Aunt Evelyn and I walked into a sea of circular tables. Overhead, crystal chandeliers sparkled against the painted sky ceiling while cream-colored drapery flanked the French doors leading out into the gardens. Bouquets of powder-blue hydrangeas, white roses, and blush-pink peonies adorned every table alongside ornate gold lantern centerpieces. The couple’s love of yachts and cruises inspired the garlands of miniature international maritime signal flags. The place settings and name cards continued the nautical theme with a ship and anchor design.
Before I could leave Aunt Evelyn’s side, my mother stopped in front of me. I recognized her companion: tall, Chinese, short hair, with a propensity to please. The scent of instant coffee and minty mouthwash clung to his suit. He worked at the family’s firm. William Chang. She planned on setting me up with the new hire in the tax department. I had administered his job interview. Ma’s arrangements had never worked out, but it didn’t stop her from trying.
Aunt Evelyn squeezed my hand. “Ah, Linda! I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked Vanessa to sit with me. It’s been a long time since I last saw her.”
“Evelyn, I had plans to . . . ,” Ma stuttered. “William here is . . .”
My aunt met my eyes. “Right, Vanessa?”
“Yes, Ma. She has questions about how international tax laws will impact the European expansion,” I replied.
“But, but . . .”
“I’m sure there will be plenty of time later,” Aunt Evelyn said as she patted my mother’s arm, guiding me away.
After we were out of earshot, she leaned close. “You can leave anytime. I don’t want you to sit with me unless it’s your choice. My intention was only to steer you away from your mother’s ambush.”
We might have our differences, but I couldn’t deny my aunt’s good heart. She could have left me standing there in Ma’s dating trap and a long evening of awkwardness with William.
“Thank you,” I said, grinning.
“No more talk about that thing we disagree on,” she said. “And you’ll be happy to know that Michael and Jack are sitting with us.”
We arrived at our seats close to the head table. These were better than my original assignment a few rows back. Cynthia had mentioned to me that devising the seating plan was an exercise combining diplomacy and puzzle strategy. Her addiction to candy-themed match-three games made her adept at moving pieces to where they needed to go.
“Jack’s busy setting up the portrait location in the tearoom,” Michael informed us. “I’m afraid he’ll be there most of the night. I’m going to help him round everyone up after the tea ceremony by asking some of your cousins to form a human chain around the bar.” He reached for the open bottle of Shiraz and poured some into my aunt’s empty wineglass. “Your mother is seething in our direction.”
“Please pour the wine,” I replied, offering him my glass.
Aunt Evelyn kept a serene expression, as if listening to a distant sound. She was focused on Edwin’s parents: Ken and Jillian Ngo seated to the left of their son. Nearby, a server wrestled with a wine bottle.
“The glass will break and wine will be spilled, but no one will be injured. The father of the groom will emerge the valiant hero of the night,” she declared.
As soon as the words escaped her lips, the server lost his battle with the bottle. As the magnum slipped from his hands, it landed neck first onto the hard marble floor. The glass shattered, sending red wine and tiny shards toward the Ngos. Ken positioned himself to protect his wife. Wine droplets stained his white dress shirt. A collective gasp reverberated throughout the ballroom.
“My valiant hero!” the mother of the groom exclaimed before she jumped up and kissed him on the cheek.
A roaring applause followed the impromptu dinner show.
Uncle Michael grinned. “Evelyn, you really are a treasure.”
“Thank you,” she laughed. “The real treasure is the coming meal.”
The parade of servers ladened with silver tureens of bird’s nest soup appeared. My aunt and I may have shared the same gift, but her command of it left me with a mixture of awe and intimidation.
Three
The ten courses of a traditional Chinese wedding banquet tantalized the senses and glorified gluttony. Its true purpose wasn’t quantity, but quality, to showcase a variety of ingredients that would satisfy even the pickiest eater. At best, the meal achieved culinary nirvana, and at worst, the quantity of food available guaranteed a full belly. The menu was tailored to the bride and groom’s tastes. The guests were treated to a harmonious marriage in edible form.
“The bird’s nest soup was divine.” I wiped the corners of my mouth with a cloth napkin. “I wonder what the second course is.”
“I’m guessing it’s the requisite barbecued appetizer platter.” Uncle Michael craned his neck toward the kitchen entrance where a stream of servers brought out the next course. The parade of white uniforms stepped in unison and delivered their trays to tables of eager diners. “If the soup is any indication, the rest of the meal should be quite a coup.”
I took a sip of the excellent wine. “Cynthia is one of the biggest foodies I know. She once went out with this horrible guy so she could score early reservations at a new Korean noodle restaurant in LA. The sublime guksu jangguk more than made up for the awful date.”
“The groom is also a foodie. They kept running into each other at the same places. It’s a great match,” Aunt Evelyn added.
I smiled to hide the twinge of wistfulness I had growing inside. Every wedding I attended brought with it the weight of longing, seeing all those around me finding and celebrating a union I could never have. It was heartbreaking torture to express such joy for those I loved, knowing all of the wishes I said were those I wanted myself.
The second course arrived in time to save me from any further discussions regarding my preferred partner. The appetizer platter mixed cold and hot items: marinated spicy jellyfish, sliced drunken chicken, roasted pork belly, pickled bamboo shoots, and radishes. The surprise came in bamboo steamers holding plump char siu buns, one of the Kowloon chef’s treasured specialties.
The white bun with the dimpled top was warm in my hands as I peeled off the paper adhering to the bottom. The tender bread yielded to the sharpness of my teeth. The aroma escaped, a mouthwatering combination of seasoned pork cooked in its juices. The filling combined sweet with a hint of salt. The shredded barbecued pork swam in thick, reddish-brown sauce, but it was the unanticipated bite of the chilies that delighted me. It sent a tingling buzz on my tongue.
“That spicy kick is wonderful, isn’t it?” Uncle Michael remarked, sipping his Shiraz.