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Authors: Sally Grindley
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and left them in the refrigerator,
as well as preparing the plates of preserved meats and pickles. I struggled to remember what he had said about oven temperatures,
how much oil to use, which spices belonged with which dish. I set the table in the dining room while trying to sort things
out in my mind, then returned to the kitchen to measure out noodles and rice and carve up the chicken and beef. How well these
people eat, I reflected, compared to my family and friends back home. But how well are they going to eat today? I couldn’t
help smiling wryly. I flattened a chicken breast, picked up a cleaver, and sliced through the top of my finger.
Droplets of blood fell to the floor as I dashed for the cold tap. I held my finger under the running water, desperate to curb
the spill of red but, though it wasn’t too serious a cut, the blood kept flowing. I grabbed the teacloth and wrapped it round
my hand. A deep red stain spread relentlessly through the material as I ransacked the drawers for something to bind the cut.
All I could think of was that time was passing and I hadn’t even started cooking. I found some plastic film, tore off a strip
and wound it round and round the top of my finger, hoping to contain the bleeding for long enough to enable me to cook and
serve the meal.
I could hear voices. My time was nearly up. I plunged the rice into a pan of boiling water, heated the oil in two woks, tipped
in some chopped onion, garlic and ginger, finished carving the chicken and beef, separated them into the two woks, tossed
them about in the oil, added various sauces, herbs and spices, and prayed that I had got it right. I carried the cold dishes
through to the dining room, placed them round the edges of the revolving tray in the middle of the table, and returned to
the kitchen to find Mrs Chen standing there.
‘There is blood on the floor, Lu Si-yan.’ She pointed to the teacloth. ‘There is blood on this teacloth, Lu Si-yan. Do you
have any idea how unhygienic that is? Do you have any idea what a health risk that is?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Chen. I cut my finger and –’
‘I don’t care if you cut your throat. I will not have my kitchen contaminated by you. How do I know that you haven’t infected
our food with your blood?’
‘I was very careful to –’
‘Careful you are not, Lu Si-yan. Careful people do not drop plates, do not spill food, do not take slices out of their fingers.
You will throw this teacloth away, you will clean up your blood with disinfectant, and I shall expect you to serve us in ten
minutes.’
Behind her, the saucepan of rice bubbled angrily, came to the boil, and hissing water spilled all over the top of the oven.
Mrs Chen turned to look, then stormed out of the room, leaving me to fume at the injustice of her attack. I hurled the soiled
cloth into the bin. I mopped savagely at the blood-spotted floor. I felt like screaming obscenities for the whole world to
hear. I was doing my best. Why was my best never good enough?
I stamped over to the oven and was sickened to find that one of the sauces over the meat had reduced to almost nothing, while
the other was thick and glutinous. The meat itself was sticking to the bottoms of the woks. I poured some boiling water from
the rice into the woks and stirred frenziedly, trying at the same time to free the meat and thin the sauces, some of which
spattered down the front of my uniform. The clock on the wall told me I had two minutes left before I had to present myself
in the dining room. I drained the rice and tipped it into a bowl.
I stood outside the dining room with the bowl of rice. This was the moment I had been dreading.
I saw Mrs Hong first, who smiled kindly. Seated next to her, Mr Chen simply nodded. By his side, the finely dressed young
man stared at me and his cheeks flushed pink. He was so handsome that I must have gawped, because Mrs Chen said sharply, ‘Don’t
play the
as well as preparing the plates of preserved meats and pickles. I struggled to remember what he had said about oven temperatures,
how much oil to use, which spices belonged with which dish. I set the table in the dining room while trying to sort things
out in my mind, then returned to the kitchen to measure out noodles and rice and carve up the chicken and beef. How well these
people eat, I reflected, compared to my family and friends back home. But how well are they going to eat today? I couldn’t
help smiling wryly. I flattened a chicken breast, picked up a cleaver, and sliced through the top of my finger.
Droplets of blood fell to the floor as I dashed for the cold tap. I held my finger under the running water, desperate to curb
the spill of red but, though it wasn’t too serious a cut, the blood kept flowing. I grabbed the teacloth and wrapped it round
my hand. A deep red stain spread relentlessly through the material as I ransacked the drawers for something to bind the cut.
All I could think of was that time was passing and I hadn’t even started cooking. I found some plastic film, tore off a strip
and wound it round and round the top of my finger, hoping to contain the bleeding for long enough to enable me to cook and
serve the meal.
I could hear voices. My time was nearly up. I plunged the rice into a pan of boiling water, heated the oil in two woks, tipped
in some chopped onion, garlic and ginger, finished carving the chicken and beef, separated them into the two woks, tossed
them about in the oil, added various sauces, herbs and spices, and prayed that I had got it right. I carried the cold dishes
through to the dining room, placed them round the edges of the revolving tray in the middle of the table, and returned to
the kitchen to find Mrs Chen standing there.
‘There is blood on the floor, Lu Si-yan.’ She pointed to the teacloth. ‘There is blood on this teacloth, Lu Si-yan. Do you
have any idea how unhygienic that is? Do you have any idea what a health risk that is?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Chen. I cut my finger and –’
‘I don’t care if you cut your throat. I will not have my kitchen contaminated by you. How do I know that you haven’t infected
our food with your blood?’
‘I was very careful to –’
‘Careful you are not, Lu Si-yan. Careful people do not drop plates, do not spill food, do not take slices out of their fingers.
You will throw this teacloth away, you will clean up your blood with disinfectant, and I shall expect you to serve us in ten
minutes.’
Behind her, the saucepan of rice bubbled angrily, came to the boil, and hissing water spilled all over the top of the oven.
Mrs Chen turned to look, then stormed out of the room, leaving me to fume at the injustice of her attack. I hurled the soiled
cloth into the bin. I mopped savagely at the blood-spotted floor. I felt like screaming obscenities for the whole world to
hear. I was doing my best. Why was my best never good enough?
I stamped over to the oven and was sickened to find that one of the sauces over the meat had reduced to almost nothing, while
the other was thick and glutinous. The meat itself was sticking to the bottoms of the woks. I poured some boiling water from
the rice into the woks and stirred frenziedly, trying at the same time to free the meat and thin the sauces, some of which
spattered down the front of my uniform. The clock on the wall told me I had two minutes left before I had to present myself
in the dining room. I drained the rice and tipped it into a bowl.
I stood outside the dining room with the bowl of rice. This was the moment I had been dreading.
I saw Mrs Hong first, who smiled kindly. Seated next to her, Mr Chen simply nodded. By his side, the finely dressed young
man stared at me and his cheeks flushed pink. He was so handsome that I must have gawped, because Mrs Chen said sharply, ‘Don’t
play the
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