Driving away, Dagou agonizes. Hands clutching the wheel, squinting through the tunneling drifts. Tires churning in the snow; around the car, galaxies whirling. Someone was there tonight. Someone was trying to impress her in front of all her friends. Undoubtedly a man, a competitor. He must hold on to her. He must show her who he is, what he can do. And there’s a chance for him, tomorrow, at the Christmas party. All he needs is cash.
Dagou parks the car behind the darkened restaurant. He gallops up the snow-filled stairs, slipping, flailing, almost falling. His key pierces the keyhole. He throws open the door and races through the kitchen, leaving big wet tracks on the floor. He darts into the bedroom, kneels at the foot of the king-sized bed, and digs cold hands under the corner of the faux-fur. There it is, the remainder of his secret stash. It’s a stone in his gut, a secret kept even from James. No one knows, except for Katherine.
He’ll spend it all tomorrow on the Christmas party. He’ll show her at that crucial and momentous event. He’ll show the whole community—Brenda, his father—what a man he can be. Everyone will see that he, Dagou Chao, is the true source of generosity, of power, of magnificence. Kneeling over the remainder of his stash, Dagou understands he must plan the Greatest Christmas Party anyone has ever seen.
DECEMBER 24
A Simple Winter Meal
It’s ten past midnight. Dagou finds his notebook and scans his entries. A perfect, simple winter meal in honor of our closest friends.
How many have said they’re coming? There are the Was, of course—and well, Katherine, because his mother would insist on her—and also Brenda. Brenda must not work that night, but be a guest. Then there are Mr. and Mrs. Chin and their daughters, and Mr. and Mrs. Fan—maybe six more. Plus the hangers-on, like Jerry Stern. Of course they’re coming; they always come, they would be terribly hurt if they ever learned about the party after the fact. Winnie loves outsiders. She believes in reaching out. That makes twenty people. He must invite more of Winnie’s friends, make it more like two dozen, more like thirty. And it will be important to include enough food for a few extras, just in case—imagine if they ran out of food. Imagine if a stranger came, assuming the restaurant was open, and found the place lit up and everyone inside. Would it be right to turn away a hungry stranger on Christmas Eve? To turn away an angel in disguise?
So, dinner for thirty-five, forty people. Dagou flips through his notebook. All of his earlier plans now are meager and uninteresting, except for the fresh ducks brining in the refrigerator. Brenda has never eaten Peking duck. He imagines her biting into the finest, most crackling chestnut skin. Enjoying, in addition, a few banquet plates to keep it company. Cold chicken, and the hollow-hearted greens. Plus the stew he promised Winnie. And chicken. He’s already reserved the chicken, but his mother believes in combining flavors, she believes in many meats. He has promised her seafood—he can go to the seafood truck. For shrimp to accompany. There must be a shrimp dish—shrimp with mounds of diced ginger and scallions, or salted shrimp in the shell—or both, perhaps. Also, a second seafood dish. To serve only shrimp would be petty and small. Shrimp themselves, so very small. What else? Fish, of course—he’s been planning to have fish all along. Soft-shell crab? He imagines how Brenda will glow when he serves platter after platter of soft-shell crab. Of course, she’s never tasted it—he knows this because every bit of Chinese food she’s ever eaten came from his own hands. He imagines her crunching through the crisp shell. But soft-shell crab isn’t in season. He’ll be forced to rely on the seafood truck. Although it’s not from lack of generosity that they won’t have crab, but because he has high standards and will not, simply won’t, use frozen soft-shell crab. Scallops, then. Very large, tender scallops. Will scallops be in season? There’s a moment—only a few weeks—when they’re not available, in the winter. What if they’re not available?
Who will work the kitchen, with JJ and Lulu in California? James will help. O-Lan will help. And there must be someone else. Leo won’t set foot in the restaurant until the party. He must only be impressed. Of course, impressing Leo will require an extreme purchase of liquor. Dagou will figure it out. He knows it’ll work out. Even if it requires desperate measures. It will, it must be done. At this thought, a rushing, cool relief reaches to his fingertips.
At one a.m., he broadcasts the news on FM 88.8. “I’m going to throw the Greatest Christmas Party ever! Six-thirty on Christmas Eve, that’s tomorrow, everyone’s invited! There’ll be liquor and libations! There’ll be unimaginable Chinese specialties! There’ll be high spirits and fellowship and good cheer!”
He spends the rest of the night downstairs in the restaurant kitchen, preparing a strategy for every dish. Checking on the duck. Making quantities of sweet bean paste. His family thinks he’s lazy and disorganized; they don’t know what he can be like when he’s inspired. Every dish will show the community that Dagou is the bigger man and the most gifted cook: stronger, more generous, more enterprising, more forward-facing, the future of the Haven Chao dynasty. For those who notice such things and who have loyalty to give, he’ll be stronger. For those who come only for free food, he’ll provide better.
Shortly before the sun is up, he posts a hand-lettered sign on the restaurant door: CLOSED for private party. Closing the restaurant is the kind of thing Leo Chao never approved unless it was his idea and his party. Dagou tapes the sign with duct tape.
He removes the plow from his Toyota, swaps the Ford for his truck, and drives from one business to the next. In his mind, he’s already in the kitchen, making dinner. He’s not thinking much about the proprietors he’s speaking to, or what they say, or the money he spends.
At six a.m., he’s knocking at the front door of the Shire poultry farm, where everyone has been awake for at least an hour. Dagou pays with a hundred-dollar bill for eight chickens. He’s at the local food coop when the door opens at seven a.m. He purchases, with cash, every stick of asparagus they have, and a quantity of oranges besides. Back at the Fine Chao, he makes gallons of chicken broth. The kitchen windows steam; a delicious smell of broth escapes into the wintry morning when he leaves the restaurant for more shopping.
He’s waiting at the door when Mary Wa arrives to open up the Oriental Food Mart. He shoulders past her into the store with barely a hello. He runs back and forth, consulting his list and piling vegetables on the counter. He piles up baby bok choy, plus package after blocks of noodles, a number of boxes from the freezer section, blocks of pressed tofu, giant bottles of sweet fermented rice concentrate, and pounds of red beans. It’s enough to fill two grocery carts.
“I need you to call the seafood truck,” Dagou says, as he returns to the counter moments later, his arms filled with ginger.
“They won’t come out this far,” Mary says. The truck, which drives fresh seafood up from Louisiana, is generally intercepted in Chicago.
“Make them come this far.”