I pulled out my chair, used a napkin to wipe the smear of grease off the plastic-covered upholstery, and sat down.
My baby sister, Julie, patted my hand under the table. All right for her. My brother-in-law, Pete, was half-Chinese. When he’d joined us for yum cha that first time, there’d been no need for her to upskill him on all the traditions, the expectations. That was half the battle right there. And of course, when baby Kinsa had come along, my parents had promptly turned to congee and the deal was done.
Fin crouched next to the highchair. “Hello again, young lady!” he said, letting the baby grab his index finger. He waggled it a bit, shaking my niece’s chubby arm and making her giggle before taking the seat next to me.
“So Finlay, Lucy tells us you’ve never been to yum cha before,” my mother said, while I twirled the lazy Susan a full circle, pouring green tea for everyone.
“Not here, but I’ve been a couple of times.” Fin rattled off the names of a couple of swanky European-styled eateries serving dim sum.
My mother nodded and took a cup of tea off the turntable. “Jade Garden is much better. More authentic,” she said. “Is there any dish you particularly like?”
Fin shook his head. “Fish, beef…whatever you choose is fine with me. I’m not fussy.”
My sister tutted. She placed a prawn cracker on the plastic tray for Kinsa.
“We’ll get a selection,” my mother said.
Dad was already ordering up a storm. Dishes of prawn rice-noodle rolls, fried taro dumplings, pork ribs, roast duck and stuffed eggplant were all but thrown onto the table, each server stamping the bill like a judge with a gavel.
“Dad, that’s enough,” I said when we could barely see the tablecloth through the plates. “We’ll never get through all these dishes.”
My mother raised her eyebrows.
I pretended not to notice. Yes, my parents could afford it; it wasn’t the point. In parts of the world, people were starving; there was no need for all this excess.
“We should order the chicken feet, though, Norman,” my brother-in-law said.
My head whipped up. I felt my shoulders tense.
Across the table, Pete looked at me, his eyes twinkling like it was a great joke.
“Yes, yes, chicken claws,” my mother said. “I almost forgot. They’re very good here. Fin might like to try them, Norman.”
I wanted to scream. Did we have to do this every time I bought someone to yum cha?
Except Fin wasn’t just anyone, and my family knew it.
It was too late, anyway; my father was dutifully hailing the server. Trundling over with her trolley, she parked alongside us and lifted the lid off the dish, releasing a billow of steam. As the white cloud dissipated, the dish of twice-cooked claws emerged. Plumped and gelatinous, they were arranged lengthwise on a bed of salty black bean sauce.
Leaning in to take a look, Fin almost pulled a face—the one you make when you step on something unpleasant in the street—but then his nearly-grimace vanished and he smiled.
“Chicken feet,” Pete announced, helping himself to one.
“They’re sometimes called phoenix claws,” my sister added. “You should try them. They’re very good.”
“Good luck, too,” Pete quipped, licking his lips. “Often served at weddings…” He let the sentence hang.
“Fin, you don’t have to,” I insisted. “Not everyone likes them; they’re a bit of an acquired taste. An unusual texture.”
All around the table, the family’s eyes were glued on him.
“Of course, I want to try one.” Fin reached out and seized a slimy claw in his chopsticks. His chopstick-handling experience was limited, so it took him two goes to grasp one, but eventually he popped it into his bowl.
“Eat, eat,” my mother said.
Dad lifted his bowl and mimed eating.
Kinsa rapped on her plastic tray table with a spare chopstick.
My sister reached out to stop her.
I held my breath.
Fin lifted the morsel above his head, the fat claws dangling. “I’m not sure exactly how I’m supposed to…”
“Aileen!”
“Lynn, Rhys!” exclaimed my mother. She pushed her chair back.
With a chorus of plastic squeaks, we all stood as my father’s former business colleague and his wife passed by the table, the older generation blocking the aisle with their how are yous, and, it’s been too long. All work, work, you know? How are the children? Yes, Kinsa’s Julie’s girl. Twenty-one months already. So lucky: the children bring us so much joy…
“And this is Lucy’s friend, Fin,” Mum said finally. She gestured across the table.
“Oh,” Lynn said.
Missing Lynn’s pitying look, Fin wiped his face and hands with a napkin, then leaned over and shook Rhys’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Boy’s a plumber,” Dad said. “Runs his own business.”
Rhys cocked an eyebrow. “Handy to know,” he replied, releasing Fin’s hand.
“Eat, eat, please,” Lynn said at last, a signal that they were moving on. There were the usual exhortations to please join our table, but Lyn and Rhys insisted friends were expecting them on the other side of the restaurant.
When they’d gone, we sat down and replaced our napkins on our laps.
Where were we? Everyone looked at Fin.
“Well? How was your chicken foot?” Pete said.
Fin nodded. “It was great. Really tasty.”
There was silence. Everyone expected more.
Fin pushed his tongue into his cheek, creating a lump. “Um… the black beans definitely gave them some bite,” he said.
“Have another one,” Pete said. The bloody traitor. I glowered at him.
“No, thanks,” Fin said cheerfully. “I should probably leave some room for one of these yummy egg tartlets.” He reached over and picked one up with his fingers, popping it straight in his mouth.
“Did you catch the game yesterday?” Pete said.
His mouth chock-full of eggy custard, Fin took a moment to reply. “A bit of a nail-biter, wasn’t it?” he said finally. He brushed a flake of buttery pastry off the tablecloth.
“More rice, Kinsa?” Mum said.
And just like that, Fin had passed the family chicken-foot litmus test. I couldn’t believe it’d been so easy.
* * *
It wasn’t until Tuesday morning, when I got around to doing the washing and found the remains of the claw in the pocket of Fin’s jeans, that I realised I’d been kidding myself. You didn’t blend two cultures without some conflict, no matter how progressive and modern you thought you were.
I’d been sorting the laundry slung in the basket at my place, checking his pants’ pockets for stray packets of tissues, after that last time when my entire wash had been inundated with tiny fluffs of grey paper and I’d had to run the rinse cycle again—twice. I drew my hand back quickly, puzzled at the slick wetness, but Fin wasn’t there to ask, so I had no choice but to thrust my hand into the denim a second time. I drew out the parcel. Partially wrapped in its Jade Garden napkin, the chicken claw was still plump and gooey. Grey and slug-like. It smelled like roadkill.
Startled, I dropped it on the floor. Stepped back and stared at it.