“But I must go back to China. It’s the only place I can learn.”
Liang Yeh was trembling. “Force words. Twist logic. You can go to Chicago.”
“Ba,” said Sam, “you yourself are the one who said a Chinese chef cannot cook in America! Remember? No cuisine here. No audience.”
“That’s true! But you can’t go back.”
“Look, I understand what you went through. It was bad.”
“You don’t understand! I should write it down so you truly do.”
“Yes! You should! Do that! But why can’t you see – whatever it was that happened – the world has changed? It’s never going to turn back to the way it was. Other things might happen, but not that.”
“You know nothing!” his father bellowed. “What if they arrest you? They can do anything!”
“You’re crazy! Why would they arrest me? I’m an American.”
“I am your father! I escaped!”
“Ba, they don’t care. That’s history.”
“You will throw away everything!”
“First of all, you’re wrong. Nothing’s going to happen to me. Second, as for your opinion about my life, you’re wrong there too. I really believe that. I actually feel for the first time that I’m doing something right. I want to go. I’m going.”
“What one thing have I always asked you?”
“Never to return to China. But it doesn’t make sense anymore. I’m sorry.” In that moment his tone changed, no longer arguing, now consoling. He knew what he was going to do.
Liang Yeh felt it. “So you will do this no matter what?”
Sam nodded. “Come,” he said to his father, as he took his arm. “Sit for a while. Let’s have something to eat.”
Now the ribs were ready and Uncle Xie was up. Sam and Songzhao bore him downstairs. Sam saw that Xie’s color was worse. He was the mottled pearl of a turtle’s belly. They positioned him in the middle of the kitchen, nothing but thin, frail bones under the blanket. “Shi ji cheng shu,” he directed, The time of opportunity is ripe. “Quickly!” And Sam cranked off the flame, lifted the lid from the steamer, and released a fragrant cloud.
“Take them out,” Xie quavered. “No, don’t touch them yet. They ought to rest. Ten minutes. Come and sit by me.”
Sam pulled up a stool and sat close beside him. After a time he heard the little car whine up the hill. The three sisters and Maggie came in. The blissful look on Maggie’s face was nice to see. “You seem to have enjoyed it,” he said.
“I loved it,” she corrected him. “They were so nice to me.” And she gave Songan and Songzhe each a squeeze on the arm.
“You’re in time for the ribs.” He used heavy gloves to flip the steamed plate over onto another one. Now the lotus packages, each of which held two succulent pieces of pork rib, were seam side down. “Lotuses are special to Hangzhou,” he said to Maggie.
“I saw them in the lake. Great clumps of them.”
“You should come sometime when they bloom, in midsummer. When you get close to one and smell it, it’s the most surprising thing. The blossom doesn’t smell like a flower at all, it smells camphorated. Like a Chinese medicine shop. But the leaf has its own flavor, which comes out in the cooking.” And he transferred one lotus wrap to a small plate for everyone in the room.
Inside the leaves, the rib meat came away under their chopsticks, rich and lean and long-cooked with a soft crust of scented rice powder. Underneath, the darker, more complicated flavor of the meat, the marrow, and the aromatics. Maggie thought it was wonderful. She ate everything except the rib bones, which she nibbled clean and folded back up, polished, inside the leaf. She wished she could lick the leaf, it was so good – and she wasn’t even hungry. She sent an assessing glance around the room. Songan and Songzhe and Songzhao were eating happily. Songling was slowly, patiently, giving bits of the meat to her father. And then all movement in the room stopped.
Xie’s face was falling in disappointment. “Throw them out,” he said sadly.
Sam swallowed. What was there to throw out? Everyone else had eaten them.
Xie turned his gaze to Songling. She removed his portion and carried it back to the kitchen.
“What’s wrong with it?” asked Sam in Chinese. Everyone sat, uncomfortably silent.
“I will concede that scallions and ginger uplift pork,” said Xie. “They carry its flavor, which is a dark flavor, up and out into the light. This is their function. But this is a dish of refinement! Sophistication and subtlety are what is most important, not the peaks of flavor. Everything must be intelligently stated. Every flavor must be a play on texture, while every texture suggests a flavor. This cannot be accomplished with extremes. Ever. The spicy, the flagrant, the hot – these things will never work.”
“So their flavors were too strong.”
Xie made a small nod. “You can be rustic, but never coarse. Always believe in the intelligence of the diner. Always reward them with subtlety.” His words dissolved into a sharp, spiking cough. Songan patted his shoulder, Songling stroked his hand.
“Baba,” said Songling, “you will tire yourself.”
“Yes, yes.” He bobbled his chin at Sam. “Well? What are you waiting for? Start again!”
Sam exchanged discreet glances with the four siblings; none wanted the old man to be exhausted. They carried him to a quiet corner of the kitchen, leaving the two Americans alone.
Maggie watched Sam turn and draw another package of ribs out of the refrigerator. It was clear to her that the old man didn’t like the ribs. Why? She had vacuumed up her own portion shamelessly after the first bite bloomed in her mouth: lovely, mahogany-deep pork with bright accents of onion and ginger.
“What was wrong?” she said.
“He thought the flavors were too strong.”
“Onion and ginger?”
He sighed over the new row of lean, rosy-fresh ribs. “You noticed.”
“That doesn’t mean I thought it was a problem.”
“He’s right. A meal like this has to be subtle.” He cut with irritated clacks of his cleaver. “I ought to have known that.”
“Well,” she said. She sat listening to the rhythm of his cutting. This was a sound she liked. In time she noticed that the kitchen was a litter of sauces, chopped piles, covered dishes, and used bowls, and she walked to where he was standing. “I think you should move over, Sam. If you could. Make room at the sink. I can’t cook in the slightest. I would never think of trying to help you. But I can wash. I happen to be very good at washing, and there’s a lot of it here. Let me clean up behind you.”
“You can’t do that. You should sit down. You’re a guest.”
“You want me to be relaxed, right? Comfortable?” She waited for his confirming glance. “Then let me help. You’re American. You know visitors like to help.”
“But you could go upstairs – to the room where I’m going to stay tonight. You’ll see my things. It’s quiet. We’ll call you for dinner.”
“Sam. I want to help.”
“Okay.”
His tone was resigned, but she could tell he was glad. She cleared a space on a counter and covered it with towels, then started scrubbing used dishes and bowls and upending them in a pyramid on the towel. When she finished building it, she dried and then started again.
“You’re precise,” he observed, of her stacking.
“So are you,” she said, of his cutting. “You were taught well.” She watched him. “Why’d you start so late?” she said. “I’ve been wondering.”
“Underneath, I think I wanted it too much.”
She upended a clean, dripping enamel basin on the outer flank of her pyramid. “Meaning?”
“Did you ever want something so deeply you were scared to let yourself have it?”