Page 43 of Worth Fighting For

Uncle Hong goes through the fermentation process, and again, I am happy to share my knowledge of fermentation, based on a combination of me reading up on the whiskey-making process, what Shang told me yesterday, and my one and only disastrous experience making sourdough (I named my starter Breadley Cooper, but it was all downhill from there).

I could swear that Uncle Hong is looking markedly less annoyed by my presence now. He brings me to the pot stills. “Every distillery has its own distinct pot stills,” he says. “And ours are unique. We use the same shape from the first day we start the distillery. It’s what gives our whiskey its incomparable taste and smell.”

“How did you come by this particular shape?”

“Trial and error, of course,” Uncle Hong says. “We tried different shapes—wider stills and narrow ones. The wide ones will produce more refined spirit, same with tall ones. The shorter and narrower ones will have heavier whiskey. We like our whiskey to be heavy flavored, have more oomph, so we knew we wanted a shorter still.”

Though I’ve read up all I could about the process of making whiskey, seeing it in person—being surrounded by these huge pots and stills, hearing the whir and thuds and steaming of the machines, and smelling the rich scents of fermentation—is entirely different. I feel the gravity of the place, the echoes of its past years, of the trials and errors that the uncles and aunties went through.

“How did your family decide to go into the whiskey-making business?” I say.

At this, Uncle Hong gives a little roar and gestures at Uncle Jing and Uncle Xiaotian. “Ah, we three came up with it, didn’t we?”

Uncle Jing and Uncle Xiaotian both grin and nod, but I notice that Auntie Jiayi’s eyebrows are raised so high that they’ve practically disappeared into her hairline. I meet Auntie Jiayi’s eye and cock my head to one side, but she gives a small shake of the head and smiles in anOh well, what are you gonna do?way.

“When we moved to America, we were all doing odd jobs,” Uncle Hong says. “I worked in a shoe factory.”

“I worked in a noodle factory,” Uncle Jing says.

“And I worked as a cleaner in an office building,” Uncle Xiaotian says.

“Pah!” Uncle Hong says. “You were hopping from job to job, like a rabbit.” He turns back to me. “And then one day, when we were eating dinner, we said, ‘We used to make our own baijiu. Let’s make it again to sell.’ But nobody in America knew what baijiu is at the time, so we decided to make an American drink. First we considered making beer, but we didn’t know much about beer making, you see. So then we decided, ah, whiskey. Yes. And it turns out there are many similarities in the process of making the whiskey. We started in our own garage, you know. Only after we saved up enough money were we able to buy this space to turn into a proper distillery.”

I gaze around the expansive building with newfound respect and awe. I know how hard immigrant lives are from my own parents’ struggle, and whenever I comes across a new story, I treat it as a priceless gift handed to me and tuck it in a safe place in the endless tapestry of my memories, something to be cherished in quiet moments.

By the time we end the tour of the distillery, it’s past lunchtime. We file out, going back to the farmhouse, where there is steamed mantou stuffed with roast duck that Shang made earlier. We eat outside, soaking in the sunlight and drinking refreshing mint juleps. The drinks are purposely made weak since it’s so early in the day, and I think about how much Baba would’ve enjoyed this trip. He would’ve fit in as easily as a fish slipping into water, and he would be delighted by the food, the drinks, and the stories. The thought strengthens my hope of securing the deal. Once we buy the company, there will surely be more of these trips, and another chance for me to drink in the sight of my parents laughing in the golden sunlight, mint juleps in hand. Of course, given the fact that I’m impersonating my father, I have no idea how this daydream will ever come to pass, but one can hope.

CHAPTER TWELVE

In the afternoon, we pack for the camping trip the next day.

“I don’t know about the wisdom of sleeping in tents,” Mushu grouses. “What if we get ambushed?”

I’m comfortable with the idea of camping, having done it several times growing up and a couple times in college, but the thought of doing it with Shang’s family admittedly makes it a tad more intimidating. Still, camping is camping is camping. “And who would ambush us?”

Mushu gestures vaguely. “I don’t know, fellow whiskey competitors? Or something in the wilderness? We are kind of off the grid here, in case you haven’t noticed.”

I shake my head. “We’ve got 5G internet and fifty people working the ranch and distillery. I’d hardly call us off-grid.”

“Yeah, but we’re going to go even deeper into the wilderness, so then we’re going to definitely be off-grid. If I were a whiskey competitor, that is when I’d choose to strike.”

“Why would you choose to strike at all—You know what? Never mind. It’s fine.” I zip up my overnight bag and brush my hands off. “Done! I’m gonna go for a walk.”

“You’re not going to help me pack?” Mushu whines.

I eye the mountain of stuff she has laid out on the bed. “Why are you taking like five different serums with you?”

“Mulan, we are going to be in the sun the entire day. I need skin protection.”

“It’s an overnight trip. We’re literally only going to be gone one night.”

“Just because you’re okay with getting age spots this early in life doesn’t mean I am.” She glowers at me. “If you’re going to stand there judging my very sensible choices, then off you go. I don’t need your help.” She puts both hands on my back and nudges me out of the room.

“Okay, okay.” I laugh. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

As I walk down the hallway, I see that the various uncles and aunties are also packing. “Zhou!” Auntie Jiayi calls out. “Are you done packing?”

“Yup. Just going to go on a w—”

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