“Ta made niao!” Goddamn it. My uncle’s cousin was standing over his niece’s boyfriend, the new hire in charge of the wok station. “You call this dan dan noodles.” The young kid was looking up at him nervously. “Yes?” The back of his head was hit. “That was a rhetorical question. This is limp noodles.” I could see the vein popping out from his neck. “What are you doing! Start again.” There was a scared hurry to dump the wok contents out and pour in new water set of actions occurring right in front of me.

I probably should step in before the vein bursts. “Tang ge!” He turned around and slowly smiled. “Lina, come give your uncle a hug.” I smiled as I hugged his large rotund body. “I heard from tang jie you were making the menu for tonight.” His smile got wider, and a proud look popped up on his face. “Of course, I am. Your baba needs the best cook in the family for meeting his daughter’s soon to be husband.” I let my eyes drift over all the ingredients spread out around the kitchen. A nervous smile on my face. “And that duck over there by Mr. Shu.” He looked at me confused. “It’s for the Beijing kaoya. You know that.” My finger rose to point at the station just a bit away from him. “And the chicken feet by Ms. Lan.” My uncle was beginning to look at me worried. “It’s for the chi zhi feng zhao.”

A loud groan escaped my lips. “There isn’t supposed to be any authentic Chinese food at dinner tonight.” The entire kitchen staff stopped what they were doing. Suddenly, the loud noises of an overly packed Chinese restaurant flooded into the kitchen. Now that there were no screaming chefs or knives chopping to cover over it. My uncle looked at me very concerned. “Did you hit your head?” His hand reached out for me, but I swatted it away. “I’m completely fine. It’s this meal that’s not.” A small smile appeared on his face again. “Ai-yah, the limp noodles were thrown out. Everything else is going to be perfectly fine.” I found myself pointing at the duck again. “I’m not talking about Ted’s limp noodles. I’m talking about the duck-” I turned to point at the chicken feet after. “And the chicken feet.”  Being on the shorter side he had to really stretch to see what was on the other side of the kitchen. “They look just fine to me.”

What was wrong with this family of mine? “They shouldn’t even be here. Jacob’s parents aren’t going to eat roast duck or chicken feet.” The rest of the kitchen started working again as my uncle glared at them first before responding. “Once they take a bite, they’ll love it. “I shook my head wildly. “You don’t get it. They won’t even take a bite. These people aren’t Chinese.” He waved the thought away. “Once they smell the food and see how juicy the meat is they’ll take a bite. Then they’ll love it.”  The large roar of a fire caught our attention. My uncle ran over to hit his niece’s boyfriend’s head again. “Are you trying to burn this place down!” He was shooed away from the wok station as my uncle’s more practiced hands took over. “Can’t even use a wok right.” My uncle started to enter his own world as the mumbling grew quieter and his eyes sharper. All of his attention was turning to the wok and the food that needed to go into it.

“Tang ge!” I shouted, hoping to be heard. His hands kept moving as he turned his head to look back at me. “It’s fine. It’s fine.” I marched right over to him. “You can’t serve the Hoffmans any duck or chicken feet. Do you hear me?” He nodded his head and waved me off. “I hear you. I hear you. Go help your mom with the table. I need to fix this or there will be no dinner tonight.” There was no point in arguing with a chef when he was too concerned about his kitchen, so I walked out, but before I left the area I stopped. The dishwashers were talking about our conversation. They seemed to always assume I could not understand Mandarin. No matter how many times I spoke with them in it.

Dishwasher #1: What’s her problem with duck and chicken feet?

Dishwasher #2: It’s not her. It’s her fancy American boyfriend’s parents.

Dishwasher #1: Wode ma ya. Oh my god. Her parents are letting her date an American boy.

Dishwasher #3: His family’s loaded.

Dishwasher #2: All those Jewish families are.

Dishwasher #1: What will happen to the restaurant?

Dishwasher #3: The same thing that happened to every other good Chinese restaurant, American customers.

Dishwasher #2: Ai’ya, don’t be so pessimistic. Nothing’s changing yet.

Dishwasher #1: Yet!?

Dishwasher #3: Trust me. It won’t take long for sushi specials and panda images to end up on our menu.

I sighed. That’s not what I was trying to do. The restaurant was perfect the way it was. Where else could you find a place so noisily mixed with Cantonese speaking Hong Kongers, Hokkien speaking Singaporeans and Mandarin speaking mainlanders? Or ABCs like me. All I wanted was one night where my fiancé’s parents could meet the family and not assume there was cat meat hiding in one of the dishes. Instead, Jacob was going to introduce his family to xiao long bao and we’d laugh at the soup spilling on their shirts after their first bite. Then to make it up to them I was going to hand over a napkin and win them with my charm and good manners.

Dishwasher #1: Look out!

Dishwasher #2: That’s huge!

Dishwasher #3: Did they get a whole pig?

My eyes went wide. They didn’t. The sound of a heavy object falling onto a metal table echoed. I found myself turning around so quickly to run into the kitchen. “Not a whole pig! They’re Jewish!”