Page 76 of From Beijing, With Love

“You just said …” Daniel searched Yang’s eyes, seeing nothing but a stubborn honesty. “Could you … uh … repeat that?”

“If I did, would you believe me?” Yang asked, still very much living in his bossy era.

Daniel nodded, needing to know he hadn’t just dreamed Yang’s words up.

“It’s either that I can—”

Yang was cut off midsentence when Daniel’s stomach growled. The stunned silence that followed only exaggerated how loud the growl had been. Yang broke into a laugh. The sound of it was so light and pure, like the first ray of sun on a cloudy Amsterdam day. Daniel buried his face in a pillow, willing the gods, whichever one was watching their little exchange with popcorn in hand, to just take him.

Then Yang pulled away the pillow and kissed him, pouring his light into him.

“I’m going to feed you. And if you still want to argue with me about how I’m supposed to feel about you, we can have another round after.” Yang hopped out of bed. Opening the closet, he picked out a sage crewneck tee and a pair of salmon-colored shorts. “Get dressed. I’ll text Poppy to meet us in the lobby.”

Daniel eyed the outfit. “But these don’t go together.” Yang raised his brows. “Okay, fine, but if I get ridiculed by the good Chinese people on the street, it’s your fault.”

“If that were to ever happen, I am fully prepared to take responsibility,” Yang said with a smirk.

The good Chinese people on the street did not, in fact, ridicule Daniel, but the good Chinese American Dutch person who was also Daniel’s best friend did.

“Oh, babe, those do not go together.” Poppy pointed. “You know what your outfit reminds me of? Remember when you went through that keto phase and cooked pesto-crusted salmon every single night so our apartment always smelled like fish? That.”

Daniel threw an I-told-you-so look at Yang, who barely suppressed his grin as he held the glass door to the restaurant open.

“And you.” Poppy pointed to the maroon Universiteit van Amsterdam T-shirt Yang wore—the one Daniel had come to think of as Yang’s already. “Didn’t know you went to UvA. Must have missed you in class.”

Yang grunted a nonresponse as he led them to the table, his face pink. The restaurant was utilitarian and giving school cafeteria vibes with its foldable chairs, but it was spotless. Daniel doled out hand sanitizers to Yang and Poppy while they debated the origin of the cold noodle dish Yang ordered for them.

“What is liangpi? Just cold noodles in a spicy sauce. How is that not a Sichuan dish?” Poppy rubbed the disposable chopsticks together to smooth out the splinters. She was just debating for the sake of debating at this point, and she did it with a winning smile. She could do this all day long.

“Except not at all. Wrong type of noodles and wrong type of sauce.” Yang eyed Poppy like she had just told him that one plus one equals five thousand. Daniel sensed he was about to enter professor mode. “You know that Sichuan doesn’t have a monopoly on spicy food, right? There are other parts of China that cook with spice, like a certain former capital that happens to be the starting point of the Silk Road.”

Three wooden trays were plunked in front of them, breaking up the debate before it escalated further. Each tray carried the exact same dishes—a plate of cold noodles and a meat sandwich wrapped in paper. Liangpi and roujiamo, as Yang called them.

“Kuaizi?” Daniel asked the server for chopsticks instead of the sad little plastic fork that came with his food.

Poppy clapped her hands to her cheeks. “Someone’s speaking Chinese!”

“Good pronunciation.” Yang smiled.

Heat crept up Daniel’s neck. “Can you guys not look at me like proud parents? It’s creeping me out.”

He’d secretly practiced the word, among others, in his hotel room last night, but no one needed to know that. He still felt self-conscious when the words tumbled out of his mouth—foreign, unpracticed—but for the first time in his life, his desire to learn won out.

Daniel dug into his noodles with his newly acquired chopsticks. The cold noodles were broad and ribbon shaped, covered in a mound of chili oil. Following Yang’s lead, Daniel tossed his noodles until every last strand was slick with a red sheen.

He took the bite. The noodles were beautifully bouncy and the sauce was spicy, but with a complexity Daniel couldn’t decipher. He tasted sesame and star anise, maybe cardamom too, plus a healthy dose of acidic tang.

“And?” Yang finally asked.

“It’s …” Daniel paused. “Amazing. I love it.”

“Now try the roujiamo.” Yang leaned in and nudged the sandwich closer to him. All Daniel could think about was how Yang smelled like the apple-scented hotel shampoo—and how he’d ended up smelling like that.

“I grew up on these,” Yang said, oblivious to the effect he was having on Daniel. “This shop makes their own buns from scratch every morning in the clay oven, and the filling is made with braised pork belly.”

Daniel sanitized his hands again before biting into the roujiamo. The buns were unlike typical bread. The crunchy exterior gave way to a dense yet soft center, which was soaked in the fatty braising liquid of the pork belly. Daniel groaned as the tender pork fell apart and melted in his mouth. Succulent, rich with spices, but not spicy.

“Just kill me now, because I’ve peaked,” Daniel said between bites.