Vanessa Yu's Magical Paris Tea Shop Read online

  Uncle Michael leaned in and whispered, “Every time that happens, I wonder if it’s painful.”

  “It’s uncomfortable. That’s about it,” I replied. A string of happiness danced within me before vanishing like the notes from a plucked harp. They were replaced by a throbbing in my right temple. I hadn’t had a headache in a while. I dismissed it as a sign I was either tired or hungry.

  “There’s no guarantee when it’ll happen,” I continued. “Ma and the aunties have tried more than enough times to compel it out of me. Of course, they failed. I’m just happy it’s not something horrible this time.”

  “Have you talked to Evelyn?”

  Aunt Evelyn was a member of the San Francisco Yus: the more prosperous branch with the tea import-export empire. My limb of the family tree, the Palo Alto Yus, operated the accounting firm that supported the tea business. A respected clairvoyant, she and I disagreed regarding our “gift.” We last spoke after I had invited her to the Andy Warhol exhibit at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. We hadn’t left the lobby before quarreling. She went home. I walked through the museum alone.

  “I don’t think she’s happy with me. I spent my whole life avoiding her attempts to educate me. Every time I try to talk to her about it, we argue. You’d think, of all the people in the world, we’d be on the same page.” I sighed, and traced the rim of the empty glass. “All she cares about is the rules and how we need to follow them.”

  “I think you two have more in common than you realize. As for this prophecy, it’s going to be complicated. If the ring is what I think it is, Johnny will need to grovel.”

  I stifled a giggle.

  Auntie Faye returned and sucked in her lips. “Aiyah, this is not going to be easy. What kind of ring again?”

  I repeated the description.

  She tapped her temple. “We have to find this ring. We know Johnny can’t do better. The girl is a catch, and we can’t let her get away from the family.”

  I glanced over to see my favorite uncle attempting to hide his amusement.

  “Auntie Faye, maybe you should ask Uncle Michael?”

  “Michael, who owns the ring?” she demanded.

  “Ning. It was bequeathed to her by Great-Auntie Nancy three years ago.”

  Auntie Faye’s indignation peppered the air along with a litany of Hokkien and Mandarin curses. My fluency with the dialect was pidgin, limited to food and numbers. The previous generation’s enrollment in Chinese school cemented their command of Mandarin, while their parents spoke Hokkien at home. The cousins and I were spared language education, but not music lessons. Uncle Michael once joked that if our generation wanted to form a symphony, we could.

  “Ning can’t stand him. She won’t give him the ring,” Auntie Faye hissed. “Remember the family picnic at Mitchell Park? She couldn’t stop complaining about him, saying that he has more metal on his face than a Honda Civic.”

  Uncle Michael smiled. “The solution is easy. Have him take her out to dinner. Upscale and French. He needs to shave first and borrow something fashionable from Chester’s closet. Also, buy a bottle of pinot grigio in the fifty-dollar range. Ning loves her wines. It’ll help sweeten the pot.”

  “Ah, Michael, you’re so smart. This is why I love you.” Auntie Faye patted his cheek, then turned to me. The heat from her focused gaze caused a bead of sweat to trickle down my temple. “Now that Johnny is getting married . . .”

  My time was running out.

  Two

  Yu formal family functions are a symphony of chaos, and weddings were no exception. Nuptials ranged from traditional to Western with a scandalous elopement or two. Every Yu injected a quirk of their own, and Cynthia was no different: she rescheduled the tea ceremony with the groom’s family to after the ten-course reception dinner. Cynthia would have moved the entire wedding ceremony to the evening if her mother, Auntie Gloria, hadn’t threatened to kill her youngest daughter. Only after Cynthia stated that she would be late to her own wedding did her mother agree to delay the tea ceremony. Cynthia did rack up the most tardies despite living ten minutes away from her high school.

  I relaxed in the safety of the hotel’s rooftop garden. The dinner reception in the grand ballroom wouldn’t begin for another hour. Uncle Michael and Jack kept me company. Jack, introduced to the family earlier this morning, had been swarmed with affection. The escape twenty floors up was for our mutual benefit.

  “Brace yourself,” Uncle Michael warned, breaking the silence. “Your mother mentioned to me that she has a prospect in mind.”

  I winced. My fingers pinched a piece of the embroidered lavender skirt of my cocktail dress. Feeling the fine needlework’s bumps and ridges soothed my elevated nerves. “He’s probably already here. Ma always comes prepared.”

  Jack added, “Weddings are always the breeding ground for setups.”

  “Cynthia betrayed me. She told me she was going to be the lone old maid to take the pressure off the rest of us. Then she met Edwin. Now Johnny . . . Everyone agreed he would never get married.”

  The cousins and I had formed a union where we used our collective bargaining power to negotiate with our parents. Traditions, and which to follow, became the common talking points, while the most intense debates revolved around marriage. As heated as these discussions became, I was grateful that our parents were more reasonable than my grandparents had been with them. Later generations benefited from the earlier generations in America who fomented the seed of rebellion and the integration of Western values.

  “Johnny’s prophecy should have stayed hidden,” I groused.

  Uncle Michael raised a brow. “Really?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I’ve never seen Johnny this happy and I can’t help but share in his joy. I just wish it didn’t involve unpleasant consequences on my end. It’s stirring up the aunties into a froth. My mother doesn’t need more ammunition. I want to date, but I don’t want it to be the precursor to an arranged marriage.”

  “I thought you’re fourth-generation Chinese,” Jack said.

  “I am, but the whole tiger parenting instinct is hard coded in their genes.” I rubbed my temples. “I know they mean well. A relationship is just not possible until I get this prediction thing under control.”

  “I have to admit, it’s an interesting ability, or burden in your case,” Jack said.

  “It’s got its downsides.”

  He stood beside my uncle in a complementary navy suit. Jack reminded me of a rugged Pierce Brosnan. Uncle Michael wore charcoal gray with a gold tie. They could be on the cover of any men’s fashion magazine. Jack brought his camera equipment and worked the wedding, his gift to the couple. This was his rare break, and I suffered a twinge of guilt for having complained so much.

  Before I could apologize, Jack glanced over his shoulder to see the elevators opening. “The women are coming.”

  He and Uncle Michael moved in unison to head off the pack of aunties, herding them back into the elevator and disappearing behind closing doors. It was a reenactment worthy of the battle of Thermopylae. I was touched by their sacrifice.

  Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and attempted to let the tension roll off my shoulders. Prophecies accompanied an assortment of drinks I imbibed or that I saw in the cups of others. I avoided tea because it was the most powerful stimulant. Drinking it resulted in vivid visions that even the aunties cautioned against.

  I glanced down at my watch. Ten more minutes until I had to make my appearance downstairs. The sky above was a riotous blaze of pinks, purples, blues, and oranges with nary a cloud to mar it. It was worthy of Monet’s Parliament at Sunset. The cool breeze teased the tips of my wavy, dark hair. It was such a beautiful evening to waste on worries I had no control over.

  The elevator bell dinged.

  I turned around, hoping to see the return of my favorite uncle and his boyfriend.

  Aunt Evelyn stepped out from the silver doors, and her dark eyes focused on me. Dressed in a long pastel blue sheath dress and beaded jacket, her long hair swept up to showcase a pair of diamond pendant earrings, she approached me with her high heels clicking against the marble floor.

  “Hello, Vanessa.” Aunt Evelyn greeted me with a genuine smile.

  Uncle Michael must have sent her to see me. “Hi,” I said. “How have you been?”

  We both leaned in for a quick embrace and kiss on the cheek. She smelled of freshly cut peonies and vanilla. In her early fifties, she was still one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. She epitomized elegance and class and never allowed her abilities to see the future to hinder her successes or her life. I envied her.

  “Busy. We’re opening a new tea shop in Paris soon,” she replied. “Well done in predicting Johnny’s engagement.”

  I swallowed what I wanted to say: that I had no control over any of it and giving me credit was akin to thanking an automatic door for opening and closing. “He’s happy, and Andria is as well. I’m glad it wasn’t someone dying or getting into an accident.”

  Aunt Evelyn’s brow furrowed. “You shouldn’t always jump to the worst conclusions. Only thinking of the negative causes more of it to happen.”

  “Just wishing for good predictions hasn’t worked.” The effort in maintaining the smile I’d plastered on my lips increased.

  “You can’t talk about something you know nothing about, Vanessa. You haven’t bothered to listen to anything I’ve tried to teach you over all these years. The art of prophecy has specific rules.”

  “The only rule I’m interested in is one that rids it from my life.”

  She looked at me with kindness. She always did.

  Once my gift manifested, I was Aunt Evelyn’s project. I spent weekends at her Victorian in San Francisco. We had the loveliest of afternoon teas in her sunroom, nibbling on matcha mochi, colorful macarons, and egg tarts from a Portuguese bakery nearby. We drank glasses of iced lavender tea lemonade and talked about family history. The idyllic joy vanished when she told me I couldn’t avoid this power. The arguments started and never abated, an ouroboros of persistent tension.

  “I wish you were more receptive. These rules are meant to be followed, and you might be more adept at handling your gift had you taken my advice. If anything, you’re more closed-minded now than when you were younger.”

  “Aunt Evelyn, please don’t start.”

  She took a deep breath and offered her hand. “Let’s go downstairs. I hear Edwin’s parents flew the chef and his crew in from Kowloon. His restaurant is famous and was featured in a foodie documentary. The dinner should be spectacular.”

  I accepted her olive branch and we headed to the elevator, hand in hand.

  * * *

  * * *

  The wedding banquet was traditionally Chinese with ten courses of the finest ingredients served alongside gossip and business proposals. After all, this was foremost a merging of the Yus and Ngos.

  Aunt Evelyn and I walked into a sea of circular tables. Overhead, crystal chandeliers sparkled against the painted sky ceiling while cream-colored drapery flanked the French doors leading out into the gardens. Bouquets of powder-blue hydrangeas, white roses, and blush-pink peonies adorned every table alongside ornate gold lantern centerpieces. The couple’s love of yachts and cruises inspired the garlands of miniature international maritime signal flags. The place settings and name cards continued the nautical theme with a ship and anchor design.

  Before I could leave Aunt Evelyn’s side, my mother stopped in front of me. I recognized her companion: tall, Chinese, short hair, with a propensity to please. The scent of instant coffee and minty mouthwash clung to his suit. He worked at the family’s firm. William Chang. She planned on setting me up with the new hire in the tax department. I had administered his job interview. Ma’s arrangements had never worked out, but it didn’t stop her from trying.

  Aunt Evelyn squeezed my hand. “Ah, Linda! I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked Vanessa to sit with me. It’s been a long time since I last saw her.”

  “Evelyn, I had plans to . . . ,” Ma stuttered. “William here is . . .”

  My aunt met my eyes. “Right, Vanessa?”

  “Yes, Ma. She has questions about how international tax laws will impact the European expansion,” I replied.

  “But, but . . .”

  “I’m sure there will be plenty of time later,” Aunt Evelyn said as she patted my mother’s arm, guiding me away.

  After we were out of earshot, she leaned close. “You can leave anytime. I don’t want you to sit with me unless it’s your choice. My intention was only to steer you away from your mother’s ambush.”

  We might have our differences, but I couldn’t deny my aunt’s good heart. She could have left me standing there in Ma’s dating trap and a long evening of awkwardness with William.

  “Thank you,” I said, grinning.

  “No more talk about that thing we disagree on,” she said. “And you’ll be happy to know that Michael and Jack are sitting with us.”

  We arrived at our seats close to the head table. These were better than my original assignment a few rows back. Cynthia had mentioned to me that devising the seating plan was an exercise combining diplomacy and puzzle strategy. Her addiction to candy-themed match-three games made her adept at moving pieces to where they needed to go.

  “Jack’s busy setting up the portrait location in the tearoom,” Michael informed us. “I’m afraid he’ll be there most of the night. I’m going to help him round everyone up after the tea ceremony by asking some of your cousins to form a human chain around the bar.” He reached for the open bottle of Shiraz and poured some into my aunt’s empty wineglass. “Your mother is seething in our direction.”

  “Please pour the wine,” I replied, offering him my glass.

  Aunt Evelyn kept a serene expression, as if listening to a distant sound. She was focused on Edwin’s parents: Ken and Jillian Ngo seated to the left of their son. Nearby, a server wrestled with a wine bottle.

  “The glass will break and wine will be spilled, but no one will be injured. The father of the groom will emerge the valiant hero of the night,” she declared.

  As soon as the words escaped her lips, the server lost his battle with the bottle. As the magnum slipped from his hands, it landed neck first onto the hard marble floor. The glass shattered, sending red wine and tiny shards toward the Ngos. Ken positioned himself to protect his wife. Wine droplets stained his white dress shirt. A collective gasp reverberated throughout the ballroom.

  “My valiant hero!” the mother of the groom exclaimed before she jumped up and kissed him on the cheek.

  A roaring applause followed the impromptu dinner show.

  Uncle Michael grinned. “Evelyn, you really are a treasure.”

  “Thank you,” she laughed. “The real treasure is the coming meal.”

  The parade of servers ladened with silver tureens of bird’s nest soup appeared. My aunt and I may have shared the same gift, but her command of it left me with a mixture of awe and intimidation.

  Three

  The ten courses of a traditional Chinese wedding banquet tantalized the senses and glorified gluttony. Its true purpose wasn’t quantity, but quality, to showcase a variety of ingredients that would satisfy even the pickiest eater. At best, the meal achieved culinary nirvana, and at worst, the quantity of food available guaranteed a full belly. The menu was tailored to the bride and groom’s tastes. The guests were treated to a harmonious marriage in edible form.

  “The bird’s nest soup was divine.” I wiped the corners of my mouth with a cloth napkin. “I wonder what the second course is.”

  “I’m guessing it’s the requisite barbecued appetizer platter.” Uncle Michael craned his neck toward the kitchen entrance where a stream of servers brought out the next course. The parade of white uniforms stepped in unison and delivered their trays to tables of eager diners. “If the soup is any indication, the rest of the meal should be quite a coup.”

  I took a sip of the excellent wine. “Cynthia is one of the biggest foodies I know. She once went out with this horrible guy so she could score early reservations at a new Korean noodle restaurant in LA. The sublime guksu jangguk more than made up for the awful date.”

  “The groom is also a foodie. They kept running into each other at the same places. It’s a great match,” Aunt Evelyn added.

  I smiled to hide the twinge of wistfulness I had growing inside. Every wedding I attended brought with it the weight of longing, seeing all those around me finding and celebrating a union I could never have. It was heartbreaking torture to express such joy for those I loved, knowing all of the wishes I said were those I wanted myself.

  The second course arrived in time to save me from any further discussions regarding my preferred partner. The appetizer platter mixed cold and hot items: marinated spicy jellyfish, sliced drunken chicken, roasted pork belly, pickled bamboo shoots, and radishes. The surprise came in bamboo steamers holding plump char siu buns, one of the Kowloon chef’s treasured specialties.

  The white bun with the dimpled top was warm in my hands as I peeled off the paper adhering to the bottom. The tender bread yielded to the sharpness of my teeth. The aroma escaped, a mouthwatering combination of seasoned pork cooked in its juices. The filling combined sweet with a hint of salt. The shredded barbecued pork swam in thick, reddish-brown sauce, but it was the unanticipated bite of the chilies that delighted me. It sent a tingling buzz on my tongue.

  “That spicy kick is wonderful, isn’t it?” Uncle Michael remarked, sipping his Shiraz.

  Aunt Evelyn wiped her fingertips. “Quite, and so unexpected.”

  “I’m shocked you didn’t see it coming, Auntie,” I joked.