Crazy Rich Asians

“Wah, nay gor nuay pang yau gum laeng, ah! Faai di git fun!” Ling Cheh commented, grasping Rachel’s hand gently. Nick grinned, blushing a little. Rachel didn’t understand Cantonese, so she just smiled, while Astrid quickly translated. “Ling Cheh just teased Nick about how pretty his lady friend is.” As they proceeded down the stairs, she whispered to Rachel, “She also ordered him to marry you soon!” Rachel simply giggled.

A buffet supper had been set up in the conservatory, an elliptical-shaped room with dramatic frescoed walls of what appeared from a distance to be a dreamy, muted Oriental scene. On closer inspection, Rachel noticed that while the mural did evoke classical Chinese mountainscapes, the details seemed to be pure Hieronymus Bosch, with strange, lurid flowers climbing up the walls and iridescent phoenixes and other fantastical creatures hiding in the shadows. Three enormous round tables gleamed with silver chafing dishes, and arched doorways opened onto a curved colonnaded terrace where white wrought-iron bistro tables lit with tall votives awaited the diners. Cassian continued to squirm in Nick’s arms, wailing even louder, “I want choco-cake!”

“I think what he really wants is S-L-E-E-P,” his mother commented. She tried to take her son back from Nick, but the child began to whimper.

“I sense a crying fit on the way. Let’s take him to the nursery,” Nick offered. “Rachel, why don’t you get started? We’ll be back in a minute.”

Rachel marveled at the sheer variety of food that had been laid out. One table was filled with Thai delicacies, another with Malaysian cuisine, and the last with classic Chinese dishes. As usual, she was a bit at a loss when confronted with a huge buffet. She decided to start one cuisine at a time and began at the Chinese table with a small helping of E-fu noodles and seared scallops in ginger sauce. She came upon a tray of exotic-looking golden wafers folded into little top hats. “What in the world are these?” she wondered aloud.

“That’s kueh pie tee, a nyonya dish. Little tarts filled with jicama, carrots, and shrimp. Try one,” a voice behind her said. Rachel looked around and saw the dapper man in the white linen suit who had been sitting next to Nick’s grandmother. He bowed in a courtly manner and introduced himself. “We never met properly. I’m Oliver T’sien, Nick’s cousin.” Yet another Chinese relative with a British accent, but his sounded even plummier than the rest.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Rachel—”

“Yes, I know. Rachel Chu, of Cupertino, Palo Alto, Chicago, and Manhattan. You see, your reputation precedes you.”

“Does it?” Rachel asked, trying not to sound too surprised.

“It certainly does, and I must say you’re much more fetching than I was led to believe.”

“Really, by whom?”

“Oh, you know, the whispering gallery. Don’t you know how much the tongues have been wagging since you’ve arrived?” he said mischievously.

“I had no clue,” Rachel said a little uneasily, walking out onto the terrace with her plate, looking for Nick or Astrid but not seeing them anywhere. She noticed one of Nick’s aunties — the lady in the Chanel suit — looking toward her expectantly.

“There’s Dickie and Nancy,” Oliver said. “Don’t look now — I think they’re waving to you. God help us. Let’s start our own table, shall we?” Before Rachel could answer, Oliver grabbed her plate from her hand and walked it over to a table at the far end of the terrace.

“Why are you avoiding them?” Rachel asked.

“I’m not avoiding them. I’m helping you avoid them. You can thank me later.”

“Why?” Rachel pressed on.

“Well, first of all, they are insufferable name-droppers, always going on and on about their latest cruise on Rupert and Wendi’s yacht or their lunch with some deposed European royal, and second, they aren’t exactly on your team.”

“What team? I didn’t realize I was on any team.”

“Well, like it or not, you are, and Dickie and Nancy are here tonight precisely to spy for the opposition.”

“Spying?”

“Yes. They mean to pick you apart like a rotting carcass and serve you up as an amuse-bouche the next time they’re invited to dine in the Home Counties.”

Rachel had no idea what to make of his outlandish statement. This Oliver seemed like a character straight out of an Oscar Wilde play. “I’m not sure I follow,” she finally said.

“Don’t worry, you will. Just give it another week — I’d peg you for a quick study.”

Rachel assessed Oliver for a minute. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with short, meticulously combed hair and small round tortoiseshell glasses that only accentuated his longish face. “So how exactly are you related to Nick?” she asked. “There seem to be so many different branches of the family.”