Read Kitchen Chinese for Free Online

list. My phone only operates in Chinese and I must have confused the characters for “save” and “delete,” I realize with horror.
    Okay, no problem. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Squaring my shoulders, I begin to walk the long block to the next office building, ignoring the beads of sweat that start streaming down my forehead. Phew! These wide blocks seem designed for the girth of a tank, not pedestrians. And who knew Beijing was this hot? And humid? Ten minutes later…None of the buildings havenumbers. Okay…I’ll just ask someone for help. I approach a young woman, about my age, elbow-length gloves covering arms that wield an Olympics 2008 umbrella. Is it supposed to rain? I glance at the sky, which is oddly bright with sun straining through the layers of ozone.
    “Er, excuse me?” Damn. How do you say “excuse me” in Chinese?
    At the sound of my voice the girl’s eyes grow huge and she moves her hand rapidly from side to side—the international sign for “go away!”—before scurrying down the street, her umbrella bobbing with every step.
    Five long blocks later my face drips with sweat, but by some miracle I’ve finally found the right address. In the cool, dark elevator, I gaze at myself in the reflective doors with horror. My silk shirt is drenched with sweat, my linen trousers look limp and wrinkled. My face is flushed and sweaty like I’ve just run a marathon; or worse, like I’m going through heroin withdrawal. I try to cover my soaked shirt with the suit jacket, pulling it on only to discover a rust-colored stain on the lapel. Ketchup. I remember the night Richard dropped a splodge while trying to feed me a french fry at the Corner Bistro. Now it looks like I’ve had a messy accident with a handgun. Great. I can look either sweaty and disheveled, or bloody, sweaty, and disheveled. I pull off the jacket as the elevator doors open.
    Dennis Frank ushers me into his office right away, tactfully ignoring my sodden appearance. We sit down and he tactfully directs his gaze to my face.
    “Would you like a cup of tea?” he finally asks.
    I’ve just walked five miles in ninety degree heat, I think. The last thing I want is a hot beverage! I shake my head.
    “So…” Dennis pauses and looks down at my résumé. “…Isabelle. Tell me about your experience in journalism.”
    Despite the air-conditioning—which is like an arctic blast, given my damp clothes—I feel my palms grow damp. “Well…I worked at Belle magazine for five years…as a fact-checker.” I tack on the last word like it’s an afterthought.
    “What about reporting? Ever written for any dailies? Maybe in college?” He bobs his head encouragingly.
    I take a deep breath. “Well, I did work for my college newspaper—”
    “Yes?” He leans forward eagerly.
    “Selling classified ads.”
    “Oh.”
    The uncomfortable silence settles on us again. I stare outside, where the sun struggles to break free of the pollution.
    “How’s your Chinese?” Dennis asks abruptly. He looks down at his thin, dry hands.
    “It’s uh…okay. Pretty good. Conversational,” I hedge.
    “Are you familiar with news terms? Like…say…nuclear nonproliferation?” He raises his eyebrows.
    Should I lie? Is he going to test me? The silence grows as I furrow my brow, pretending to search my brain for the word. “No,” I finally admit. “I don’t know.” I consider snapping my fingers in a “darn it, the word escapes me” gesture, but when I see Dennis narrow his eyes, I reconsider.
    “Your résumé says you speak Mandarin,” he says, and I catch a glimpse of impatience in his face.
    “It’s a little rusty right now,” I admit.
    He stands up. “We’re really looking for someone who speaks Chinese.”
    “I understand,” I say, and try to avoid offering him my hand, which is still hot and sticky, but I can’t, and we awkwardly shake.
    “We’ll be in touch,” he says as he ushers me out the door.
    I nod even though I know I’ll never