By Ella Song
Art by Liz Nedelescu
Lao Wen woke up every day at 5:00 in the morning to open his restaurant, Happy Lamb, and he had every day since he came to this country. This was partially because there was duck to braise and chili oil to refill and red bean pastries to set and bake. It was also because during his lifetime, he learned that when what you love to do becomes your entire life, it is important to take time dedicated to yourself. He was told it was crucial in order to remain whole.
Once, years ago, his morning hours were spent with Xiao Lin and Mei, but they had not been in the restaurant in years. His shop was located in the Chinatown of an American city full of American people, who sometimes came in and did not expect a menu that served pig's blood soup and steamed pomfret so fresh it seemed to look you in the eye. Instead they wanted that orange chicken dish that they always seemed to swear was the best thing China had to offer. Some left disappointed, but Wen was proud to know that most of his new customers returned.
On a particularly blistery January day, Wen was cutting winter melon for the soup that was most popular with the patrons in the cold months. Happy Lamb had been an establishment for so long that he was accustomed to the expectations of his customers. But what he did not expect was the chime of the door at 5:15 AM, an hour at which he was almost always the only one up.
Wen went up to the front of the shop to tell whoever it was that they weren’t open. To his surprise, a young woman with hair the color of corn silk stood at the host’s stand. She could not have been more than twenty, and her face was covered in tears that dripped upon the ancient mahogany of the teetering desk.
Wen paused. He had always been unsure of how to approach crying women. His now gone wife, Chang Mei, always said that his solution to sadness was food saltier than tears. He missed her at this moment, Mei would know what to say to her.
But Wen reminded himself that Chang Mei wasn’t here anymore, so if he had any hope of helping the young girl he had to pluck up courage and do it himself.
The woman spoke, “Oh. Hello, sir. I'm sorry, I saw the light on and thought you were open. I can come back later.” She smudged her hand against her cheek and began to re-ravel her scarf. Her mouth looked blue.
Wen waved his hand, “No need. I will make winter melon soup. Any allergies, young lady?”
She shook her head, “No, thank you very much.”
He gestured to the counter that faced the kitchen, and she sat.
Once the carrots and winter melon were cut and the broth was hot and savory, the woman began to eat.
“Are you… ok?” He asked, trepidatiously. He was not a big talker, and he’d had no one’s wellness to look after in a while.
She slurped her soup and nodded, “My grandmother… She passed away last week. I lived with her while I took classes at the university. I haven’t been able to sleep very well.”
Wen nodded back. He was not a stranger to grief. A silence passed between them as he thought of what words to offer, and to let her savor the soup for longer. Finally, he spoke.
“I had a son. Xiao Lin. I miss him every day.”
Tears sprung in her eyes,
“Tell me about him.”
Wen ducked his head. No one had asked about Xiao Lin in a long time. It seemed like it had been ages since his laughter filled the hollow walls of the restaurant.
“He was my greatest treasure. He would sit at this counter every morning before school and do his homework. Even when he got too old to be keeping his daddy company, when I knew he wanted to go play ball with his friends. Every morning. He would sit here.”
Loneliness that had not been satiated by time filled Lao Wen’s lungs. Sometimes, sharp memories would float towards him as he worked in the kitchen. When he made Xiao Lin’s favorite roast duck buns for Christmastime in the years soon after his death, the hoisin sauce would splash with tears before he would get a grip on himself and change the plate. When the scent of fried rice wafted from the kitchen, he would think of all the times he had scooped an extra mound into Xiao Lin’s lunch, especially in the years he was frail. For almost half a decade, Happy Lamb stopped serving pea flour cakes, because Chang Mei would always take the dessert with her tea, and every time he was around them Lao Wen’s stomach would twist.
He remembered the exact shape of Xiao Lin when he sat at the counter, the way his hair fell down across forehead. How, when he sat with his head down, he looked exactly like Mei. And now they were both gone.
Grief is a funny thing. Wen wondered if it was worth being whole, and having the luxury of his own time rather than being completed by those he loved.
The woman sniffed, and her wind-reddened fingers brushed her cheek. Her bowl was almost empty. Her name was Marjorie, and she had much more in common with the restaurant owner than either of them realized. Lao Wen did not know that Marjorie had tasted his cooking many, many times before, that she had eaten his famous soy-sauce braised pork belly out of paper takeout cartons. She couldn’t leave her grandmother’s side some nights, so they would split their meals as some old game show would play in the background into the early morning. Her grandmother would forget where she was, or who Marjorie was on occasion, but she never forgot the food she wanted from Happy Lamb. It was the same order every time: pork belly, bean sprouts in cold chili sauce, and salty chicken fried rice. Marjorie thought she would get bored of the same rotation eventually, but now she craved the comfort food in absence of the person who she could no longer share it with.
“I’m sorry you lost Xiao Lin,” she said.
Wen swallowed, blinking fast, “I’m sorry you lost your grandmother.”
The young girl’s mouth trembled, and she did not speak, but Lao Wen understood.
“I will make you more soup,” he said, “And some roast duck buns. They were Xiao Lin’s favorite.”
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