The Last Chinese Chef Read Online Free Page A

gone to university and law school in the States and then returned, and the pressure eased. Matt didn’t go at all the last year and a half before he died. In any case — she checked her phone again — it was too late to call the office now. Calder Hayes would be closed.
    It was early enough to call the chef still, but first she had to do some reading. She slid out the file with Sarah’s writing on the tab, Sam Liang, and made herself into a curl with it on the couch.
    The first thing she saw was that he was a chef of national rank, which had to be near the top in the Chinese system, and there was a list of prizes and awards. That was fast, she thought. He’d been here only four years. Then she came to an excerpt from his grandfather’s book, The Last Chinese Chef.
    Chinese food has characteristics that set it apart from all other foods of the world. First, its conceptual balance. Dominance is held by fan, grain food, either rice or wheat made into noodles and breads and dumplings. Song or cai is the flavored food that accompanies it, seasoned vegetables, sometimes meat. Of the latter, pork is first, and then aquatic life in all its variety. The soybean is used in many products, fresh and fermented. Dian xin are snacks, which include all that is known under the Cantonese dim sum, but also nuts and fruits. Boiling, steaming, or stir-frying are preferred, in that order, stacking food when possible to conserve fuel. Chopsticks are used. Of the world’s cuisines, only Japanese and Korean share these characteristics, and everyone knows they have drawn their influence from the Chinese.
    She looked up and out the window at Beijing. The urban shapes of progress gleamed back at her, the cranes with their twinkling lights, the tall, half-built skeletons. Clearly a city on the move. And yet this chef seemed to be reaching back into the past.
    Fine, she decided. Contradictions were promising. They gave depth. She reached for her cell phone and punched in his number.
    It rang twice, then clicked. “Wei,” she heard.
    “Hello, I’m looking for Sam Liang.”
    At once he turned American. “That’s me.”
    “I’m Maggie McElroy. Table magazine?”
    “Oh yes,” he said, “the restaurant article. Wait. You’re not here already? In Beijing?”
    “Yes — ”
    “I didn’t send the e-mail yet, or call. I should have.”
    “What do you mean?”
    He fumbled the phone and then came back. “I hope you didn’t fly here just to talk to me.”
    “What?” Wasn’t that the idea? Wasn’t she supposed to do that? Sarah had told her he was ready to go. “Only partly,” she said to him now on the phone. “I did have some other business.”
    “I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “Because right now, as of this morning, my restaurant’s not going to open.”
    “Why?”
    “I’m afraid I have lost my investor.”
    “But you can get another, surely — can’t you?”
    “I hope I can. I’m going to try. But until that happens and while it’s all up in the air, I’m sorry, I can’t do the story.”
    Maggie didn’t think well on her feet. She always came up with the right response later, when it was too late. Writing worked better, allowing her time to sort things out; hence her choice of profession.
    But she had to try to come up with something now. “The piece doesn’t have to be about the restaurant. A profile of you would be fine.”
    “A profile of me? Whose restaurant is not opening?”
    “Not like that — ”
    “With what just happened I can’t say it seems like a good idea. I hope you understand.”
    “That could be a mistake.” Her mind was whirling, looking for strategies, finding none. “Really.”
    “Please — Miss McElroy, is it?”
    “Maggie.”
    “Accept my apology. And please tell your editor too, I’m very sorry. I had no idea this was going to happen.”
    “I know,” Maggie said. “Do you want to at least think it over? Because I’m going to be here for a few days.”
    “I’ll think if