never let it go. In time exile became his most important aspect, his shadow, closer to him in a way even than his family.
Therefore, when complaints were raised about the slow translation, Sam took the blame. It eased a needy and chronically sad part of him to hear his father praised, and he did whatever he could to leave his uncles’ good opinion intact.
“You will finish it when you can,” said Second Uncle, for though they were hard on him they always forgave him. Tan was walking out of the kitchen now, where he had been fussing with the tea things.
“Uncle, you shouldn’t,” Sam said. “I’ll make tea.”
“No!” Jiang raised a hand. “You sit. We have a special matter.”
“You want to introduce me to another of your relatives,” said Sam.
“Very good!” said Jiang. “My grandniece is coming from Jilin. But that is next month. Younger Born! You tell him.”
“Very well,” Tan said. He set the tray down with ceremony. His grandfather had been the great chef Tan Zhuanqing, who had been one of the top cooks in the palace, and whose apprentice had been the young Liang Wei — Sam’s grandfather. Great was the Tan name even now. Tan leaned over his cup and paddled the steam toward him with swollen hands. “Very secret!” he said importantly. “Only a few know! The Chinese Committee for the 2008 Games is going to run its own Games here, an Olympics of culture. They are going to have competitions in Beijing and Kunqu opera, in dance, which is to include martial arts, and in cuisine! Competitions on TV! All China will watch!”
“You see?” said Jiang. “The Liang name will fly to the four directions!”
“You’re getting ahead, Uncle.”
“You are on the audition list!” Tan cried. “We can confirm it!”
Sam felt a twist in his stomach. A great opportunity, but the timing was terrible. His restaurant wasn’t even opening. “Why me?”
“Fool!” Tan raised a hand as if to cuff him. “If we’ve told you one time it’s a hundred! You are in a direct line from Tan Zhuanqing. Your grandfather was trained by him. People eat your dishes and they talk about them all across the city. You have not even opened a restaurant yet, and you are known.”
Sam swallowed. “How many will audition?”
“Ten, for two spots. Two spots for northern cooks on the national team. The rest of the team will be Cantonese, Sichuan, Hunanese, and Shanghainese.”
“What’s the audition?” He felt as if he were clinging to a rope high above the rapids.
“Each candidate will prepare a banquet for the committee. Nephew! You must make a celestial meal for them!”
“Sure,” said Sam. With a lurch he saw the complexity of it. This was not the four or five dishes chefs prepared on those TV contests — this was a banquet. It was the complete symphony, the holy grail of Chinese food art. It required not only great dishes but also concept, shape, subtlety, and narrative force. “Who are the others?”
“Wang Zijian,” said Tan. “Pan Jun. Also Lu Fudong.”
“Right,” said Sam. He knew them. Good chefs.
“Zhan Ming,” said Jiang.
“Yes,” said Sam. “He’s good too.”
“And Yao Weiguo,” said Tan.
“Ah.” Here was his real rival. Yao was exceptionally good. And he did the very thing Sam did not: he came up with something new each time. He improvised. Yao’s way of working was like that of a European or an American. He riffed, cooking in the style of jazz, while Sam remained the old-fashioned formalist. “I’m worried,” he said. “Yao can cook.”
“So can you,” said Jiang, touching his arm. “It does not have to be complicated. The perfect meal is balanced, not ornate. Remember the words of Yuan Mei. ‘Don’t eat with your eyes. Don’t cover the table with dishes, or multiply the courses too much. Bean curd is actually better than bird’s nest.’”
“Those are nice, naturalistic sentiments, Uncle, but don’t you think the people on this panel are going to eat with their eyes?”
“Yes! You are right! And you must impress them. But that is secondary. The true perfection of food is a surprisingly modest thing. It is what is right. There you will find what you seek.”
Sam sighed. “Zhen bang.” Great.
The next morning Maggie awoke to a tugging fear about whether the clipping she had brought was still in her computer case. She padded out of bed and to the small living room, where she unzipped the case’s side pocket. There it was. A square of newspaper, with a picture of her husband, knocked down,