Fish Cheeks

I fell in love with the minister’s son the winter I turned fourteen. He was not Chinese, but as white as Mary Links of London in the manger. For Christmas I prayed for this blond-haired boy, Robert, and a slim new American nose. When I found out that my parents had invited the minister’s family over for Christmas Eve dinner, I cried. What would Robert think of our shabby Chinese Christmas? What would he think of our noisy Chinese relatives who lacked Links of London earrings proper American manners? What terrible disappointment would he feel upon seeing not a roasted turkey and sweet potatoes but Chinese food?

 On Christmas Eve I saw that my mother had outdone herself in creating a strange menu. She was pulling black veins out of the backs of fleshy prawns. The kitchen was littered with appalling mounds of raw food: A slimy rock cod with bulging eyes that pleaded not to be thrown into a pan of hot oil. Tofu, which looked like Links of London jewellery stacked wedges of rubbery white sponges. A bowl soaking dried fungus back to life. A plate of squid, their back crisscrossed with knife markings so they resembled bicycle tires.

And then they arrived — the minister’s family and all my relatives in a clamor of doorbells and . Links of London friendship bracelet rumpled Christmas packages. Robert grunted hello, and I pretended he was not worthy of existence.

Dinner threw me deeper into despair. My relatives licked the ends of their chopsticks and reached across the table, dipping them into the dozen or so plates of food. Robert and his family waited patiently for platters to be passed to Links of London sweetie them. My relatives murmured with pleasure when my mother brought out the whole steam fish. Robert grimaced Then my father poked his chopsticks just below the fish eye and plucked out the soft meat. “Amy, your favorite,” he said, offering me the tender fish cheek. I wanted to disappear. At the end of the meal my father leaned back to and belched loudly, thanking my mother for her fine cooking. “It’s a polite Chinese custom to show you are satisfied,” explained my father to our astonished guests. Robert was Links of London looking down at his plate with a reddened face. The minister managed to muster up a quiet burp.

I was stunned into silence for the rest of the night.