Crazy Rich Asians

It was only after twenty minutes that Rachel was able to step outside of her long-held prejudices and consider the situation at hand. It was true—in recent years, she hadn’t given Asian guys much of a chance. Her mother had even said, “Rachel, I know it’s hard for you to relate properly to Asian men, since you never knew your father.” Rachel found this sort of armchair analysis much too simplistic. If only it were that easy.

For Rachel, the problem began practically the day she hit puberty. She began to notice a phenomenon that occurred whenever an Asian of the opposite sex entered the room. The Asian male would be perfectly nice and normal to all the other girls, but special treatment would be reserved for her. First, there was the optical scan: the boy would assess her physical attributes in the most blatant way—quantifying every inch of her body by a completely different set of standards than he would use for non-Asian girls. How big were her eyes? Were they double-lidded naturally, or did she have that eyelid surgery? How light was her skin? How straight and glossy was her hair? Did she have good child-birthing hips? Did she have an accent? And how tall was she really, without heels on? (At five foot seven, Rachel was on the tall side, and Asian guys would sooner shoot themselves in the groin than date a taller girl.)

If she happened to pass this initial hurdle, the real test would begin. Her Asian girlfriends all knew this test. They called it the “SATs.” The Asian male would begin a not so covert interrogation focused on the Asian female’s social, academic, and talent aptitudes in order to determine whether she was possible “wife and bearer of my sons” material. This happened while the Asian male not so subtly flaunted his own SAT stats—how many generations his family had been in America; what kind of doctors his parents were; how many musical instruments he played; the number of tennis camps he went to; which Ivy League scholarships he turned down; what model BMW, Audi, or Lexus he drove; and the approximate number of years before he became (pick one) chief executive officer, chief financial officer, chief technology officer, chief law partner, or chief surgeon.

Rachel had become so accustomed to enduring the SATs that its absence tonight was strangely disconcerting. This guy didn’t seem to have the same MO, and he wasn’t relentlessly dropping names. It was baffling, and she didn’t quite know how to deal with him. He was just enjoying his Irish coffee, soaking in the atmosphere, and being perfectly charming. Sitting in the enclosed garden lit by colorful, whimsically painted lampshades, Rachel gradually began to see, in a whole new light, the person her friend had been so eager for her to meet.

She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something curiously exotic about Nicholas Young. For starters, his slightly disheveled canvas jacket, white linen shirt, and faded black jeans were reminiscent of some adventurer just returned from mapping the Western Sahara. Then there was his self-deprecating wit, the sort that all those British-educated boys were so well known for. But underlying all this was a quiet masculinity and a relaxed ease that was proving to be infectious. Rachel found herself being pulled into his conversational orbit, and before she even realized it, they were yakking away like old friends.

At a certain point, Sylvia got up from the table and announced that it was high time she went home, before her husband starved to death. Rachel and Nick decided to stay for one more drink. Which led to another drink. Which led to dinner at the bistro around the corner. Which led to gelato in Father Demo Square. Which led to a walk through Washington Square Park (since Nick insisted on escorting her back to her faculty apartment). He’s the perfect gentleman, Rachel thought, as they strolled past the fountain and the blond-dreadlocked guitarist wailing a plaintive ballad.

And you’re standing here beside me, I love the passing of time, the boy sang plaintively.

“Isn’t this Talking Heads?” Nick asked. “Listen …”

“Oh my God, it totally is! He’s singing ‘This Must Be the Place,’ ” Rachel said in surprise. She loved that Nick knew the song well enough to recognize this bastardized version.

“He’s not half bad,” Nick said, taking out his wallet and tossing a few dollars into the kid’s open guitar case.