Freedom by Catherine Wang
Boss, we have a problem.
I hear Little Gu’s frantic whisper through my walkie talkie. Little Gu is only three years out of college and already my best worker.
I survey our tables as I walk towards him. Rush hour has passed, and we are winding down service. The businesspeople have already wheeled in their suitcases, asked my workers for to-go boxes, and wheeled their suitcases out, to catch whatever train or plane awaits them. The older couples have already slurped their soft foods and sipped their cups of tea, sitting silently across from each other. The sleep-deprived parents have wrangled and fed their screaming children, leaving sticky stains on the tables for my workers to scrub. Only young couples and older families remain, chewing slowly, going for seconds, thirds, even fourths.
I wonder what the problem is this time. A kid putting his dirty hands in the congee? Another guest stuffing tea eggs into her purse?
I reach Little Gu.
It’s Table 44.
In our language, the word for “4” sounds similar to the word for death.
I stride toward the other end of my restaurant, casually glancing at the table.
Two guests. One man. One woman. The man wears a crisp white polo shirt. Noticing his thick head of hair, I run a hand over my receding hairline. The woman, whose dark hair is cut bluntly at her shoulders, wears a pale pink blazer. They have the types of bodies that look good in clothes.
I understand the problem immediately. Before them sit 13 plates (I count them carefully), all of them full. Food is piled high, almost artistically.
I watch them eat. They start with cold food – smoked salmon, prosciutto, sushi, yogurt. They move on to the Western breakfast – steak, eggs benedict, French toast. Then the Asian breakfast – noodles, pork buns, sauteed shrimp, roasted pumpkin. They finish their meal with bowls of bread pudding and plates of sliced fruit. They don’t eat like our other guests – who guzzle and spit and chomp. These guests eat slowly, with a fork and knife. Napkins on their laps, dabbing at their lips occasionally. They don’t speak much.
Most of our guests overestimate their stomachs, taking more than they eventually eat. Not Table 44 – they eat every crumb, every morsel. I watch, mesmerized and a little impressed. I thought I’d seen big eaters. A group of American basketball players dined with us once.
After they leave, I stalk the perimeter of my buffet counters, almost jogging. The sushi platter. Empty. The fruit trays. Empty. The unspoken contract between us and our customers. Shredded to pieces.
What do we do? Little Gu is sweating. He wears a suit to work every day, even though we only require staff to wear collared shirts. The suit is starting to smell. I want to say something, but I know he can’t afford dry cleaning. Perhaps I should offer. But I don’t want to embarrass him. It’s probably not noticeable to the guests.
Refill the platters, I reply, remembering the urgent dilemma we face. But I wince, thinking about our already thin margins. Our business almost didn’t survive the virus. I’ve had to water down our soup, pad our dumplings with vermicelli, and order fattier cuts of meat. Refilling our platters will require using ingredients budgeted for tomorrow.
It’s just one meal, I tell myself.
*
I am 25 the first time I travel to the US, for one semester as an exchange student. My first weekend, some of the other Chinese students take me out for dinner.
We cram six into Hui’s Honda. Hui came on exchange three years earlier and had been able to come back as a doctorate student. I can tell he thinks of himself as the leader of the group – the way he overexplains things and makes decisions without consulting others.
The floor of his car is loose. I can see the road peeking through when I look down at my feet. He drives us to a row of restaurants with large lighted signs and parking lots with no horizon. Red Lobster. Applebee’s. Black Angus. Chili’s. I sound out the words in my head. Hui points to one of them. Hometown Buffet.
Inside, I see tables of soft bodies, clad in shorts and baring their shoulders.
How many? A woman with too many piercings on her face asks us.
Six, Hui replies.
Right this way.
The other students don’t sit when they reach our table. They walk decisively to various parts of the restaurant.
Zi zhu. Hui explains. Self-serve. Go on, take a plate.
Anything?
Anything you want. As much as you want.
I look out at the counters, topped with silver trays of food sitting under bright ceiling lamps. There is no clear entry or exit point; people take food wherever they please. But there seems to be order within the chaos, some choreography I have yet to learn.
I decide to enter on the left. I find a section with fried foods – their golden color reminding me of the greasy, salty street foods of my home country. I read the signs. Chicken nuggets. Fish sticks. Corn dogs. Egg rolls. I recognize the words, but not the combinations.
I stop at a tray – green bean casserole. I study it. It looks like dirty tofu.
I hear someone cough loudly behind me. I realize a long queue has formed. I have interrupted the choreography.
First time?
I nod, not meeting the speaker’s eyes.
That one’s my favorite.
I grasp the silver serving spoon and hurriedly scoop a heap onto my plate. I drop some on the floor.
Easy – no one’s in a rush here.
I look at the man. He wears a black tank top. His skin is pale, with pink peeking through. He wears a hat on top of his head, and a pair of sunglasses on top of his hat. His mustache’s upward curl gives him the constant impression of a smile. I notice the large cross he wears around his neck.
When I return to the table, Hui looks at my plate.
Too many mian shi, he says, shaking his head disapprovingly. Waste of space. Every time I come here, I eat four slices of steak and that’s it.
Let him eat whatever he wants, one of the other students says. Her name is Chun. She grew up in the same province as me. Who was the person who ate eight white rolls with butter and ketchup their first time here?
The others laugh.
I made those mistakes, so he doesn’t have to.
Let him make his own mistakes. Chun smiles at me.
At the end of our meal, our plates look like palettes, with colorful sauces swirling into each other. After the waiters clear our dirty plates, balancing four or five on each arm, all the way up to their elbows, Chun turns to me.
Do you have room for more?
I don’t. But I nod anyway. I follow Chun to the far side of the room. She gestures towards a brown tower. When I get closer, I realize the tower is covered in liquid.
Chocolate fountain. Chun takes a long, thin stick. She sticks a small white bun onto the end.
Marshmallow. She says the word slowly, as she twirls the marshmallow in the brown liquid until it is entirely coated. She eats the marshmallow off the end of the stick in one bite.
Your turn. She hands me a stick.
I stab a banana slice and twirl it in the fountain like Chun did. I eat the banana in one bite and instantly regret it.
Too sweet?
I nod. Then I have an idea. I re-enter the maze with newfound confidence. I return to Chun with a fish stick, a green bean, a bread roll – highlights of the dinner we just ate.
We feed them one by one into the fountain and bite into them, delighting at some flavor combinations and grimacing at others. We ignore our tightening pants and the confused looks of our fellow diners. We revel in our two-person world.
Welcome to America, land of the free, Chun says. I notice the gaps between her bottom teeth when she smiles.
In the car back to school, I sit next to Chun. We sit so close that I can feel her hip bone against mine. I look out the window. We pass shopping malls and car dealerships and movie theatres. There are so many lights.
*
The next day, I sense them before I see them.
They put their bags down, then divide and conquer. She heads for the hot food, he heads to the cold food.
They look so focused that they don’t notice my servers, stationed at each counter, serving guests. I walk towards the chilled protein station, pretending to rearrange some slices of cheese. One of my servers places two slices of smoked salmon on the man’s plate.
A little more, please.
My server, hesitates, looking towards me. I look away, not sure how to respond myself.
My server places one more slice.
A little more, please.
Hesitantly, my server places another slice.
Thank you. He bows slightly.
No shame! I hiss into my walkie talkie. I return to my office to devise another plan.
They arrive early the next day. One of my hostesses greets them and hands each of them a booklet, which include tickets for our “luxury foods.” My team arrived one hour early, to prepare the booklets and pack the luxury foods into individual portions.
The couple complies with my new system. They exchange their tickets for pre-portioned servings, without a word of protest to my staff. I notice that the man takes out a small camera tripod, mounting his smartphone on it and training the camera on the woman. They eat quickly and quietly.
As they walk out, the woman looks over her shoulder, directly at me. I swear, she smirks. My skin grows warm.
Little Gu appears by my side.
Big boss would like to speak to you.
I take the phone in his hand.
Why have nine guests called the front desk to complain that you are rationing food at my buffet? Do you know how bad this looks for the hotel?
I’m sorry sir.
Take care of this.
*
I find work at an all-you-can eat sushi restaurant near the university. I’m not supposed to work on my visa, but the Japanese owners agree to pay me cash for washing dishes, slicing fish, mopping floors. My bosses run their business with discipline. They serve diners miso soup at the beginning of each meal to fill their stomachs. They perfect their sushi’s rice-to-filling ratio, using the least amount of fish without making it noticeable. And they mix lower grade fish with mayonnaise, salt, and sugar to hide the after-taste. They post signs indicating they will charge diners (mainly college athletes and immigrant families) for food they don’t finish. I never see them charge anyone, but the threats seem effective. After diners finish their meals, the owners deliver their receipts with mints wrapped in shiny foil and bow their heads as they say arigato.
The hardest part of the job is the waste. I grew up in a time when food was rationed, when we were lucky to eat meat once a week, when we grew used to falling asleep with empty stomachs. I had an urge to finish all the leftover rolls, even though it was against policy. I didn’t care about the health risk – it was the principle. After clearing guests’ tables, I would sneak an intact roll or two into my mouth.
One day, Chun comes to the restaurant, announcing her presence with the jingle of the bells attached to the front door. She wears a white shirt with our American university’s logo on it, tucked into khaki shorts.
What are you doing here?
I’ve never tried sushi.
What would you like to try?
Give me one of everything.
We’ll charge you for whatever you don’t finish.
You underestimate me.
As I pour water for another table, my boss approaches me.
You know her?
I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was coming.
Go sit with her.
We share plates of edamame and California rolls and tempura with too much batter.
At the end of our meal, the owners deliver a small dish to our table. On it sits two pink balls of dough, about the size of ping pong balls, dusted with flour.
Chun and I raise the dough balls to each other like we are clinking glasses. I bite into our gift, surprised by the two textures I encounter – a sticky outer layer and a cold, creamy interior. Chun’s eyes widen as she bites into hers, and she nods approvingly.
Mochi ice cream, my boss explains.
Seems like they really like you, Chun says after they leave.
I guess, I shrug.
Maybe they want you to inherit this place, she says, laughing.
I laugh, too, oblivious to the seeds just sown.
*
Sir, madam?
They look up. As if they expected me.
I am the manager. How are you enjoying your meal?
It’s nice. The woman replies.
I have noticed that you quite enjoy our food.
Yes. They continue to eat. He dips a you tiao into a bowl of soybean milk.
It brings our cooking staff such pleasure to see you enjoy our food so wholeheartedly. But I must admit that our finances are tight here, as you can imagine. Given the volume of food that you take, we will have to charge each of you double price.
What kind of request is this? We are not wasting any of your food.
But you are eating two to three times the amount.
What about the kids that must pay full price? Are you charging them less?
Perhaps we could offer you –
He cuts me off.
We will continue to take as much as we are able to eat.
I try to place his accent.
Our prices account for an average eater.
That is your problem. Not ours.
The woman stands and walks briskly towards the restroom.
I look at Little Gu. Then I look up.
What did I do to deserve this?
*
We are in the front yard playing catch when a young man wearing a baseball cap strides toward me.
Mr. Li? He asks.
Yes?
You’ve been served. He hands me a thick manila envelope. CONFIDENTIAL, I read, not understanding. You don’t realize a moment will upend your life, until after it happens.
Two years earlier, one of our diners bit into a rock that she claimed was in our salad bar. She chipped her tooth. I paid for her medical expenses and didn’t think about her again. Until that evening. Chun and I open the manila envelope and spread its contents on our kitchen table, the pages picking up residual soy sauce. The diner – her name is Krystal – was suing us. She claimed emotional damage, explaining that she had not been able to find a job since the incident. She alleged negligence and recklessness and requested that my business license be revoked.
Chun thinks we should settle. Hiring a lawyer will cost at least twice the amount Krystal would likely accept to drop her suit.
But it’s the principle. I decide to hire a lawyer, whose phone number I find on a billboard on the side of the 405. My lawyer tells me the plaintiff has no chance – it’s a “classic cash grab.” She has an outstanding lawsuit in another state against another restaurant.
But Krystal’s lawyer, Chip, is good. He portrays me as dirty and animal-like, deploying the same playbook used against Chinese immigrants in the 19th century. Chip tracks down every single person who worked with me at the sushi buffet, including someone who mentioned that I used to eat leftover sushi rolls. Chip also digs up my first sanitation grade – a C, because my hot food section temperature had slipped below the required 140 degrees. It takes all my willpower to not shout at the judge and tell him that every single rating since had been an A.
We lose the lawsuit. Along with our savings. By then we have a little girl named Bao Bao, which means “treasure.” Our savings were meant to start her college fund.
After the trial, Chun won’t speak to me. After three weeks of silence, I give up the buffet and go back home.
The morning I leave, I crouch down and look Bao Bao in the eye. I tell her I will be back soon. She wails as I roll my suitcase out the door. Chun and I don’t touch, we just wave goodbye.
When I return to my home country, I visit every restaurant on the river, armed with my resume and a foolish expectation that every restaurant will jump at the opportunity to hire someone with experience in the US. There turns out to be an oversupply of restaurant managers, so I give up looking for work in Tier 1 cities. I return to my smaller hometown and find a position at a newly opened hotel run by foreigners. My main responsibility will be to manage the daily breakfast buffet. I move into a hotel room that smells like cigarettes and semen, not bothering to unpack.
*
How is your mother?
You mean your wife? Even after 22 years, Chun and I still haven’t gotten divorced.
I call Bao Bao every Saturday evening (her Saturday morning). This time, I tell her about the thieves.
Maybe they just like the food.
Nonsense. They’re coming after me.
Maybe they can’t control it.
What?
Sort of like an addiction?
That’s not real.
What about you and your cigarettes?
I ignore her, then ask what’s been on my mind since I first saw them.
How are they so thin?
Genetics?
You don’t understand how much food they eat.
Bao Bao sighs.
I don’t know – maybe they throw it up?
I cannot believe this. They eat our food, then throw it away. I should charge them for the amount.
I am furious at first, then I am delighted. Maybe this is the answer.
*
After graduating college, Bao Bao visits me with her boyfriend, who she met at a rock-climbing gym. The three of us meet in my hotel’s lounge, on the 37th floor, overlooking a golf course, high-rise condominiums with rooftop pools, and office buildings that never go to sleep. We sit among the hotel’s most elite guests, the ones who are rich with points and status. The ones that expect free upgrades and welcome gifts when they check in. Bao Bao chooses to eat here, in the lounge, even though my buffet has a much bigger selection. Even as a little girl, Bao Bao liked pretending to be someone else.
Bao Bao assembles a plate of sliced fruit and miniature tarts, having inherited her mother’s sweet tooth. Her guest (what’s his name again?) helps himself to a plate of sauteed beef and fried rice (which I guess are repurposed leftovers). I ask for a glass of Pinot Noir.
Bao Bao’s guest leans forward.
Shu shu, Jocelyn has told me so much about you. I haven’t heard someone address Bao Bao by that name in many years. Jocelyn was the name of the nurse that held Chun’s hand during her delivery. Chun memorized the letters on her nametag and wrote them on Bao Bao’s birth certificate.
That’s nice to hear, I say.
We fall into uneasy silence, pierced by the sound of Bao Bao’s fork scraping against her plate.
Dad! Justin is also a swimmer.
Justin! That’s his name. I try to look excited.
That’s right, Justin says. I swam in college.
Bao Bao turns to Justin.
Did I ever tell you that my dad swam across the Yangtze River?
Not across the river, I correct her. Down the river.
Wow, Justin says.
He packed some bread and his shoes in a bag and tied them around his neck. He almost got run over by a boat.
Not exactly, I say. But the currents were very strong.
You tell it then, dad.
Bao Bao is much more interested in my life in the company of others. Normally she asks about the latest hotel renovations or updates me on our old neighbors or invents some trivia game. Anything but ask me questions. Though, I don’t ask her many questions either.
Well, I say, putting my glass on a coaster on the table. I was 17. The Cultural Revolution had just begun. Everything was rationed. All schools were shut down. I was sent to work at a factory. Others were sent to the countryside. I wanted a challenge. To prove something to someone.
I asked my friend to swim with me to Zhenjiang, 75 kilometres away from where we lived in Nanjing.
We went during summer time, when the water wasn’t so cold. We started our journey before the sun rose. We were completely unprepared. We didn’t practice swimming in the river’s strong currents. We did not realize how dangerous it was or how much food we would need. But I suppose if we had known, we might not have done it.
Bao Bao hands a passing waiter her plate, still full of half-eaten food, which will all be thrown away.
We arrived at Zhenjiang around sunset. We planned to take the train back to our city. But another thing we failed to consider was that our legs wouldn’t work right after our long swim. We fell over as soon as we reached land. We had fallen into a field, so we decided to sleep there, hoping no animal visitors would emerge at night.
The next morning, my friend shook me awake, yelling into my face. He said we had fallen asleep in a watermelon field. I opened my eyes and looked around to confirm. Watermelons as far as I could see, in every direction. Imagine – can you imagine that?
Bao Bao and Justin nod. But I’m not sure if they could imagine it.
We held them up to our ears, lightly tapping them until we found one that sounded promising. I found a stick and struck the melon. It split into two, and we each took a half. I tilted the melon towards my mouth to drink the juice oozing out of the center. And guess what, Bao Bao?
What?
I swear to you, the juice was hot.
No way! That’s not possible, Dad.
My daughter unlocks her phone, presumably to find an online source that refutes my story. She’s part of the generation that grew up eating meat every day, whose biggest stress is getting an A on a test, who never had to view the world through the lens of scarcity.
So I understand her disbelief. I never had a hot watermelon before or after that. But I remember sitting in that field the entire day, opening and slurping watermelons until a fieldhand chased us out. I’ll never forget the hot liquid, dribbling down my chin – and the sweet, syrupy taste of abundance.
*
I lie in bed that night, unable to keep my eyes closed for more than a few seconds. After my call with Bao Bao, I took it upon myself to do some research. I searched “how to prepare for confrontation.” First, I wrote out what I would say, on the back of some old menus that I repurposed as a notepad. Then I rehearsed in front of my bathroom mirror. I ignored the suggestions to film myself practicing. That would have been too much.
When I close my eyes, I see the couple’s childlike faces, flaunting the freedom they don’t realize they have. I try to slow my breathing, reminding myself that it will all be over soon. I imagine my staff cheering me on, my boss clapping me on the back.
Eventually, I give up on sleep. I switch on the light. I do 50 press-ups and 50 crunches. I rub a pea-sized amount of gel in my hair and comb it carefully. I put on my best suit, the one I wore most recently to my mother’s funeral, and spray cologne on my neck.
I look at my wristwatch.
3am.
I take the elevator down to my restaurant, noticing the rare quiet that has fallen over the hotel. I start polishing the forks.
At 4am, Little Gu and the rest of my staff trickle in. They’re surprised to see the kitchen prep complete, the mise en place finished.
We eat breakfast together for the first time. I have prepared jian bing and fried eggs and steamed sweet potatoes.
What’s the occasion? Little Gu asks.
Just wanted to do something nice for the team.
At 6am, our first diners arrive, and my staff leap into action. Even amidst the frenzy, I keep one eye on the front door and the other on the clock, watching its hands turn.
7am.
8am.
9am.
10am.
In the end they never came. They must have checked out early.
Catherine Wang is a Chinese-American writer based in Bangkok.
21 February 2025
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