My dad loved the big Chinese grocery store near the motel. It kind of smelled like roasted char siu and spring onions, but I liked it. My parents insisted 99 Ranch was cheaper than the American grocery stores, but I think they just liked chatting with the butcher in Chinese.
“Tell me more about this shaved ice,” I said. “What flavor are we going to get?”
“Red bean, of course.”
Red bean? I wasn’t sure I wanted any beans in my dessert.
“Don’t you remember?” he asked. “I used to get it for you when you were a kid, and you’d eat it sitting up on my shoulders?” I shook my head, and he chuckled. “Well I remember. The ice would drip on my head! Your mother thought it was so funny.”
I laughed, even though I didn’t entirely remember. “Speaking of Mom, did she return her dress?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah, thank God they let her return it.” He grinned. “Gotta love America!”
It took us forty minutes to get to Monterey Park, and when we did, my eyes boggled at the sight. There were so many Chinese people, all up and down the streets. I’d never seen that many people who looked like me, not even in Mrs. T’s Wednesday classes. And what’s more, all the restaurants were Chinese and even the signs were in Chinese!
“What is this place?” I asked my dad.
“You’ll see.” He smiled, getting out of the car. I scrambled after him, not wanting to get lost in this China outside China.
We went inside a shaved ice place called Lucky Desserts. It had one of those small cat figurines with the waving paw right by the entrance and a large poster of Buddha behind the cash register. I felt like I was stepping into my grandmother’s kitchen or … my imagined version of my grandmother’s kitchen. We left China almost four years ago, I realized. My memories were starting to get as cloudy as the shower doors in the Calivista guest rooms.
“We’ll have two red bean ones!” Dad told the server in Chinese. As the server went to prepare the ices, my dad beamed at me. “You’re gonna love this.”
He drummed his fingers excitedly on the counter. I hadn’t seen him this excited since the time we found a 1972 double-die penny worth $150!
The server presented us with two giant mountains of snow. Wild swirls of red and purple mounds, shaped like little Tic Tacs, rested on top. Excited to dig in, I grabbed a spoon, closed my eyes, and went for it.
The red bean tasted … like mashed potato. Mashed potato in ice. The tiny mounds sat on my tongue like little ladybugs. I made a face as I pushed them around in my mouth.
“What’s the matter? You don’t like it?” my dad asked, shoveling spoonfuls into his own mouth.
I willed myself to take another bite, for his sake, but it went down even worse, and almost came back up. Hesitantly, I shook my head.
“I’m sorry,” I said, putting the shaved ice back on the counter. Gently, I told my dad, “I … I eat ice cream now.”
I gazed up at his face, and the look that stared back made me want to grab the ice and jam it down my throat. But it was too late. He had already seen my true feelings.
“You eat ice cream now,” my dad repeated.
“And chocolate chip cookies,” I added in a small voice.
He nodded and put his own spoon down, as if suddenly, he didn’t feel like eating anymore. As we stared at our two melting ices sitting on the counter, my dad shook his head and said with a sigh, “You and your mom are becoming so Americanized.”
“No …” I started to say, and then stopped. What was wrong with becoming Americanized? “Isn’t that what you wanted?” I asked my dad, looking into his eyes. “I mean, isn’t that why you brought me here?”
My dad gave me a bittersweet smile. “I guess so.… I just hoped …” He sighed again. “I just hoped it would take a little while longer.”
With that, he took the shaved ices and put them in the trash. It was the first time I’d ever seen him throw away food.
On Sunday, I woke up to a crinkly noise beside me. I fluttered my eyelashes open to find a brown-and-silver bag next to my pillow and a note from my dad.
Got you these. Maybe you can bake some cookies with Hank.
Love,
Dad
I grinned. They were semisweet chocolate chips for baking—and not the generic kind, the Hershey’s ones! My dad must have gone out and gotten them after we got back from Monterey Park. I was so glad he wasn’t still mad at me for not liking the red bean shaved ice and even more excited to make cookies for the very first time! I hugged the chocolate chips to my chest.
I’d never baked chocolate chip cookies before, but watching Jason had inspired my own culinary senses. I jumped out of bed and headed to the kitchen. I knew we had an oven, but we barely ever used it. Chinese cooking is usually just done on the stovetop. I opened up the dusty oven door and, sure enough, my mom was using it as an extra cabinet. There were cans of water chestnuts, baby corn, a bottle of soy sauce, and two extra TV remotes from the guest rooms all stashed in there. If anyone had turned the oven on, we would have had melted remote with a side of corn.
I was cleaning everything out when Hank walked into the kitchen. It was Sunday, his day off, and I knew he’d been planning to watch the Star Wars trilogy in his room, but maybe he’d be interested in some cookies to go along with that.
“Hey, Hank! Wanna help me make some cookies?” I held up the bag of chocolate chips.
“Sure!” Hank smiled. He started opening up all the cabinets looking for baking soda, brown sugar, and vanilla—none of which my mom had. We decided to go to the grocery store.
When I followed Hank out to his car in the parking lot, I noticed a sticker on the bumper: Marketing Director of the Calivista Motel.
“Nice!” I said to Hank, smiling and pointing at the sticker.
“Isn’t it great?” Hank asked. “That way I can advertise the motel wherever I go!”
I grinned. Hank really was a marketing genius.
As he drove, we chatted about the customers that had checked in that week. Then he asked me how it went over at Mr. Yao’s on Friday, and I made a face.
“That bad, huh?” he asked as we pulled into the grocery store parking lot.
I gave Hank the play-by-play as he pushed a shopping cart.
“I’m sorry,” Hank said when I’d finished. “He always was a miserable grouch, that guy.” He looked around the store. “All right, what do we need to get here?”
I read the ingredients from the recipe one by one as Hank loaded up the cart. When we were done, we walked back out to the parking lot. That’s when I noticed it. The word IMMIGRANTS was spray-painted along the side of the grocery store, with a thick line through it. Underneath, someone had scribbled the words Go back to your country.
Hank dropped the plastic bag of groceries on the ground and immediately reached over to cover my eyes with his hand. But it was too late; I’d already seen. We walked toward Hank’s car with our groceries trying to remain as calm as we could. The whole time, my heart hammered in my chest. I thought of the words Go back to your country. This was my country!
The sign, however, broadcasted loud and clear that a lot of people didn’t feel that way.