Double Cup Love Page 18

  “Ed…are you listening to yourself? He ran the shop for you for six months and you’re complaining about one day and one week where someone else in the kitchen fucked up. You hold him to a higher standard than yourself sometimes. It’s not fair. You’d never put your whole life into someone else’s project like Evan has with yours, and you know it.”

  “This isn’t just mine. This is our whole family’s story!”

  “Yes, this is our family’s story, but you are telling it! I love the book. I love Baohaus, but would I tell it the same way? No. That doesn’t mean you’re wrong, but you can’t tell it for me. This is your version of our family story.”

  I was embarrassed. When I wrote the book and started the restaurant, I always tried to represent my family in a way they’d be proud of. I thought of what Emery would say, I asked Evan what he thought, I tried to surprise my parents with how well I knew them….I knew I had good intentions throughout, but I was crushed in that moment. I’d forgotten my own maxim: no one or no thing can speak for you, you have to speak for yourself.

  “I gotta make this soup, man. I don’t have time for this fucking shit. You guys don’t like how I represent the family, then I won’t talk about our family anymore.”

  Emery didn’t say a word.

  I started to slice the ginger and kept to myself. Emery almost never helped out in the kitchen. It wasn’t his thing, but with Evan gone he filled in. He didn’t exactly know the dish, but he picked up the pot, cleaned up the cilantro, and did his best to reorganize my ingredients.

  “Thanks, Emery.”

  I thought about adding more chilis than usual to appease Rabbi’s Chengdu tastes, but remembered what Mr. Zheng said about staying true to yourself. Fuck it. My temper got the best of me and I let the chilis go.

  “Hmmm, that’s a lot of chilis, Ed.”

  “That’s what they want! I’m not fighting people anymore. Fuck what I think, just give people what they want. Fucking Chengdu people want to just burn their mouths! Who cares about nuance or the anise or the fucking acid in the tomatoes? You know, I don’t even have to come out here and bring Evan or bring you or understand how Chengdu people feel about Americans cooking their food or care how Mr. Fusco thinks about me. Fuck everyone.”

  “Eddie…Calm down, man. You’re not making any sense right now, and you’re standing in a closet with a stove toasting chilis. Get out of here for a second.”

  “No. I want to make this soup.”

  “All right, well, I’m going outside because I can’t breathe in here, but take it easy….”

  My mom once told me you can’t cook angry. That you’d taste it in the food and just like all her mumbo jumbo about family, I didn’t believe it anymore. All these stupid fucking Chinese proverbs made no sense. First it was that you could taste somebody’s hand in a dish. Then it was that you could taste the anger in a dish. None of it made any sense; I just kept cooking. I seared my ginger, garlic, tossed in the chilis and peppercorns, then started to braise the oxtail, pig’s feet, and tendons. When I opened the soy sauce, I noticed that the local brand was a little flat. They didn’t have the brands I used at the store, so I asked the clerk for his favorite and he pointed me to this saltier, flatter, one-note soy sauce. Regardless, I had to use it.

  A few hours later, I took my first taste of the beef noodle soup, and it wasn’t bad. It had fewer layers because the chilis took over the ginger slightly and the soy sauce wasn’t bright enough. It was different, but not bad. I wanted to see what Rabbi would think.

  “Hey! Ed, you ready to start setting up downstairs?” asked Emery.

  “Yeah, we still have two hours, but let’s get the station set up. Take the two burners and the big pot for noodles, then fill it up with water when you get down there. I have bottled water I left out in the corner.”

  “All right, sounds good.”

  “And then come back up for the sides like pickled mustard green, cilantro, scallions, chili oil.”

  “All right….”

  “And…”

  I stopped myself. I’d already driven Evan to quitting, so I pulled back just before I was about to set Emery off. Before I packed everything up to go down, I mixed a little Chinkiang vinegar and fresh chili to dip the pig’s feet in if people wanted to pull it out of the soup and enjoy it that way. Downstairs, Emery had it all going. Butane burners were set up, noodle water was boiling, and he had all my utensils. I don’t think Emery had been that helpful since the ’80s.

  “I did good, huh, Ed?”

  “Thanks, Emery, I appreciate it, dude.”

  “No problem, brudder, we’ll have fun.”

  “Yeah, we will.”

  “Hey, I went back to my room for a second and Evan was there. He was wondering if he could come eat later. He definitely still wants to quit, but he feels bad. And I think it’s fucked up if he has to go eat somewhere else by himself tonight, ya know?”

  “He can come eat, just tell his fake ass not to come talk to me.”

  “All right,” said Emery warily.

  We stood there in silence for a good ten minutes just stirring water aimlessly, watching it boil, bringing the soup back up to temp, and tossing cilantro to pass time like they were rosary beads.

  “Did you call Mr. Fusco yet about Dena?”

  “No. Who cares what he thinks?”

  “What do you mean, man?”

  At that moment Rabbi rolled up. He was about thirty minutes early.

  “Hey man! Wassup!”

  “Ehhh, just hangin’ out.”

  “I thought this beef noodle soup party, you guys look bummy.”

  Neither of us said anything for a moment, but then Emery spoke up.

  “Rabbi, did Eddie tell you one of the big reasons why he’s here in China?”

  “Yeah, to learn Chengdu food and see what we thinks about you ABC, ha ha.”

  “He’s also proposing to his girlfriend here.”

  “WHAT? Player down! This is cool, man! Why you decide this, Eddie?”

  “I was just flying over Mongolia a few weeks ago, and it hit me. She’s the one.”

  “Eddie, man….I have to tells you. You talking about ‘the one’ and you standing in front of beef noodle soup, but you sound like shit, bro. What’s wrong?”

  “I got in an argument with Evan. He quit working with me today.”

  Rabbi laughed.

  “Big deal! He quit helping you with beef noodle soup one day, that’s why you have two brother. He be back tomorrow.”

  “I think he’s gone for good this time, man.”

  “Still…he stop working with you is one thing. He is still your family. And you have girlfriend coming soon, that is your new family. Nothing actually lost here. Plus…you have BEEF NOODLE SOUP. I want to try a bowl. Come on, man!”

  In an effort to please our customer, Emery dropped the noodles into the still-not-boiling water.

  “Ahhh, did you drop the noodles?” I asked.

  “Yeah! Rabbi said he wants a bowl.”

  “All right…I guess we can let it go. Water’s been heating up for a while.”

  “I think this is as hot as it’s gonna get, Ed, it’s been heating for thirty minutes.”

  Our butane burner at Hakka Homes was stupid weak and meant for hot pot. Even with a really small pot of water for noodles, it had trouble getting to the right temp. After a couple minutes, I could tell it wasn’t going to work.

  “Emery, pull the noodles, it’s not hot enough.”

  He pulled out the noodles looking like a wet wig all stuck together.

  “Gross, man.”

  “Damn, Eddie, I hope you don’t serve like this in America,” said Rabbi.

  “Gimme a second, Rabbi, you’re early! I gotta get this water to temp.”

  Emery dumped out the noodles and stared back at the water.

  “Emery, we gotta take more water out of the pot. It’s not going to boil with that much water.”

  “But the starch is going to build up if th
ere’s less water.”

  “I know, that’s why you just gotta batch cook. I’ll give you a little oil to toss the noodles, but we have to get ahead and batch cook, then reboil water.”

  “OK.”

  Nothing seemed to be working. Something as simple as boiling noodles became complicated because we could only boil three orders of noodles at a time before having to reboil the water.

  “Ed, you should call Evan. We’re going to need help setting the tables and taking the money if I’m doing the noodles like this.”

  He was right. We did need Evan, but I didn’t care.

  “Don’t worry about it, I’ll do the noodles, you just set the tables and take money. I can do noodles and soup.”

  About twenty minutes later, our first good bowl of noodles came out.

  “Finally….Here you go, Rabbi.”

  I dropped one piece each of oxtail, pig’s foot, and tendon in his bowl with a slice of braised tomato and spinach as well.

  “WOW! This is real Taiwanese beef noodle soup. We don’t see this much.”

  Crawfish Zheng showed up.

  “Hey! Xiao Ming, you already serving?”

  “Yeah, eight P.M., just like you said!”

  “Ha ha, all right, not bad. I can start my shift with a bowl of soup. I usually just get here at eight P.M.”

  Zheng’s wife rolled up with all his stuff on a cart.

  “Damn, you wheel everything here every night? I thought you’d have storage somewhere.”

  “Nope, every night, we wheel it in. Storage is expensive!”

  “Wow, Eddie, this Taiwanese beef noodle soup is awesome! I like very much, just enough spicy, too. Last time I eat your red-cook pork, I like the bitter melon best because pork not spicy enough, but this time beef noodle very good.”

  “Man, Rabbi, you like anything spicy,” I said, laughing.

  “Yes, this Chengdu way! But this soup, I think Taiwan does better. I like how you use the anise and tomato. I think if you sell this in Chengdu very success. You would need to call Taiwanese beef noodle soup, though, and let people know. Even though spicy, flavor still much different than Chengdu beef soup.”

  Emery took a sip of the soup.

  “Wow, that’s spicy, man. It’s good but spicy.”

  “You like it?”

  “Yeah. Definitely different than Mom’s, but I like it.”

  After giving Zheng a bowl, he chimed in as well.

  “Hmmm, Xiao Ming, this is very good. Compared to the Taiwanese beef noodle soup I’ve had in Shanghai, it is spicy, but I see you did that for Rabbi. Besides the chili, it is balanced and after that initial sting, it really settles down and shows all the components. I like it very much!”

  People started filing in one by one. Friends of ours, friends of Rabbi’s, Hakka Heather, and even an English fan of the show who saw our photo on Instagram and came by with a handwritten piece of paper saying: “EDDIE LOVE BABY.”

  “EDDIE LOVE BABY!” screamed the English fan with his wife in tow.

  “Do you know this guy?” asked Emery.

  “Nah, but the love is mad real.”

  Rabbi and all the other Chinese people seemed bugged out by the exuberant Englishman, but he did have an Asian woman with him that seemed to temper the apprehension. At least one of us understood this man.

  “EDDIE LOVE BABY, this is my wife! Lifelong Chengdu native, love of my life who saw on Instagram today you were here and we LITERALLY, I mean LITERALLY just left my brother’s wedding to come see you. I said ‘BABY, I got to see EDDIE LOVE BABY if it’s the last thing I fucking do.’ This is the realest man on the planet. He eats fucking PENIS LOVE POPSICLES in Taiwan, he rides the fucking BANG BUS, he defends the rights of slaughtered white rabbits, fuck, I love you EDDIE LOVE BABY, and I come bearing gifts. I have this tallboy for ya here, I got the sign, and we’re buying noodles!”

  “Dude, you left your BROTHER’S wedding to come eat beef noodle soup?”

  “It was the reception, man, the real shit was already over, plus, IT’S YOU! IT’S EDDIE LOVE BABY!”

  As this Englishman whose name I can’t remember kept pouring out his love for me, from the right corner of my eye, I saw Evan walk over with his head halfway down, trying not to make waves with his arrival. Just then, the Englishman popped open a tallboy.

  “EDDIE LOVE BABY! HERE’S TO YOU! CHEERS!”

  And he proceeded to pour beer down his chin, his shirt, and the floor.

  “Hai, baby, maybe you should let Eddie cook?” said his wife shyly.

  “What are you talking about, it’s not Eddie, it’s EDDIE LOVE BABY! He’s a fucking genius! He cooks with his eyes closed and his hands behind his back!”

  “I actually don’t, bruh. I can’t even boil noodles today.”

  “Lemme back there! I’ll give you a hand, EDDIE LOVE BABY!”

  Emery was out talking to our friends, so the Englishman made a move toward the noodles. Just as he was about to park himself next to me, Evan cut in.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, no worries, LOVE BABY! I got it, I got it. Take a seat, man, noodles are on us tonight.”

  “They are not! I’m a paying customer. I came to pay my respects to EDDIE LOVE BABY!”

  “Dude, it’s on us. I insist! Take a seat, drink the beer, noodles on us, I insist. You left your brother’s wedding for this. You’re gonna regret it the rest of your life.”

  “What are you talking about? This is the best day of my life! I even brought my book for you to sign, EDDIE LOVE BABY!”

  Englishman finally took a seat, and Evan manned the noodles.

  “You batch cooking these?” he asked.

  “Yeah, man.”

  “Cool, I got it.”

  I always said, if I wanted to talk about socioeconomics and existentialism, I’d call Emery. But if I was playing sports or double dating, I’d call Evan.

  Add cooking to Evan’s column. All these years, I took it for granted that there wasn’t another person in the world who could step in and cook right next to me like Evan, not even my mom.

  “Can I try the soup, Ed?” asked Evan.

  “Yeah, here’s a spoon.”

  Evan took the wooden spoon, dug from the middle of the pot, drained some oil off and took a sip.

  “Eh?”

  He made a Jeff Van Gundy face. That not completely satisfied, not completely appalled, but absolutely completely torn about how to respond.

  “It’s different. It’s not your normal beef noodle soup.”

  Even more than my mom’s, Evan knew my soup. In a lot of ways, he grew up on my beef noodle soup. I didn’t tell him what I did, holding out hope that maybe he would like it better than the soup he was used to.

  “Just tell me what you did, numbnuts. It’s not as good!”

  “Fine! I put more chilis in ’cause you quit and I got mad! And this Chengdu soy sauce fucking sucks. Try it!”

  I had all my ingredients with me under the table and gave Evan the soy sauce to try.

  “Eck. It’s that cheap, flat, salty soy sauce. I don’t even know what people use that shit soy sauce for.”

  “I know, man, this soup sucks….Rabbi likes it, though.”

  “Who cares if Rabbi likes it, he doesn’t know what Taiwanese beef noodle soup is supposed to be like. He’s a white person! If you put hot sauce on it, he likes it. Whiteness is EVERYWHERE!” Evan said, laughing.

  “Ha ha, naw, Rabbi really knows Chengdu food, but you’re right. That motherfucker loves hot sauce.”

  I needed Evan. He remembered my soup, even when I’d lost it. You meet new people like Rabbi or Mr. Zheng and they mean well. They give you their honest feedback telling you it’s pretty good, like someone saying Michael Jordan was pretty good if they only saw him play for the Wizards. But Evan was the one person that could come out of the stands screaming, “I saw this motherfucker drop six threes on the Blazers in the ’92 Finals and shrug it off ’cause he wasn’t even a three-point shooter!”

  “You’re missi
ng the brightness, man, and the acid. The tomatoes are muted because the chili overpowers them, and the soy sauce blows.”

  I got to work.

  “Hey! Eddie, this is my friend, Tim! Taiwanese b-boy, he is here to try the soup,” said Rabbi.

  “Sorry, Tim! It’s nice to meet you, but gimme a few minutes. Maybe have some of Zheng’s crawfish first? I gotta tweak this soup.”

  “Oh, OK, no problem,” said Tim, confused.

  “What happened? That soup was good, man!” said Rabbi.

  “No, it wasn’t, it’ll be even better,” said Evan. “Just watch.”

  I started a new pot of aromatics. Garlic, scallions, dry chilis, peppercorns, and—this time—fresh chilis. It was something I’d never done before but figured out on the fly. Fresh chilis allowed me to add more bone stock, maintain the spice level for Rabbi, but also bring some fresh acid and brightness to the dish. To counteract the dull soy sauce, I snuck in a nugget of rock candy and increased the amount of ginger. Meanwhile, I boiled some fresh tomatoes in the beef stock to fortify that. After simmering for a good twenty-five minutes, it was all ready.

  “OK! Taste it now.”

  Evan took his spoon, ladled it carefully, and took a sip.

  “Damn….”

  “What? ‘Damn’ good or ‘damn’ bad?”

  “Damn….”

  “Evan, what do you mean?”

  “Son….”

  “Don’t hold out on me!” I screamed with a wooden spoon in my hand.

  “That’s so good. Even better than before. It’s like the first time Mom added tomatoes to the beef noodle soup and set it off. Combining the dry red chilis with the fresh chilis is genius. Now there are two types of heat and two types of acid plus the little bit of sugar carrying it all even further.”

  “I always thought you either use dried chilis or chili oil or chili paste or fresh chilis, but each one is different. I thought about ma po tofu and how Mom uses five different types of chili to create one chili flavor, and did it to the soup!”

  “Man. Mom is gonna be so pissed,” said Evan.

  “Nah, Mom’s gonna be proud,” I responded.