I shove another into my mouth, savouring the juicy deliciousness. But there’s something that makes my tongue feel a little numb. Not unlike Szechuan peppers. I rub at a tickle in my nose. As I chew the flavour profiles become more distinct. My tongue starts to feel strange, like it’s too big for my mouth. The itch in my nose has spread to my throat. My eyes water. There’s a flavour I should have noticed, hidden by all the others.
Garlic.
Double rotted turd-egg shit sticks.
In yin Shanghai either Old Zao cooks for me, or occasionally I’ll order from the Cathay Hotel kitchens. Big Wang ensures my food never includes garlic. I didn’t know garlic tastes completely different cooked. My nose itches ferociously. I try to swallow my mouthful of food.Tian, why did I have to be so greedy? Too late. I sneeze, and the whole table, and some of Mr Lee, is sprayed with half-masticated bits of pelmeni.
But I’m not done. I sneeze and sneeze and sneeze. I grab the tablecloth, try to hide my face as my entire body jerks with each violent sneeze. Plates crash to the floor. Waiters descend on our table, whisking dishes and glasses to a safe distance. I can’t catch my breath, and I’m wheezing at the same time and the noise is awful; soon there is nothing on our table, not even the tablecloth, because that’s crushed to my face. Mr Lee hovers over me, as do a couple waiters, trying to help. I can’t stop sneezing long enough to speak. I need to get the taste out. If I drink I will simply spew the water out again.
In desperation, I grab Mr Lee by the neck and pull him towards me, burying my nose in the soft spot between his jaw and throat. He stiffens, but doesn’t fight.
His crisp clean scent, snowflakes falling over watermelon, wraps around me. My teeth slide out. Before I can stop myself, I press their sharp points to his throat. He stiffens.
A shiver quakes through me, followed quickly by shame. Mr Lee has proven himself a friend.Friends don’t drain friends of their blood, I remind myself. I tuck my chin in to keep my mouth away from his throat. Instead, I focus on the rhythmic beat of his pulse. Breath by breath, the scent of walnuts and persimmons slowly replaces the bite of garlic. I’m able to suppress a few sneezes, though I grunt from the effort. I claw much needed air into my lungs. My fingers twist in the fabric of Mr Lee’s changpao, which is still dotted with flecks of pelmeni. I squeeze my eyes shut, ignoring everything, and let the cool scent of fresh snow bathe my throat and nostrils and soothe the burn.
When the sneezing finally abates, I untangle my fingers from Mr Lee’s changpao and release him. My breathing is fast and shallow, but at least I can breathe. He doesn’t move immediately, so with the tablecloth still clutched in my hands I wipe off the worst of the pelmeni, but then he pulls away. Concern deepens the lines between his brows. I risk a glance around me – the entire restaurant is staring. I cringe at the attention.
‘Garlic,’ I whisper, accepting the glass of water from a waiter.
‘You’re allergic?’
I nod. ‘I’ve never eaten it before though.’
Mr Lee speaks rapidly to the waiter. The waiter’s eyes widen, and he prattles something very quickly before rushing off. I don’t understand a word.
‘French?’ I ask.
‘English,’ he says. ‘They’ll make sure your food has no garlic in it.’
I glance at the shards of plates that a young man is carefully sweeping away. The diners have mostly returned to their meals, though a few still glance at me from time to time. I shift my chair, so my back is to most of them.
Mr Lee slides into his own chair opposite. He seems to be mostly cleaned up. As the waiters throw new linen over the table and replace the cutlery and plates they salvaged, Mr Lee folds his hands on the table.
‘Were your teeth on me just now?’ he asks.
My face heats. It feels like a bonfire blazes on both my cheeks. ‘I—uh, yes. Sorry. But I didn’t bite,’ I hurry to clarify. I don’t want him thinking I’d take advantage of his kindness to feed on him.
He doesn’t say anything and I can’t read his expression. He doesn’t seem mad, or scared, but he also doesn’t seem pleased. There are no further garlic incidents. We eat in awkward silence, me staring at my food to avoid catching anyone else’s gaze, and to avoid looking at Mr Lee. I want to sink into a hole and disappear.
When skewers of grilled beef are placed on the table, Mr Lee says, ‘It’s time.’
I nod absentmindedly while I slide the chunks of meat and vegetables off the wooden sticks.
He puts his hand over mine, and I jerk away, my gaze snapping to his. His smile crinkles his eyes, and he nods to the horizon.
‘Look,’ he whispers.
I follow his gaze and all irritations are forgotten. Everything blazes gold. Shifting my chair so I’m facing west, I gaze rapt as the sun sinks towards the horizon. It dips lower and lower until it kisses the treelined avenues. The sky shimmers with streaks of pink and blue and orange like watercolours painting the sky. It’s even more beautiful than I remember.
None of the other diners are looking at the sunset. They’re intent on their food or their companions, and thankfully seem to have forgotten about my sneezing episode. I mean to ask Mr Lee how the others could be so blasé about the setting sun, but Mr Lee isn’t watching the sunset either. He’s watching me.
‘You lot are missing out.’ I shake my head and return my attention to the shifting colours of the sky. I feel rebalanced, the earlier embarrassment washed away by the bright, but fading, glow of the setting sun.
‘I suppose since we see it every day, we don’t cherish it as much as we should,’ he says thoughtfully.
The idea of taking this for granted makes my heart twist. ‘To see this every day. You have no idea how lucky you are.’
Mr Lee nods gravely. ‘You’re right. We should take more time to appreciate our blessings.’ He raises his glass. ‘Thank you for reminding me how very lucky I am.Nazdarovya.’
