
    “Wow, Ed really doesn’t mess around. That’s wonderful! I’m really happy for you.” She does sound happy, but I’m not sure if it’s because I finally took her advice. “Anyway, darling,” she continues, “I should probably get back to work. I just called to say congratulations! Oh, and I’ll probably be home super late tonight, so don’t wait up, ’kay sweetie?” Before I can respond, she’s ended the call.
    I return to the newsroom, where I start to peruse the current issue, laughing out loud at a witty article by Geraldine about the wild side of Cantonese cuisine. She glances away from her computer and over my shoulder. “Yuck,” she says with a shudder. “I actually had to eat dog meat for that piece. It was horrible.”
    I look at her with new respect. “What was it like?”
    “Tasted like chicken, of course. Very stringy, gamey chicken.”
    As if on cue, my stomach resonates with a loud growl. “I’m sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I’m not a fan of dog meat, I’m just hungry.”
    “Do you want to grab a bite to eat? It’s just about dinnertime.”
    “It’s only six-thirty!” My voice rises with surprise.
    “Yeah, but this is China. Lunch is at eleven-thirty, dinner at six. Stray from those hours and you’re in trouble. Come on.” She closes down her computer with a few efficient clicks of the mouse. “I’ve got a hankering for jiachangcai .”
    I’m not sure what jiachangcai is, but am too famished to protest. Geraldine waves a cheerful good-bye to the newsroom and we find our way outside. We pass a narrow alley that’s lined with tiny food stalls, and I pause to admire the griddle-fried pancakes that gleam with hot cooking oil, and breathe in the fragrant steam that rises from the vats of spicy soup.
    We arrive at a small, bright restaurant that’s crowded with dark heads, the walls scuffed and stained, the floor littered with chopsticks and chicken bones. As we enter, I realize we are the only two foreigners, and that the entire restaurant, both customers and staff, have turned to stare. “Look!” A pimpled girl points a bony finger at Geraldine’s bright hair. “Laowai!” Foreigner. Their eyes swivel between us, but linger on me, curious to see what kind of Chinese person would befriend an outsider.
    I stand by an empty table, awkward and unsure. For the first time, I realize how difficult it