“I told you it was.” He doesn’t sound impatient, only resigned.
I think about it. It was exhilarating, but I don’t want to tell Sam this. The little worm in my brain expands slightly as I realize I liked it. I liked being seen. Being admired.
It wasn’t you. That was for Fangli. No one would have turned for Gracie, not even a Gracie with a designer dress and long hair.
Good to remember.
Eleven
When we arrive at the restaurant, it’s hard to not be seduced. I smooth out the front of my dress as I get out of the car to the stares of passersby. They might not recognize us, but the sleek car and the manager who rushes out to meet us when the valet opens the door are visual signifiers that here be people with money and influence.
How would Fangli act? She’s used to fancy places, so she would resist trailing her fingers along the side of the staircase to see if that was real velvet covering the walls. When she reached the top of the stairs, she would check the room casually for acquaintances and wouldn’t squeak with glee when spotting Margaret Atwood.
So I don’t do those things either. Instead, I keep my expression schooled and focus on Sam’s shoulders as the manager leads us to a back table, the most private option the room offers. A silence washes over the restaurant, followed by a hum as people recognize us. This is a fancy place and its patrons are too cool to do anything so gauche as take photos or come up to us so the buzz is all we get.
I wonder if Margaret Atwood got the same attention.
The manager deftly slides the chair forward as I sit down and I give myself a silent high five for smiling in thanks, as a woman used to this would, instead of erupting into a flurry of “it’s okay” and “I got it, no worries” mumbles. The manager nods and leaves us alone with the menus. Too bad the table is turned so we’re on display to the rest of the room. I would much prefer to face the wall and have only my back visible.
I pick up the heavy card-stock menu that lies in front of me. Instead of long-winded descriptions or lists of ingredients, there are only five words typed in a row:
FISH
MEAT
BIRD
VEGETABLE
SWEET
I check the back but that’s it. There are no prices and I peek over at Sam’s paper. No prices there either.
“What is it now?” he asks, not lifting his eyes from the world’s most uninformative menu.
“You don’t think it’s strange to order ‘bird’ and leave the rest up to chance?”
He shrugs. “I trust the chef.”
We order when the server comes （MEAT for Sam and FISH for me）， and I proudly remember to tell them no carrots in my best Fangli voice—low, confident, and warm. Sam gets into a spirited discussion of the best vintages on offer that will match our mystery food.
“I should have known you’re a wine guy,” I say when the server goes to get the drinks.
“A what?”
“You know, one of those guys who holds up the whole table to wax eloquent about viscosity and bouquet or whatever it is.”
“I hardly think I was holding up the whole table—which is you—to give the server an idea of what we want and to show respect to the sommelier’s cellar. It’s a pity she’s not in today.”
Then he starts speaking in Mandarin. I understand why when the server reappears; obviously it would be suspicious to be speaking English with only the two of us and I’m impressed Sam thought of this detail. I smile and nod as if I have a clue of what he’s saying.
The server shows us the bottle and uncorks the wine before pouring a bit into Sam’s glass with a neat flick of his wrist. He gives the bottle a quick swipe with the white cloth in his other hand and waits for Sam to swirl and taste and give his approving nod. I try to look interested.
The server leaves and I drink the wine down in a gulp before Sam’s narrowed eyes tell me I’ve made a tactical error. “I was thirsty,” I excuse myself.
He looks away for a moment as if gathering strength. “Fangli doesn’t drink.”
I forgot. “Then why did you pour me the glass?” I ask, incensed. Am I expected to sit there with a full glass and not drink it? In a stressful situation? Does he think I’m made of steel?
Apparently he does. “Imagine this is poison,” he suggests as he refills my glass a measly centimeter. “Also, wine is for sipping, not guzzling.”
“Why bother, then?”
Sam appears pained as he traces his finger down the stem of his glass. “Because you should take your time to appreciate good wine?”