The train is coming, I speed up, run to Mom, Curry Boy follows. The moment we met, I opened my arms and hugged Mom.
Later I realised, hugs have different types. My 6-year-old niece, Hailey, would run and jump over me with all her limbs tightly grabbing me – that’s a hot, enthusiastic and pure hug. When I hug Curry Boy, chest to chest, and our heads lean against each other – it’s a loving hug. When I see my friends, our bodies position as a triangle, we put our arms on each other’s back, our heads are side by side, but our chests don’t touch each other – it’s a greeting hug. And I gave Mom the latter one.
During these years, we video call once a week. I mostly listen to Mom’s talking – about her interaction with her partner CK, what did they cook, or the fight between my aunties and uncles, or gossip about her friends. I talk less, comparatively, as my life in the UK, or before in Germany, is like a quiet village life. But as we were accompanying each other in the train compartment, we both tried to look for something to say, searching for something in our minds, as if to fill the gap like the way we hugged.
Mom’s outlook didn’t change much. She accessorised her right ring finger with a pea-sized well-cut diamond ring and a shiny silver bracelet on the left hand, reflecting her long awaited happiness with CK. She claimed she’d gained some weight on the belly throughout these years, but I didn’t aware, only noticed her upper eyelids folding downwards than before I could remember, like the Garfield cat, but not that much though. Perhaps it’s called ageing.
This first dinner of the trip didn’t come easily. It involved a certain level of adjustment, restaurant research, guest invitation, and a no-needed but did happen – Mom and daughter’s conflict intensification.
Days before the trip, Mom and I were discussing where to have dinner with Grandma. Grandma is in her 80’s, but she’s healthy and can walk with a stick. Mom said Grandma was willing to go anywhere easily accessible to us, since we would be very tired after the long-haul flight. But Mom tended to go to a local Chinese restaurant called Ho Choi near Grandma’s home, where Grandma goes yum cha everyday. But I prefer somewhere new to everybody, and most importantly, the food should be good. So I was interested in a Michelin-recommended Fujian specialities restaurant called Putien. When Mom told me she decided to go to Ho Choi despite Grandma offering generous flexibility and my preference, I needed to ask why.
‘Just go to Ho Choi. Grandma can’t go so far, so Ho Choi is good.’ Mom tried to explain.
‘But Grandma said anywhere is okay. Plus, Putien is just 10 min’s bus from where she lives.’
‘You don’t understand. Ho Choi’s food suits uncles’ tastes. They like to drink beer.’ (See? the reason changed from easy accessibility to uncles’ taste)
‘I believe there is beer in Putien.’
‘Ho Choi is much cheaper! I just wanna help save you some money.’
‘I’m willing to pay more if the food is good.’
‘You mean Ho Choi doesn’t serve up to your standard?’ (Mom tried to challenge me)
‘I don’t want to eat the same old kind of Cantonese food! I want something new and of good quality!’
‘You just let me decide this time! I’ve already informed your uncles.’ (And now she has no more reason to defend herself)
‘Okay, do whatever you want, I’ve no choice.’ I couldn’t help but rolling my eyes.
‘You rolled your eyes.’
‘Because you’ve decided everything.’ I still don’t want to give up, not so easily. ‘You mentioned you don’t want to ask uncles again, I can do this part. Just give me their contact.’
‘If you gonna ask them, of course they’ll say yes.’ (That’ll be good, right? What’s the problem?)
‘I’ll find out, just give me the contact.’
Soon after we hung up, Mom sent me a photo written of my uncles’ contact, and I sent out the messages. As expected, without any problems, Putien would be our first dinner venue.
‘Mom, please help call for a reservation.’ I texted her.
Dinner went okay, at least for us. Curry Boy and I both liked the food, especially because it offered more vegetarian options than any ordinary Cantonese restaurant. But not everyone felt the same. Mom said the set menu was too expensive, and uncles also didn’t drink any beer since one small bottle of Qingdao beer costs $38, despite I told them not to worry, just order. The next day, Mom told me that one of my uncles ate noodles after they went back home, although some food was left but nobody ate it. I couldn’t understand the logic behind it. Perhaps they simply didn’t like the food at all. Curry Boy said to me, ‘That’s their choice, and there’s nothing you can do.’ Then I recalled what Mom said and maybe she was correct. A beer mark at the right price can compliment a dinner and spark joy, and some people just want to have the same old food every day.
(To be continued)
