Page 27 of Nutcracker with Benefits
Nash smiles. “I do have friends outside of work.”
I hold my silence, and after a few moments, Nash relents. “She’s the girlfriend of one of my team members.”
“Ah, so work-adjacent.”
“Yes, well, it’s brought us here, and I think you’re going to love this place.”
Nash glances over my shoulder and rises, stepping out from his chair. I look back, and a young Chinese-American man is approaching. It’s slow going—he’s escorting a tiny old lady through the room towards us.
“Mr. Deng,” Nash says when they reach us.
“Mr. Darwish,” the young man returns. He looks to be about our age, taller and leaner than Nash. He’s sharply dressed, while the woman on his arm wears chef’s garb—black pants, a white, pristine chef’s jacket, and a matching skull cap.
Both men duck in a short bow, and Nash introduces me to the restaurateur.
“Please, call me Joe.” He turns towards the old woman on his arm. “This is my grandmother, Fala Deng. She runs our kitchen,” Joe says to us with an exaggerated wink.
Fala waves her hand and says something.
“Grandma says to please sit. She doesn’t speak English, so I will translate for her.” Joe himself has a New York accent but speaks to his grandmother in Mandarin. “She likes being out here, and she’s prone to causing mayhem in the kitchen.”
Nash and I take our seats, and Joe continues. “Our menu is prix fixe, focusing on one ingredient and incorporating it throughout the meal. Most of these dishes are ones my grandmother grew up making in her home in Sichuan. She cooked for four generations in one household.”
Fala says more, still gesturing with her free hand. Joe tells us an abbreviated story of Fala’s life, including leaving China and settling in New York. My admiration for the little old lady on his arm grows.
“The ingredient of the day is ginger,” Joe says, bringing our attention back to the table. “It’s used a lot in our cooking because it keeps so well and, especially on cold nights, it’s revitalizing. Western medicine has only recently caught up to Eastern medicine in understanding the benefits of ginger. It’s holistic; good for, as we would say here in America, the body and soul.”
A server appears at my elbow and places a small plate in front of me. A matching plate is set in front of Nash at the same time.
“Duck confit with ginger and red date glaze,” Joe says, and then he and his grandmother bow and wish us a good meal.
The duck skin is crisp and piping hot, the dark, moist meat arranged on top, the glaze, a thick brown like caramel, is used sparingly, and when I nimbly use the chopsticks to pop the whole amuse-bouche into my mouth, the skin snaps with a satisfying crackle.
“Oh my god,” I say around my bite, but it comes out more like “eh ma gaww.”
Nash can’t even speak. He’s just got his eyes closed while he chews.
“I don’t even want to swallow it,” I say.
We both sit in silence while we enjoy it. I gaze longingly at the drizzle of sauce on the plate.
“I’m sorry, did you say something? I think I blacked out,” Nash says.
“This is too nice of a place to lick the plate, isn’t it?”
“I have a reputation to maintain, Clara,” Nash teases.
Joe appears at my elbow. “How was it?”
“It was the best thing I ever put in my mouth,” I tell him, and then I play back those words in my head. Nash snorts, loudly, and covers his face with his napkin. “I mean, other than…obviously…”
When I gesture to Nash, he squeezes his eyes tight, shoulders shaking.
“I mean…”
Joe gazes up at the ceiling. When he finally looks back at me, the corner of his mouth trembles. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I’ll check back on you later.”
As soon as Joe is out of earshot, Nash wheezes. “That’s what she said.” The last word comes out so high and squeaky I can barely hear it.
