Power and Empire

Meiling willed her employer to hurry. These inspections were worse than a mere annoyance; they kept her from doing her job. She was an accomplished chef, a graduate of the Culinary Institute in Hong Kong, but the foreign minister disliked the term chef. He was the only chief in any area of his home, and that included the kitchen. Meiling and her assistant, a young woman named Yubi, should have been prepping for the dinner party, but when the foreign minister arrived, all else was put on hold — the immutable laws of science and cooking notwithstanding.

The front door flew open as if blown by an evil wind, and Foreign Minister Li strode in. He stepped out of his shoes so easily that Meiling wondered how he’d kept them on all day, and into a pair of slippers that were waiting directly in his path. Meiling had seen the minister on the television news, where he appeared to be so temperate and even-keeled. In his own home, even one step out of his desired routine to slip a toe into a slipper could send him into a spitting rage.

Slippers slapping the tile floor, Li removed his suit jacket. He dropped it as he walked, certain that Mr. Fan would be there to catch it. The poor man was so sick he nearly toppled over in the process. If Li noticed his butler was ill, he made no mention of it. One of the two girls Li called hostesses handed him a Gibson martini with three cocktail onions, while the other exchanged his day glasses for a pair of less flattering readers and four evening newspapers.

Meiling watched the way the minister looked at the two younger women. Had either of them been able to cook, she would have been sacked. Their skin was alabaster, while she was darker. A tiny mole above her upper lip stood out in stark contrast to their flawless oval faces. An American college student had once called the mole a beauty mark, but Foreign Minister Li looked as if his stomach was upset each time he saw her. Meiling dismissed it as the will of the gods. Minister Li doted on his wife, but everyone knew the hostesses had not been hired for their ability to mix a perfect Gibson martini.

Minister Li paused at the bottom of the stairs, taking a sip of his drink. The staff, even the hostesses, who surely had his ear — and more — held their collective breath.

Li peered directly at Meiling. “Add two more to the guest list. Minister Ip and is lovely wife will join us.”

Meiling teetered in place. She grabbed at her assistant’s shoulder for support as soon as Li turned to continue up the stairs. Two more guests! That was impossible, the worst of all catastrophes. The chef wasn’t worried about the food. It was to be a British feast, and, as with all feasts, there would be far too much roast lamb and too many side dishes for anyone to eat. But Mrs. Ip was going to pose a problem.

Yubi’s mouth hung half open, like she was about to be sick to her stomach. Meiling understood the feeling. “Do you have enough for Mrs. Ip?” the assistant chef asked.

Meiling closed her eyes and took a series of calming breaths, attempting to steady herself. It did not work. “I do not,” she said.

“The minister will kill you.”

“He will not kill me,” Meiling said, doubting herself even as she said the words.

“But he will say we should have been better prepared.” Yubi’s slight body shook with tension, causing her black bangs to shimmer in the light of the chandelier. “What if he blames me as well?”

Meiling thought through her limited options. She found it difficult to breathe, let alone think. At length, she turned toward the kitchen. “First we will prepare the batter for the Yorkshire puddings. It will need time to chill.”

The familiar act of breaking eggs and the comforting smell of sifted flour served to calm Meiling’s spirit. An idea began to rise in her mind like the bubbles in the whisked batter. “I will speak to Madame Li,” she said at length. If that didn’t work, there would be nothing to do but accept her fate. She would be fired, but the likelihood that the minister would actually kill her was remote.

Wasn’t it?

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