Free Kitchen Chinese by Ann Mah Page B

Eggs and batter are running all over the street! I have to go help him.”
    “Your brother also sells jianbing ?”
    “Yeah…he rents a cart from me, so do a couple of people from my hometown.”
    “How many carts do you own?”
    “Oh, only about thirty right now. When I save up some money, I buy another one and rent it out to someone from my village. I’d like to have one on every street in Beijing!”
    “Like McDonald’s!” I joke.
    “Exactly,” he says seriously. “ Jianbing are part of China’s culture and cuisine. And this is the right time to expand. Right now, in Beijing, anything is possible.” He clips a plastic lid on his bucket of batter, secures a few cartons of eggs with rubber bands, and walks to the front of the cart where he swings a leg over the bicycle-style seat.
    “Zaijian!” he calls out. Good-bye. “I’m here every morning. I hope you’ll bring your foreign friends to eat jianbing .”
    I take another enormous bite as he pedals away. The growl in my stomach subsides, satisfied by delicious crepe, and I walk slowly to the office through narrow streets, pausing occasionally to examine the other bing on offer.
     
    S unday morning. Outside, the sky is dark with rain and the heavy, hanging pollution I’m beginning to associate with Beijing. But inside it’s bright and dry, a cozy nest far from the deluge that streaks the streets. Claire has disappeared for the weekend. “We’re riding Harleys out to Weiwei’s house in Huairou, darling. You’ll be all right, won’t you?” she’d called out while cramming Seven jeans and silk pajamas into her LV overnight bag. Too embarrassed to remind her that she said we’d hang this weekend, I waved her off with an assured smile.
    Now, as rain streams across the windows, I decide to recreate a bit of my former New York life, reading the weekend paper while eating a tender cheese omelet. Claire may be enjoying a weekend of pampering at her friend Weiwei’s cold, concrete-and-glass country house—more postmodern showcase than home, from what I can tell by the spread in Elle Décor China —but I can indulge in my own lazy morning. After the stress of last week, I feel like I deserve it.
    Ed liked my article on Beijing’s bounty of bing , but was nonplussed that Lily would have to double-check the Chinese. “Speaking Chinese is part of your job, Isabelle,” he bellowed, sweat breaking out on his forehead. “I don’t give a shit about your identity crisis! Improve it .”
    “I know I should make more of an effort.” I glanced guiltily at Geraldine. “I mean, I am Chinese.”
    She shrugged. “You don’t see me learning Polish. Anyway, don’t worry. Your Chinese will get better. Just give it time. I can help you find a tutor.”
    “What she needs is a Chinese boyfriend!” barked Ed.
    But as I hover over the newsstand counter in our apartment lobby, I find myself hampered by the language once again.
    “Do you have the International Herald Tribune ?” I ask.
    The blank look on the shop girl’s face indicates she doesn’t understand me, so I make a weak effort to ask in Chinese. “Guoji…shenme shenme baozhi .” International…something something newspaper.
    Nothing.
    The image of myself spending a happy morning lounging at the kitchen table, mulling over the crossword puzzle, is slipping away.
    Determined, I make a final attempt. “Guoji…shenme shenme baozhi?” Inside, I’m cringing.
    “Guoji Xianqu Daobao,” I hear a voice say. “Is this what you’re looking for?” A paper is placed upon the counter, fresh and new with the seductive scent of newsprint.
    “Yes!” I exclaim. Turning around, I find a grave young man, politely attentive with tousled light brown hair and tortoiseshell glasses.
    “Thank you so much.” I gush to cover up my scrutiny. “But, I’m afraid this might be the last paper…”
    “That’s okay. I’m getting too addicted to the crossword anyway. I’m Charlie, by the way.” His voice is