Three Brothers
Wanted love, needed work. Saw an ad in the Job Mart and answered it. Wanted, it read: Dim Sum Cook. Must have experience, good health, and must prepare such dishes as: Chak Slu Bow, Shrimp Har Gau and Stuffed Duck Feet.
I’d lived in China, worked in China, cooked in China for four years. I was the woman who knew Dim Sum cookery like the back of her tatooed hand; Stuffed Duck Feet was my specialty. I read the ad again - $495 a week, 1-1/2 for overtime - and prepared myself to meet the Three Brothers.
I showered, shaved my ruined head and put on my finest kung fu jacket. I slipped my powdered feet into soft-soled shoes and called for a cab. The driver was a young man with an air of exuberant confidence. Dark brown hair curled around the back of his ears. From the rear-view mirror I studied his eyes, twinkling eyes the color of ginger. When they turned their attention to me, I read their meaning. “Whaddaya think?” I said. “I’m just some ugly kind of man? Listen,” I said, “under all this cloth, I’m not so bad.”
I explained about Chinese tradition, Dim Sum cookery and the Three Brothers. Which explained, I said, my need to disguise myself as a man. He laughed and I thought: I could learn to love a man who at least pretended to understand. He said his favorite dish was Shrimp Har Gau. I said, when we get to Three Brothers, wait.
Brother One bowed, admired my shoes and introduced Brother Two who took me on a tour through the kitchen. There Brother Three, knees bent, leaned over the sink dicing beans. “Does she type?” asked Three, scrutinizing my suit most displeasurably.
“I’ve lived in your country,” I said. “I understand your customs. I make a tremendous Wu Gork, a really tangy Shrimp Har Gau.”
Three stopped dicing. “Must have PowerPoint,” he told Two.
“Forget overtime,” I said. “I love family business. Who needs overtime? Beef Meat Ball? Very delicious. I cook any Dim Sum you want. Are there other applicants?”
One turned and threw open the back door. Eight bald women dressed in fine kung fu jackets lined against a brick wall. The air stunk of decay and dog manure. Hunger growled in my throat, gnawed at my bones; my knees buckled to the floor. In the process of collapse, I promised to take dictation. One shut the door.
The fresh smell of Three Brothers slowly crept back to my nose. Fresh bok choi, scallions, pea pods; a savory pot of vegetable soup simmered on the stove.
The cabbie said his name was Tommy Grace. He took me to a costume shop where I bought some hair. He offered free love, free dope and free faith. He believed in Life with a capital L, and radial tires. Also, he said, he was not opposed to big tips.
He spent the night.