Before I can exhort him for a story, Lim storms in from the back entrance. As much as Ah-Jeff is kind and gentle, Lim is all fire and energy. Even with the no-socialising policy, I know Lim spends most of his days off—not to mention evenings—drinking and gambling. He’s married, but his wife is older than he is, and they have no children. When Ma used to come to the restaurant, she whispered awful things about Miss Chen and Lim in the storeroom together. I can’t judge if they were true or not, but no one besides Ma ever talked about it.
‘It’s still so hot out there,’ Lim complains as he flings his coat onto one of the benchtops. His eyes bug out when he spots me. ‘Aiyo! Is that Chiu Ginping?’
‘She doesn’t like to be called that,’ Ah-Jeff reprimands. ‘You know those modern girls—they prefer English.’ My face is on fire and I really regret saying anything about my given Chinese name.
‘Ohhh.’ Lim nods knowingly and then turns away from me. ‘Hey, so Wong called me. He says the RSL is very busy. They’ve got the Chinese tour buses stopping every day and can’t keep up with demand! They want more chefs and the money is good. What do you think? Worth thinking about, yeah?’
Ah-Jeff doesn’t answer. I’m shocked. I can’t believe my dad’s head chef is planning a mutiny right in front of my face. I should say something. But the words and courage don’t come to me.
The other workers are filing in, so the topic is quickly dropped. The staff that recognise me greet me with a nod and kind words. Some ask after my mother and siblings. No one seems to question what I’m doing there. It feels so natural, like home.
Before lunch service, I take my spot at the spring roll and grill station. Unlike a lot of other local Chinese restaurants, we hand-make all of our spring rolls and wontons rather than getting frozen ones from the supplier. That means rolling and stuffing literally hundreds of parcels and rolls every week.
I go to the fridge for heads of cabbage, then grab a giant knife and a mandolin and start shredding. When I first started in the kitchen, I was terrified of julienning the tips of my fingers, but now I’m hardly even looking as I pass the quarters of cabbage through the sharp blade.
‘You are working fast, Anna.’ Ah-Jeff watches me.
‘Not too fast, or there will be hardly anything left for the rest of us,’ I hear Lim grumble under his breath. The venom in his voice is unmistakable.
As we get fully into prep, I watch Lim work out of the corner of my eye. He looks uneasy churning the wok. His grip is weak and his wrist lacks the power that Big Wong or even Baba once had. I question Baba’s decision to make him head chef. Surely he could have found someone better?
‘Anna, how’s the school going? Are you getting good marks?’ It’s Lim’s turn to step in as concerned pseudo parent, and I’m pretty sure it’s for my dad’s benefit, as he’s standing within earshot.
‘Of course she’s getting good marks,’ Ah-Jeff chimes in. ‘Lou5 Baan2 always says his daughters are top-notch.’ Lim ignores this. ‘Are you on holiday? Break? No assignments, right?’
‘I have an English essay. I have to tell them what Shakespeare wrote,’ I say.
Baba looks alarmed. ‘You didn’t tell me this, Anna. Are you sure you should be here? You know grades come first,’ he scolds.
‘It’s okay, Baba. I brought it with me.’ He doesn’t look convinced.
Lim is still sucking up to Baba. ‘English is so important. Big Wong, his English isn’t so good, so he can only communicate with the wok. Not like me!’ I can’t believe he’s trying to prove he’s better than his predecessor, even though he’s thinking of leaving.
‘Some of us know not to communicate with fools who waste their time.’
That’s Old Yuan, putting Lim in his place.
Lim huffs a little and turns back to his wok. Old Yuan gives me a wink and returns to dicing veggies. He wields the knife with strong, wide strokes, like a feverish painter. He’s so fast, I never even see the blade hit the board and only hear the tuktuktuktuk as it falls, faster than my heartbeat. Yuan is a man of few words, but he knows how to make them count.
Diners start to trickle in for lunch, mostly after our eight-dollar specials. Miss Chen lines the orders up on the board. ‘Two egg drop soup. One spring roll.’
As service kicks off, we focus on the tasks at hand. I work deliberately, methodically, barely stopping to mop the sweat from my brow.
‘You work hard, Anna,’ Ah-Jeff says hours later, after service is finished. ‘You have your father’s diligence.’
I beam with pride. It’s nice to feel like part of the team. To be treated like an actual adult.
My father interrupts my moment. ‘Anna! I have to go to a meeting. You stay out of trouble,’ Baba barks. ‘Do your schoolwork. You can use my office computer.’
So much for being an adult.
8
Baat3
‘Anna, where’s your father?’ Miss Chen pops her head into Baba’s office. She is holding one of her cloth napkins, this one in the shape of a swan—a fancier fold for dinner service.
I look around. Baba’s desk is littered with papers and accounting books. There’s no space, so I’m cradling my copy of Macbeth against my knees, making notes in the margins.
‘I don’t know. I think he went to meet with a supplier?’
She shakes her head. ‘There’s a boy here, for the delivery job. You should talk to him.’
‘Me?’ I squeak.
She raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re the boss’s eldest daughter. Aren’t you going to take over the business some day?’
I shiver a bit at the thought. Baba and I haven’t ever discussed anything like this. I often wonder whether, if I had been a boy, Baba would have worked harder to train me as an heir apparent, teaching me the business and taking me along to meetings and things. Maybe he’s waiting for Michael to get older, or maybe he doesn’t care and is happy to sell the restaurant off to the highest bidder when he’s finally ready to give it up. I never know what Baba thinks or feels, whether he’s happy or sad, excited or disappointed. Mostly, I think it’s the latter.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ I tell her.
‘Go talk. What, you never interview a boy before?’ Miss Chen scrutinises me from behind thick metal specs. Her hair is neatly permed, although I can see that the curls hang limply. It’s like she’s stepped out of a 1930s Shanghai gangster movie. I can’t interpret the expression in her heavily-done-up eyes, but it’s something between nosiness, maternal care and bemusement.
Our huge dining room is eerily dark and empty; Baba prefers to switch off the lights and fans between services to save energy. I shuffle to the counter.
The boy is off to the side, staring at our aquarium, so I don’t see him at first. He’s tall and super thin, his white legs poking out like matchsticks from his cargo shorts. I think he’s only a bit older than me.
‘Um, hi,’ I call from behind the counter. He doesn’t hear me, and I try again. ‘Hello!’
The boy turns, and I get a look at his face. Pale skin, nose a bit too big. His brown hair flops buoyantly when he moves, some of it falling over his eyes.