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Authors: Hannah Tunnicliffe
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into my handbag for some Chap Stick.
“Hello.” Léon takes me by surprise. He is dressed in his chef whites. He leans over to kiss Linda, who gives a pleased grin as he brushes each of her cheeks with his lips.
“How are you?” I ask, standing.
Pete’s eyes drift over to us from across the table but then quickly move back to Paul, who is talking animatedly, gesturing with his large hands about some new concrete construction technology.
“I am fine,” he says. “Happy that we are busy today and everyone seems to be satisfied. A relief.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is. The restaurant deserves to be full, though, the food is divine.”
He nods graciously, then quickly surveys the room. When the waitresses or other chefs see him looking their way, they smile.
“I heard that you’re not serving desserts anymore?”
His face falls ever so slightly, but he masks his disappointment quickly. “No, I’m afraid not. Other than the chocolates and some catering we do, no. I am told they are … not financially viable.” He gives a resigned shrug. “It is a pity. My pastry chefs are excellent.”
“It is a pity,” I agree. “The desserts were so good. Especially the macarons. I have heard they are hard to make.”
“Ah yes, the macarons. ” He nods. “Well, I haven’t given up hope. One day Macau will be ready for macarons. Maybe not with my brunch here, but one day.”
Linda drums her nails against my shoulder. “Gracie dear, I’m starving. We’re all heading to the buffet.” She takes a sip of champagne before walking past us with a simpering smile, looking at Léon rather than me.
“I should get back to the kitchen,” Léon says. “I hope you enjoy your meal. Make sure to let me know how you like it.” He steps away politely, then turns back. “If you ever want to learn to make macarons, I am happy to share the recipe with ‘the foodie.’ They’re not so hard when you know how.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile.
Heading to the buffet, I see Linda, Pete, and Paul huddled together by the ham. The thick flesh glistens with a honey glaze, its skin studded with cloves, like neat freckles. It is so large it could feed a family for a week. Linda laughs at something Pete has said. Paul reaches over to him and gives him a couple of good-natured back slaps. Standing together like that, they look like old friends, maybe even siblings. Paul, then Linda, then Pete. A little row. I pause for a moment with my plate loose in my hands. Our waiter comes to stand beside me, tray full of dirty dishes, forks, and knives. We both look over to them like farmers watching cows, separated by fence and species.
“The turkey is good today,” he whispers.
* * *
Later that night a boom thunders through the apartment while I am sitting on the toilet. The throaty rumble of an explosion. It is the fastest piss I have ever taken. Up and wiped, fumbling with my jeans, I sprint into the lounge room.
“Did you hear that?”
Pete is motionless on the couch. He lifts his head sleepily.
I do up my fly and the top button of my jeans, rushing to the window. In the distance there is smoke and light. I squint to make it out better. I put my hands on the glass.
“What is it? Are we safe?”
Pete saunters over, yawning. He puts his hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Reckon we’ll be fine.”
Thinking of bombs or earthquakes, I push him away from the glass, but he just laughs as he stumbles back a couple of paces.
“It’s just fireworks.”
“What?”
“Fireworks. For Chinese New Year.”
As he explains, plumes of green sparks flash across the sky and twinkle slowly toward the ground. A few seconds later the noise travels to us, booms and rumbles like an angry dragon. Steadying himself, Pete pats me on the back.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I didn’t realize…. A new year …”
“Yup. The Year of the Rat.” He walks into the kitchen still talking, raising his voice over the noise. “I think
“Hello.” Léon takes me by surprise. He is dressed in his chef whites. He leans over to kiss Linda, who gives a pleased grin as he brushes each of her cheeks with his lips.
“How are you?” I ask, standing.
Pete’s eyes drift over to us from across the table but then quickly move back to Paul, who is talking animatedly, gesturing with his large hands about some new concrete construction technology.
“I am fine,” he says. “Happy that we are busy today and everyone seems to be satisfied. A relief.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is. The restaurant deserves to be full, though, the food is divine.”
He nods graciously, then quickly surveys the room. When the waitresses or other chefs see him looking their way, they smile.
“I heard that you’re not serving desserts anymore?”
His face falls ever so slightly, but he masks his disappointment quickly. “No, I’m afraid not. Other than the chocolates and some catering we do, no. I am told they are … not financially viable.” He gives a resigned shrug. “It is a pity. My pastry chefs are excellent.”
“It is a pity,” I agree. “The desserts were so good. Especially the macarons. I have heard they are hard to make.”
“Ah yes, the macarons. ” He nods. “Well, I haven’t given up hope. One day Macau will be ready for macarons. Maybe not with my brunch here, but one day.”
Linda drums her nails against my shoulder. “Gracie dear, I’m starving. We’re all heading to the buffet.” She takes a sip of champagne before walking past us with a simpering smile, looking at Léon rather than me.
“I should get back to the kitchen,” Léon says. “I hope you enjoy your meal. Make sure to let me know how you like it.” He steps away politely, then turns back. “If you ever want to learn to make macarons, I am happy to share the recipe with ‘the foodie.’ They’re not so hard when you know how.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile.
Heading to the buffet, I see Linda, Pete, and Paul huddled together by the ham. The thick flesh glistens with a honey glaze, its skin studded with cloves, like neat freckles. It is so large it could feed a family for a week. Linda laughs at something Pete has said. Paul reaches over to him and gives him a couple of good-natured back slaps. Standing together like that, they look like old friends, maybe even siblings. Paul, then Linda, then Pete. A little row. I pause for a moment with my plate loose in my hands. Our waiter comes to stand beside me, tray full of dirty dishes, forks, and knives. We both look over to them like farmers watching cows, separated by fence and species.
“The turkey is good today,” he whispers.
* * *
Later that night a boom thunders through the apartment while I am sitting on the toilet. The throaty rumble of an explosion. It is the fastest piss I have ever taken. Up and wiped, fumbling with my jeans, I sprint into the lounge room.
“Did you hear that?”
Pete is motionless on the couch. He lifts his head sleepily.
I do up my fly and the top button of my jeans, rushing to the window. In the distance there is smoke and light. I squint to make it out better. I put my hands on the glass.
“What is it? Are we safe?”
Pete saunters over, yawning. He puts his hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Reckon we’ll be fine.”
Thinking of bombs or earthquakes, I push him away from the glass, but he just laughs as he stumbles back a couple of paces.
“It’s just fireworks.”
“What?”
“Fireworks. For Chinese New Year.”
As he explains, plumes of green sparks flash across the sky and twinkle slowly toward the ground. A few seconds later the noise travels to us, booms and rumbles like an angry dragon. Steadying himself, Pete pats me on the back.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I didn’t realize…. A new year …”
“Yup. The Year of the Rat.” He walks into the kitchen still talking, raising his voice over the noise. “I think
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