He crossed the lobby and rode the elevator up. He was here to introduce Nephew to a seafood purveyor named Wang Shi, whom they all delighted in calling the Master of the Nets, after Wangshi Yuan, the Garden of the Master of the Nets, which was a famous place in Suzhou. Homophonous humor – Wang Shi being close in sound to Wangshi, though the characters were different – was one of Mandarin’s little pleasures. Wang had heard the nickname and approved. Association with such a sublime and enduring work of art as this garden was a compliment, and he knew it.
Jiang was here to ask Wang to take Nephew as a customer. For success, the boy needed a peerless purveyor of fresh fish. Yuan Mei himself said that the credit for a great dinner went forty percent to the steward and only sixty percent to the cook. A mackerel is a mackerel, but in point of excellence two mackerel will differ as much as ice and live coals. So the great man had written, two hundred and twelve years before. Yes, Jiang knew how vital it was to help the boy get the right source for fish.
Nephew already had a source who did preserved seafood, top-grade dried shrimp and squid and cuttlefish from all over China. This man sold the best miniature smoke-dried fish from Hunan and the subtlest, most musky freshwater river moss from the Yangtze delta, so beloved for mincing with dried tofu in a cold plate, and adding a complex marine taste to the batter for fried fish… Perhaps, Jiang thought with a dart of excitement, this could be next year’s lecture. Preserved seafood and aquatic vegetables.
Seafood became prized very early in China’s history. Everyone demanded it, even the vast population in the interior. Preserved seafood – dried, salted, or smoked – was soon sought after and expensive, for it yielded powerful flavors all its own. It often cost more than fresh. Perhaps, thought Jiang, Nephew should prepare for this contest a tangle of tiny silver fish – crispy, slightly smoky, lightly salty, almost dry, with a touch of sauce and wafer-thin rings of bright-colored hot pepper…
But to fresh and live fish. This was what Nephew now needed. Unfortunately the Master of the Nets was much too exclusive to take new customers. Still, he was an old friend. Jiang had to try.
“Uncle,” the boy had said, “he doesn’t take anyone.”
“Speak reasonably,” Jiang had reproved him. “I’ve known him a long time.”
And so the boy had come, and waited here in Wang’s reception area, with its tanks and its refrigerators. It was smart to have the office this way. Fish was visceral. It had to be seen, smelled, observed. Ah! Jiang thought. It would be good to see his old friend again.
“Liang Cheng,” he said to Nephew with affection. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, Uncle.” Sam rose. “You?”
“Yes. What about your travel? Did you get a ticket to see Third Uncle?”
“No. I’ve tried everything. I can’t get a seat anywhere. Not for a week.”
“I fear he will not last that long.”
“I know.”
The click of the door, and they stood as a solid man with a bull’s neck and white hair bobbled out. Wang Shi. He had a jovial mouth and small eyes that lifted happily when he saw Jiang.
Right behind Wang came another man, young, floppy-haired – it was Pan Jun. Sam knew him. He was one of the ten competitors, a young lion of Shandong cuisine. He was a customer of the Master? How was that possible? He was not so very famed for his skills. Indeed, he was one of the lesser-ranked chefs among the ten contestants. Sam was surprised he’d even been chosen.
“Good to see you!” Sam said, jumping to his feet. “How’s it going? Are you day and night working? I know I am.”
“Oh, yes.” Pan rolled his eyes. “I never sleep.”
Sam grinned in his frank Midwestern way, which worked to dissolve the whiff of rivalry. “I wish you luck,” said Sam.
“Same to you,” Pan said with a smile.
“But you will both prevail!” Mr. Wang cried. “There are two northern slots on the team – is it not so?”
Yes, yes, they all smiled at each other. But there were others, eight of them, and they were very good. Especially Yao. Pan Jun said his goodbyes and moved toward the door.
Finally all the warm wishes were finished and the door closed, and at that moment Wang changed abruptly. He burst with apologies. “Old Jiang! Esteemed friend! And your nephew, of whom so much has been heard – how miserable I am to have kept the two of you waiting! It could not be helped! When Pan stopped by, I was as a fish swimming in a cooking pot. I had to drop everything. And not because of his cuisine, for all say that you outshine him – you and Yao Weiguo both. That’s the real battle, isn’t it? You and Yao! But oh, there is no question, when Pan arrives I must jump.”
“Why is that?” Jiang asked.
“You do not know? He is the son of Pan Hongjia.”
This brought a gasp from First Uncle.
“Who’s Pan Hongjia?” Sam said.
First Uncle whispered to him in English, invoking a moment’s shield of privacy. “He is the vice minister of culture.”
Sam’s heart dropped. All the hidden parts of the pattern came suddenly into view. “I see.”
“And the Ministry of Culture is the danwei over this event.”
“Right.” Sam knew what that meant. It was more than just rank. He was cooked. Cronyism, for better or worse, was how China worked. The key was to always know it, to always be aware, be Chinese. Face the truth.
If Pan Jun was a vice minister’s son he would certainly be given one of the two northern spots on the team.
That meant one spot left. That one would be between himself and Yao.
“Fu shui nan shou,” First Uncle said softly now, in his ear, Spilled water is hard to gather. “You must go ahead.”
Sam nodded.
The old man turned to the Master of the Nets. “Old friend,” he said. “Dear friend. This will be a battle to the finish line; you can see that. You and I have known each other a long time. Young Liang needs the finest, the freshest fish.”
Wang Shi nodded. “Wo tongyi,” I agree. He hooked a puffy, inclusive hand around each. “Come inside.”
Sam felt a glad rush of surprise. “Zhen bang,” he said, Great. He walked with them into the rear office, the wide double entry open. This is the back door, the hou men, he thought, glancing up at the frame as it passed over his head. Right now I am walking through it. He watched First Uncle and Wang Shi exchange smiles. “My old friend,” he heard Wang Shi say. “How good it is to see you.”
Maggie’s cell phone rang. It was a long number, a phone in China. Not Sam’s, though. That one she already knew. “Hello?”