Kitchen Chinese by Ann Mah Read Free Book Online Page A

will be to live in China, a foreigner by nature, with the appearance of a local. For a moment I feel overwhelmed by the prospect, but then Geraldine sits, and I sit across from her.
    A waitress appears and hovers impatiently over our table, herpen poised. “Are you ready to order?” she asks me, her eyes resolutely avoiding Geraldine. I flip through the menu searching for familiar characters, but can’t decipher much more than “meat,” “vegetable,” and “rice.”
    “Do you eat everything?” says Geraldine.
    “Yes,” I say with relief.
    “Okay,” she says, without even a glance at the menu. “Women lai yi fen’r mayi shang shu, yi fen’r mapo doufu, yi fen’r di san xian …that’s probably enough,” she muses. “Liang wan mi fan . Gen can jing zhi’r, cha shui.” She bestows a sweet smile upon the waitress. “Xie xie.” Thank you.
    The waitress writes it all down, her expression impassive, and shuffles away “What did you order?” I ask with admiration. “You didn’t even look at the menu!”
    “Oh, it’s easy!” Geraldine laughs. “The food is the same at every home-style joint.”
    Ah! Jiachangcai . Home-style food. The simple, comforting dishes that people eat every day.
    “Chinese cuisine is like poetry—everything has a beautiful name,” she continues. “Ants on a tree. That’s just ground pork and cellophane noodles. Mapo doufu —you probably know—it means pockmarked tofu, but it’s actually just tofu in a spicy sauce. And di san xian is my favorite. Earth’s three fairies—eggplant, potato, and bell pepper combined in a brown sauce form a magical flavor.”
    My mother never translated the names of dishes; she simply cooked and we ate. I feel suddenly excited by the idea that such unadorned fare could be entwined with poetic charm. “Your Chinese is so fluent!” I marvel at her ease.
    “Well, after six years in China, I should at least know how to order my dinner.” The waitress slaps down a pot of tea and a stack of dishes still wet from the sink.
    “You should dry everything.” Geraldine hands me a paper napkin. “Germs,” she explains.
    “So, what brought you to China?” I ask as we busy ourselves with dripping, doll-sized plates and teacups that are chipped and stained with age.
    “I came on a Fulbright scholarship with the firm intention of only staying a year,” she says, and laughs. “But then I fell in love and we got married…six years later, I’m divorced and still here.”
    “What happened?”
    “Culture clash. He was too Chinese, I was too American.” Her smile is wry. “How about you?”
    “Me? Oh, I just wanted to discover my roots,” I say lightly, hoping she’ll drop the subject.
    “Really? A returnee? You don’t seem the type.” She eyes me shrewdly, but the waitress returns with our food, plunking everything down in the middle of the table, and the moment passes. “Dong kuaizi,” says Geraldine, unwrapping her chopsticks and placing a tiny paper napkin in her lap. “Move your chopsticks—it really just means, dig in!”
    The food, fresh from the wok, glistens with oil. But the cellophane noodles are spicy, savory with ground pork and laced with chili flakes, and the tender vegetables in earth’s three fairies are salty and sweet with a rich, brown sauce. I alternate bites before piling cubes of tofu into my rice bowl, allowing the fiery chili oil to seep into the fluffy grains and then scooping everything into my mouth in a hot, delicious bite.
    If I’ve had food like this before, I can’t remember. It’s peasant fare, simple and cheap, spicy and salty, filling and delicious, and we eat it as such, with no pretensions of daintiness. Geraldine tells me about her courtyard home, which sounds like a dreamy relic of old Beijing, and I confide that Claire’s vast apartment seems icily cold.
    “I think I’ve met your sister,” says Geraldine, selecting a slice of eggplant. “Tall, thin, great clothes…sort of looks like an