The Golden Lychee

The Golden Lychee

By Neil L. Yuzuk

In the living room, the radio was playing—Johnny Mathis wanted a White Christmas, Leroy Anderson was on a Sleigh Ride, Nat King Cole was Roasting Chestnuts on an Open Fire, while Eartha Kitt was looking for her Santa Baby.

A heavy snowfall was predicted for Christmas Day, but for the Eve, just a slow dusting, maybe an inch or two, to transform Brooklyn into a Winter Wonderland. Her leather boots would keep her dry on the way to the Golden Lychee.

Rose Schwartz stood in the bathroom and pursed her lips as she looked in the mirror. I look pale, she thought and pinched her cheeks to redden them—Nicht gute. She touched her finger to the lipstick tube for a light schmear and rubbed a hint of red into her cheeks—just like grandma used to do it—she smiled at the memory—Better.

She fluffed her wavy brown hair, got her coat, and went into the living room to wait for Sam—he was always late.

She knew he wasn’t coming; he’d died almost a year ago. But still, she waited out of tradition—the same tradition that would take her to the Golden Lychee for Christmas dinner. They had eaten there every Christmas Eve for the past 20 years. Tradition.

The kids and the grandchildren had spent Chanukah with her, lighting the candles, eating latkes, and watching the young ones playing dreidel, when their video games didn’t seduce them. They wanted her to come with them to the Bahamas for the end-of-the-month holidays, but Rose loved seeing her city in winter, all dressed up with lights, displays, music, and the gemütlichkeit of the season.

Feh! Where would she find Chinese food and the 1951 version of “A Christmas Carol” to watch after dinner in the Bahamas? She always enjoyed how Alistair Sim portrayed the redemption of Scrooge. There was no better version, ever, of that immortal story.

As she sat, Rose thought of the warm face of Mr. Sung and how he tried to cheer her when she’d stopped in for takeout. Several times he asked her to eat in the restaurant,

“The food will be even fresher, and we will do the dishes.”

She could not. The pain was too fresh. But she spent more and more time talking with him when she stopped in. He always seemed happy to see her.

Other times, she waved to him as she passed the restaurant on the way home from work. The last time he invited her in for tea, “To warm you. The weather is so raw tonight.” They were a bit more than a mile from the ocean, and when the wind came roaring up from Sheepshead Bay, it could be brutal, even on her short seven-block walk from the Neck Road train station to her home on East 18th Street.

They sat and talked over tea and almond cookies as she told him about her children’s Chanukah visit. He pointed to the Menorah he had in the window. A friendly gesture for his Jewish customers. Later, there would be a small decorated tree in the other window. She smiled at his business acumen.

He had no religion. Mr. Sung thought of brutal gods forcing people to lead cruel lives. He did have a large statue of the laughing Budai, with arms in the air, welcoming his customers. They expect a Buddha—so a laughing, big-bellied one to greet them and encourage eating.

She remembered first meeting him as the waiter who spoke English with a slight British accent. No pidgin English for Mr. Sung. He had “Mr. Sung” on his name badge even as a waiter. He would visit their table and chat with Sam when he wasn’t busy. He would ask Sam, a banker, about the loan rates and investment opportunities. They were kindred spirits sharing business and jokes.

Do you have Chinese Jews? Sam would ask, and Mr. Sung would answer, “No, but we have apple juice, tomato juice, and orange juice. And they’d laugh at the old joke.

It is good to see her smile again, Mr. Sung thought. Her face lights up, talking about the children. His wife and children were dead in the aftermath of Mao’s Cultural Revolution. Dr. Sung had been a physician, trained in Hong Kong, who was turned out from his home to work in the fields as a common laborer. When he returned to his city, they were dead—starvation, disease, it didn’t matter—they were gone.

He made his way, first to Vietnam and then to Thailand, where he got a job as an assistant cook on a cruise ship—he started by doing every menial job in the kitchen. The Chinese-American chef liked him and helped Mr. Sung hone the cooking skills his mother had taught him.

When Chef Andy Lu left the ship to become the Chef de Cuisine at the Shun Lee Palace in Midtown Manhattan, Mr. Sung went along as the Sous Chef. At Chef Lu’s retirement, the owners offered Mr. Sung the Chef de Cuisine, but he turned it down to work and buy The Golden Lychee. It was near his Brooklyn home, and he wanted to cook for people like himself, not entitled snobs.

He implored Rose to come to Christmas Eve dinner; eventually, Rose promised him she would.

“I will save your special table for you,” he said with a smile.

“I think a different table might be best in that corner.” She pointed.

“It’s too close to the kitchen,” he protested.

“Good. The food will be fresher.”

They both laughed.

“I will save it for you.”

Rose looked up at the clock. It was time to go. Before she could put on her coat, the telephone rang.

“Hello?”

“Mamma, it’s Harry.”

“You’re checking up on me.”

“Of course . . . not,” Rose’s youngest son said. “We just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I am fine.”

“We heard the weather report that it’s snowing. Are you still going to the Golden Lychee?”

“I promised Mr. Sung I’d be there. I’m dressed, and, as usual, I’m waiting for your father.”

“Momma! You are teasing me, yes?”

“Yes, I know. I’m just being a bit silly. I promised Mister Sung I’d be there, and I never break my promises.”

“No, Momma. But the snow. You need to be careful. Maybe call an Uber?”

“What am I, an old lady? Call an Uber to go three blocks? Feh! I have the Merino scarf Mitzi gave me for Chanukah, my leather gloves, and my boots. Meanwhile, how are the children?”

“In the pool all day when they’re not in the playground.”

“Good. They are outside and not playing those fakoktah video games.”

“Tomorrow, we are taking them swimming with the dolphins. Will you be careful?”

“I’ll be careful. Kiss the kids and don’t forget to tell them it’s from me.”

“Of course, Momma. Tell Mr. Sung we send our regards.”

“I will. Bye.”

Rose closed her phone and said, “Swimming with dolphins? Oi. I never heard of such a thing. What’s next, dancing with penguins?”

One last look in the mirror before she put on her hooded and full-length mink coat. She liked the simplicity of her dress which was a deep navy blue. The sleeves were long, the neckline at her collarbone, and the hem reached just below her knees. She’d accessorized with pearl earrings, a pearl necklace, and a thin gold watch. At 49 years old, five feet and seven inches tall, her figure was still trim despite three pregnancies, and the curves were pleasant to the eye. I’m fortunate to have good genes.

She put a small purse in an inside pocket, the Merino scarf protected her throat, and she locked the door. On the porch, she buttoned her coat, pulled on her leather gloves, carefully put up her hood, and headed up the street. The snow was falling gently, and she could see individual flakes settle on her coat. The wind was gone, and the usual cacophony of the city was hushed by the snowfall. The streetlights were haloed, and the few cars moving down the street were as silent as a hunting leopard. Ice had not formed, so Rose walked quickly to her appointed dinner.

Some of the houses still had menorahs lit in the windows, but most of her neighbors had their homes outlined with the holiday lights she loved. Some windows showed into living rooms with decorated trees. And as she passed, Rose could hear the faint strains of holiday music.

Mr. Sung rushed from behind the cash register to take her coat and scarf at the Golden Lychee. Those went into a closet behind the counter.

“I am so pleased you are here,” he said with a smile.

Rose looked around the room and saw happy families and couples enjoying their dinners. “Thank you for inviting me,” she said with a grace she did not feel.

Taking his proffered arm, Mr. Sung guided her to an alcove near the fireplace, usually reserved for larger parties.

“I have saved this table for you so you might have some privacy,” he said as he held her chair for her. He sat opposite her.

“As Sam would tell you, it is not good business to seat one where six might sit.”

“Tonight, you are my special guest and not a customer. I have prepared a dinner to tempt your palate and to satisfy your soul.”

 “Are you going to take me out of my comfort zone?” Rose asked, slightly panicked.

“My dear Mrs. Schwartz, Chinese food is more than egg rolls, spare ribs, and sweet and sour chicken. Please trust me; I will not bring you anything you would not eat.”

“I am in your hands.”

“Good.” He waved his hand, and the waiter brought a tray holding a small brown bottle with elegant Chinese writing in gold and two crystal-clear glasses with wide bowls and lipped tops. He opened the bottle and slowly poured an inch of an almost purple wine into each glass.

Mr. Sung handed one glass to Rose and said, “This wine is called Laojiao Zisha Baijiu. Please swirl it to release its flavor and catch the aroma before you taste it.”

Rose followed his lead and paused before drinking.

“A toast to missing friends,” Mr. Sung offered.

Rose touched her glass to his and said, “And to new ones.”

“Agreed.”

Rose let the wine touch her tongue and slowly drank it. “It’s very pleasant.”

“It is designed to stimulate your appetite. This wine goes back for 2,000 years.”

“Tradition,” Rose said as she took another sip.

“Yes, something we have in common. I will bring you your first course, a Chinese salad,” Mr. Sung said as he left the table.

Rose watched as he walked away. He is a nice-looking man, intelligent and engaging, she thought. A real mensch, and then she blushed with guilt, remembering Sam.

“I think you’ll enjoy this,” he said as he put a large round dish down that held cut cucumbers. “It is Chinese smashed cucumbers with garlic,” Mr. Sung placed a small plate in front of Rose with a beautiful set of Wakasa blue-frost chopsticks inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

“Are there no crispy noodles to dip into duck sauce tonight?”

He smiled and said, “Tonight is a time to try new things. Please,” He watched Rose’s face light up as she tasted her first cucumber.

“Delicious. Will I get my Wonton soup?”

“Yes, but not as you think. I’ll be right back.”

When he returned, he placed a round double-decked bamboo box on the table. When he took the top off, inside were a number of fat dumplings and a small saucer with dark brown sauce.

“This is Xiao long bao. It is a special delicacy from Shanghai. Be very gentle when you pick it up. Do not squeeze it,” he cautioned, “or you may use this.” He handed her a Chinese soup spoon that matched the chopsticks. Then she noticed the dishware and napkins were the same pattern.

Rose followed his instructions, and when she bit into the dumpling, the soup inside the dumpling filled her mouth. “This is wonderful,” she said as she reached for a second one.

“Try dipping it into the sauce; it is a black vinegar with ginger.”

Rose dipped her second dumpling and said, “I think I like it better without the sauce. I love how the flavor of the soup and the meat inside combine in taste. Oh, where are my manners? Please join me, Mr. Sung. Share dinner with me.”

“Oh, no, I could not . . .”

“Yes, you can. I don’t like eating alone.” Rose paused and said, “You are a friend, and friends should dine together.”

If she only knew, Mr. Sung thought but said, “Let me have someone take over the telephone and cash register, and I will join you.”

“Good,” Rose said, having overcome her guilty feelings. Sam had always said she was the pragmatist in their marriage.

When Mr. Sung returned, he had a place setting for himself, and he helped himself to the remaining cucumbers and the dumplings.

“Mr. Sung, you never talk about your family; why is that?”

“It is a difficult story, Mrs. Schwartz.”

“Rose, my name is Rose; please use it. What is your first name?”

“Mrs. . . . Rose. Rose, you are very much like that most beautiful flower.”

Rose laughed and said coyly, “First, you ply me with wine, then delicious food, and now flattery?! Mr. Sung, you have hidden virtues.”

Mr. Sung blushed at her response. She can be a coquette, he thought. This is a side of her I’ve never seen. “My Chinese name was Bojing, but when I became an American citizen, I took David as my first name in honor of the man who overcame great difficulty and slew the giant, Goliath.”

“David . . . David Bojing Sung. Hmm. Are you as King David with many wives?”

“I think one wife can be difficult enough to love. Two or more? Impossible.”

“You are married?”

David shook his head no and said, “Once . . .” He quickly covered his face with his napkin. He held the napkin for a moment, and when he took it away, his face was dry. “It was a difficult time in my life.”

Rose reached out and took his hands in hers. He tried to break contact, but her grip held him. “David, you know my story. Now tell me yours.”

He looked at Rose’s face; there was kindness in her eyes. He marveled at her beauty and that they were sitting holding hands. Her hands were soft like silk and yet firm. He wanted to share his experiences for the first time, and his story came in a rush, like the river when its dam breaks.

When the waiter brought them the main course, he pulled his hands away. It is not proper to show affection in front of my staff.

“Ah, I recognize my barbequed pork fried rice, but what is this?” Rose pointed to a dish of minced chicken breast with mushrooms, water chestnuts, and celery over crispy noodles and crisp leaves of lettuce. There was a side dish of white rice with it.

“It is called chicken lettuce wrap. Put some into the lettuce leaf wrap, and try it.”

Rose tried it and shook her head. “The lettuce tastes foreign; I prefer it by itself.”

Rose spooned white rice, fried rice, and the wrap filling on her dish. For some reason, she mixed them, added a bit of Hoisin sauce, and tasted her new creation.

“This is wonderful. The white rice tempers the heavy flavors, while the crunchy noodles enhance the texture. Excellent.”

David laughed at her spontaneity and said, “As long as you like it, Rose.”

“I love it,” Rose said with a laugh.

As they ate, David continued with the good years working as a physician, the early days of marriage, and the children.

David was about to tell Rose about the days of evil when a waiter brought dessert. It was a small, layered round cake topped with a red flower.

“Where are my lychees in sweet sauce and my fortune cookies?” Rose asked.

“This is a lychee cake filled with a rosé yogurt mousse. Try it, please.”

Rose used a fork to cut into the small cake and first caught the aroma before eating it. “Smells good.” She tasted it and exclaimed, “Oh, my. It’s like a party going on in my mouth. You’d better take some before I eat it all. I can see I’ll need to diet for all of January.”

As the customers gradually left, they continued to talk, some first coming to their table to wish David, ‘Happy Holidays.’ Then the staff, after cleaning up, followed them. Alone, they sat side-by-side in front of the crackling fire, sometimes touching hands, sharing stories, and drinking green tea.

When the fire had died down to embers, David said, “It is time to get you home. The snowfall is increasing.”

Bundled against the cold, they walked arm in arm. The accumulated snow crunched under their boots, but on top, it was still light and powdery, kicking up in a fine mist as they walked slowly to Rose’s house.

On the porch, as they said goodnight, Rose looked intently at David and asked, “I always watch the movie ‘A Christmas Carol’ tonight; would you like to join me?”

“Yes, I would,” David said as he stepped into the hallway.