Chinese New Year had always been an occasion Derrick enjoyed, not only for the cultural spectacle but for the unparalleled cuisine that came with it. Unfortunately, piloting a private aircraft meant his schedule followed the whims of the CEO he worked for, and this year, those whims had stolen him away from the festivities.
As he stepped into the warmly lit restaurant, a bell chimed above the door. The aroma of Sichuan peppercorns, star anise, and wok-fried garlic wrapped around him in welcome. It wasn’t quite the same as being in the heart of Shanghai or Beijing, where the streets bustled with vendors selling skewers of cumin-crusted lamb and delicate soup dumplings, but this place had the right feel. Small, intimate, owned by a family rather than a pushing out Americanized puke bucket entries commonly referred to as Panda Express.
A waitress greeted him in Mandarin, which he returned fluently, much to her pleasant surprise. He had learned enough through his travels to converse with ease, and it always delighted him to see the reactions on strangers' faces.
The tea arrived first—jasmine, delicate and fragrant. Derrick took a slow sip, letting the warmth chase away the exhaustion from the long flight.
When the xiaolongbao arrived, each dumpling was resting on a piece of cabbage, their delicate skins stretched taut over the broth within. He picked one up carefully with his chopsticks, dipping it into black vinegar and ginger before biting a small hole to let the steam escape. The rich, gelatinous pork broth burst onto his tongue, and he closed his eyes, savoring the depth of flavor. It was good—exceptional, even—but not quite the same as what he had eaten in Shanghai, where the broth was silkier, and the dough was impossibly thin.
Then came the Peking duck. The server expertly sliced it tableside, arranging the pieces beside delicate pancakes, julienned scallions, and a dish of hoisin sauce. The skin cracked audibly, the rich duck fat melting against his tongue, followed by the sweetness of the hoisin and the sharp bite of the scallions.
It was excellent, far better than the greasy, over-sweetened versions served in Westernized establishments. But still, it lacked the theatricality of Beijing’s famed roast duck houses, where the chefs carved entire birds with practiced elegance, their cleavers barely making a sound.
The fried rice came last, the simplest yet possibly the most satisfying. Stir-fried with garlic, salt, leftover rice, and fresh eggs, it retained the vibrant color and crisp texture he’d grown to love. Derrick took a bite, nodding in approval. This, at least, was nearly identical to what he had eaten countless times in China, proof that some dishes required nothing more than good ingredients and technique.
As he finished his meal, Derrick leaned back slightly, rolling his shoulders. This was what his soul had been craving, the taste of something homemade with care and pride and not an imitation to feed the masses for pennies on the dollar. He checked his watch, still early enough for a walk through the city, to soak in the last remnants of the holiday before the decorations were taken down.
A soft chime announced the arrival of the bill, and Derrick paid without hesitation, leaving a tip worth half the cost of his meal. This would be a restaurant to return to and to have service that matched the exquisite food was rare but worth it. The waitress thanked him in Mandarin, and he returned the farewell with a polite smile and a slight bowing of his head before stepping back into the cold.
The city still held traces of celebration, lanterns swayed in the wind, firecrackers popped in the distance, and the scent of incense lingered in the air. He had missed the festival, but at least, for a moment, he had captured a piece of it on his own terms.
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