The Trail to Buddha's Mirror - Don Winslow [100]
Neal watched Wu scoop up globs of the sticky rice and rub them in the sauces of the previous dishes. He did the same and found it was a delightful recap of the whole meal, a gustatory album of a recent memory. Wu looked as happy as a politician with a blank check.
Wu polished off his rice, leaned across the table, and said, “I have a secret to tell you.”
“You’re really a woman?”
Wu giggled. He wasn’t drunk, but he wasn’t sober either. “That is the best meal I have ever eaten in my whole life.”
“I won’t tell your mother.”
“That is not the secret.”
“Oh.”
“The secret is—I have never eaten here before.”
“That’s okay. Neither have I.”
Wu broke up on that one, but when he stopped laughing he turned terribly earnest. “Why must a foreign guest come before a Chinese can eat like this?”
“I don’t know, Xiao Wu.”
“It is an important question.”
“You could eat downstairs, right? Same food.”
Wu shook his head angrily, then looked around to see if anyone was listening. “I cannot afford it. Only party cadres can afford it.”
“Home cooking is better anyway, right?”
“Do you think we can afford to eat like this at home?” Wu asked indignantly. “We have no money for pork, for duck. Even good rice is very expensive. This food is for festivals only, sometimes for a birthday….”
He trailed off into silence.
“Let’s go get blasted, Xiao Wu.”
Wu was still smoldering in resentment. “Blasted?”
“Blasted. Hammered. Spiflicated. Shit-faced.”
“Shit-faced?!”
Wu was fighting a grin and losing.
“Shit-faced. Bombed. Intoxicated.”
“Shit-faced?!”
He was off and giggling.
“Drunk.”
“It is frowned upon.”
“Who cares?”
“Responsible persons.”
“No. Cocksuckers and motherfuckers.”
That did it. Wu was doubled over in his chair, gasping for air and mumbling, “Shit-faced.”
“Where can we go?” Neal asked.
Wu suddenly got serious. “We have to go back to the hotel.”
“Is there a bar there?”
“On the roof. There is a noodle bar.”
“I don’t want any more noodles, I want us to get shit—”
“They serve beer.”
Neal signaled the waiter. “Check, please!”
Dinner should be surprises, Neal recalled as he and Wu finished off the last cup of tea at the Hibiscus Restaurant.
The meal wasn’t surprising. Li Lan had made several of the same dishes in the Kendalls’ kitchen in Mill Valley, although not as well.
“Were all these dishes Sichuan specialties?” Neal asked Wu.
“Oh, yes. Very distinctive. In fact, Chengdu is the only place in the entire world where you can eat some of these dishes.”
Not exactly, Wu, Neal thought. You can suck down this home cooking in Kendall’s dining room in Mill Valley, provided your chef is Li Lan.
They walked the two blocks back to the hotel. A cop stopped them at the entrance. More accurately, he stopped Wu, and spoke to him brusquely.
“What’s up?” Neal asked.
“He wants to see my papers.”
“What for? I’m the foreigner.”
“Exactly. It is natural you would be in the hotel. Not natural for Chinese.”
The cop was starting to look impatient, annoyed. It was the same imperious look that Neal recognized from small-minded cops everywhere.
Neal asked, “But you’ve been here all week, right?”
“Through the back door.”
Neal saw the look of painful embarrassment on Wu’s face. He was being humiliated, and he knew it. He fumbled in his wallet for his identification card.
“He’s my guest,” Neal said to the cop.
The cop ignored him.
Neal got right in his face. “He’s my guest.”
“Please do not cause trouble,” Wu said flatly as he handed the cop his card. The cop took his sweet time looking it over.
“It’s no trouble,” Neal said.
“It is for me.”
Right, Neal thought. I’m going home. Maybe.
“You mean to tell me you can’t walk into a hotel in your own country?”
“Please be quiet.”
“Does he understand English?”
“Do you?”
The cop shoved the card