Kitchen Chinese by Ann Mah Read Free Book Online Page B

Asian Nicole Kidman?”
    The thought has never occurred to me, but now that she’s mentioned it, I realize that Claire and Nicole Kidman are a cross-racial ringer for each other.
    “Yep, that’s her.” I help myself to another scoop of tofu and try to think of how I can change the subject. It’s not that I want to avoid talking about my sister, I’m just not sure I have much to say. In the weeks that we’ve lived together, I’ve watched Claire whirl from work, to cocktail parties, to art openings, to charity benefits, to dinners with clients and colleagues. Her phone rings constantly, heralding laughing conversations that are peppered with “darling,” and her bedroom sees more clothing changes than the fashion tents at Bryant Park.
    She’s always inviting me to go with her, and I did once, tagging along to a cocktail party hosted by one of her friends. From the moment the elevator doors opened directly into the duplex penthouse apartment, I felt uncomfortable. When I went to lay my handbag in the guest room, my knockoff Miu Miu looked decidedly forlorn next to its couture counterparts. In the living room, the conversation revolved around charity balls and overnight jaunts to Hong Kong.
    “But you have no reason to go!” exclaimed Vanessa, a tall Chinese woman with jutting cheekbones. She entwined her arm around her Italian boyfriend, Marco.
    “Oh, but I’d love to see Hong Kong!” I exclaimed.
    “We don’t go to sightsee,” she reassured me. “We go for Botox!” She laughed and her face remained immobile.
    I glanced at my sister, but she seemed more amused than surprised—or maybe she’d had one too many treatments herself. Ten minutes later I told Claire I wasn’t feeling well and left. Icouldn’t explain that the party made me feel even more isolated than staying at home. Lately, I’ve been dodging her invitations and hiding out in my room.
    Across the table, Geraldine regards me with a hint of sympathy in her clear eyes. “Hm. Living with Claire must be—” She hesitates, then seems to change her mind. “I know moving to Beijing can be really scary, Isabelle,” she says. “So if you need anything, please don’t feel shy about asking me.”
    “Thanks.” And suddenly, sitting in the litter-strewn restaurant, with Chinese voices rumbling around me and my belly filled with warm food, I begin to relax, despite the heads that still turn around to stare.

Street Food
    “Peking street food stalls and hawkers supply substantial snacks, such as steamed buns, plain or stuffed with meat, baked sesame cakes, oily spring onion cakes, deep-fried bean curd triangles or squares, and roasted sweet potatoes, which are more popular in the winter…Unless you are an early riser, you run the risk of them having been sold out before you get to the street corners where they are sold.”
    — YAN-KIT SO, CLASSIC FOOD OF CHINA
    W atch out,” whispers Lily as I slip behind my desk at the office. “Da Wang is in a bad mood this morning.” After a month at the magazine, I’m already familiar with Ed’s volatile moods, which can slip from jovial to irate at the sight of a typo. The staff calls him Da Wang, or Big King, behind his back, and, indeed, visiting his office is a little like being a royal consort: you’re either fondled and adored—or your head is chopped off.
    I lean under the desk to turn on my computer, and as I struggle to my feet, Ed looms over my desk looking pointedly at his watch. “How nice of you to turn up this morning.” I try not to cringe at the ooze of sarcasm. “All right, mates,” he roars. “Meeting now!”
    After we’ve settled ourselves in the conference room, he snaps,“Let’s hear some ideas!” I glance discreetly around the table. Lily seems absorbed in examining her new manicure, magenta with pale pink heart decals. Gab is nursing a hangover, his skin sallow, eyes bloodshot, probably the product of another eardrum rattling night hanging out post-set with his favorite