Crazy Rich Asians

“Really? Who’s your daughter?” Rachel asked politely. Just then, she heard a high-pitched squeal right behind her. “Nicky! I’ve missed you!” a distinctive voice exclaimed. A chill came over Rachel. It was Francesca Shaw, greeting Nick with a tight bear hug and a kiss on the cheek. Before she could react, Francesca put on her biggest smile and swooped down on Rachel with another double-cheek kiss. “Rachel, lovely to see you so soon again!”

“Oh, were you at Araminta’s bachelorette party?” Nick asked.

“Of course I was. We all had such a gloooorious time, didn’t we, Rachel? Such a beautiful island, and wasn’t the food marvelous? I heard you particularly enjoyed the fish course.”

“Yes, it was quite an experience,” Rachel replied slowly, stunned by Francesca’s remarks. Was she admitting responsibility for the mutilated fish? She noticed that Francesca’s lipstick had left a bright red imprint on Nick’s cheek.

“I’m not sure if you remember my cousin Astrid,” Nick said to Francesca.

“Of course!” Francesca rushed to greet her with a hug. Astrid stiffened up, taken aback by how familiar Francesca was being. Francesca scrutinized Astrid from head to toe. She was wearing a white drape-front silk georgette dress with navy blue trim. The cut is so perfect, it must be couture. But who’s the designer?

“What a fantastic dress!” Francesca said.

“Thank you. You look lovely in red,” Astrid responded.

“Valentino, of course,” Francesca replied, pausing to wait for Astrid to reveal the designer of her outfit. But Astrid did not reciprocate. Without missing a beat, Francesca turned to Nick’s mother and gushed, “What a fabulous place, Auntie Elle! I want to move in right now. It’s all so Morris Lapidus, so Miami Modern! It makes me want to throw on a Pucci caftan and order a whiskey sour.”

“Wah, Francesca, you hit it right on the head,” Eleanor said in delight. “Everybody, we’re going to do something different tonight — we’re all going to makan in my little kitchen,” she announced as she led her guests into a kitchen that to Rachel seemed anything but little. The cavernous space looked like a gourmand’s idea of what heaven might be — a gleaming temple of white Calacatta marble, stainless-steel surfaces, and state-of-the-art appliances. A chef in white uniform stood by the commercial-grade Viking stove, busy monitoring bubbling copper pots, while three kitchen maids scurried around making final preparations. At the far end was an alcove with an art deco diner-style banquette.

As they took their seats, Carol glanced over at the chef deftly ladling crimson broth into large white clay soup bowls. “Wah, Eleanor — I feel like I’m dining at the chef’s table of some chichi restaurant,” she said.

“Isn’t it fun?” Eleanor said merrily. She looked at Rachel and said, “I was never allowed to set foot in the kitchen at my mother-in-law’s house. Now I get to eat in my own kitchen, and actually watch the food being cooked!” Rachel smiled in amusement — here was a woman who obviously had never cooked a meal in her life but seemed to relish the novelty of being inside a kitchen.

“Well, I love to cook. I can only dream of one day having a kitchen as beautiful as yours, Mrs. Young,” Rachel said.

Eleanor smiled graciously. I’m sure you can — with my son’s money.

“Rachel is an amazing cook. Without her, I’d probably be eating ramen noodles every night,” Nick added.

“That would be just like you,” Daisy commented. She looked at Rachel and said, “I used to call Nicky my ‘Noodle Boy’—he was always so crazy over noodles as a kid. We would take him to the top restaurants in Singapore, and all he ever wanted was a plate of fried noodles with extra gravy.”

As she said this, three maids entered the dining alcove and placed large steaming bowls of laksa noodle soup in front of each guest. Rachel marveled at the beautiful composition of butterfly shrimp, fried fish cake, pillowy tofu puffs, and hard-boiled egg halves beautifully arranged over the thick rice vermicelli and fiery soup. For a few minutes, the room lapsed into silence as everyone slurped down the distinctive noodles and savored the rich broth.

“I can taste the coconut milk in the soup, but what gives it the slightly tart, spicy kick? Is it Kaffir?” Rachel asked.

Show-off, Eleanor thought.

“Good guess. It’s tamarind,” Daisy answered. This girl wasn’t bullshitting — she does know how to cook.

“Rachel, it’s so impressive that you know your way around a spice rack,” Francesca chirped, her fake-friendly tone barely masking her disdain.

“Apparently not as well as you know how to gut a fish,” Rachel commented.

“You girls went fishing?” Philip looked up from his laksa in surprise.