Read Kitchen Chinese for Free Online Page B

readers are mostly young, mostly men—so is our staff, for that matter, though we’re trying to soften our tone, add a more feminine touch. Anyway, one of our editors just moved back to the UK, and Geraldine, who you just met…” He pauses and I nod. “…is going to take over his beat. Says she’s tired of eating out all the time.” He straightens a stack of papers on his desk. Despite his rumpled clothes and hair, his office is pristine. “So, Ger’s going to do the arts section, and we’re looking for a food critic, someone to write features about wine and regional cuisines, review restaurants, that sort of thing.”
    It sounds like a great job. Despite my initial prejudice against expat magazines, I find myself leaning forward and nodding with interest. Claire was right about Beijing NOW, I realize with faint chagrin. Buzzing with energy and ideas, covering food, fashion, and the arts, it’s a perfect fit for me. Is it possible that my sister knows me better than I thought?
    “Ideally, we need someone who speaks great Chinese,” Ed continues. “But Claire really gave you the hard sell.”
    “She did?”
    “Oh yeah, yeah. Beautiful girl, Claire…hilarious too.” He stares into the distance for a minute with a small smile on his lips before recovering himself. “Anyway, she told me all about your work at Belle , and how you’re a great writer—”
    I am? I think wildly.
    “And how you’ve loved Chinese food ever since you were a kid—”
    “But my Chinese really isn’t very…fluent.”
    “I’m sure you know enough for the job. Like, do you know how to say…”
    Oh dear. Here we go again.
    “Steamed rice?”
    “Bai mi fan!” I exclaim.
    “Braised beef?”
    “Hongshao niurou.”
    “Broccoli, carrots, potatoes?”
    “Xi lan hua, hong luo bo, tudou.”
    “See?” says Ed. “I knew you’d be fine. Claire told me about how your parents forced you guys to go to Chinese school on Saturdays and how you both hated it. Her Chinese is really spot on, though, isn’t it?”
    Claire hated Chinese school? I remember the stiff set of her shoulders as she copied characters into a gridded notebook, her long, schoolgirl hair lying in a thick tail upon her neck. She was always the first one in the car on Saturday mornings, the one who sang folk songs in the bath and recited four character sayings in front of guests. “You should study like Claire,” my mother always said. “Like a good Chinese daughter.”
    “So, what do you think, Isabelle?” Ed leans forward, interrupting my reverie. “Are you interested in the job?”
    “I wasn’t really a journalist in New York. Only a fact-checker,” I blurt out.
    Ed ignores me. “Bluster, Isabelle, bluster,” he declares. “Journo, fact-checker; tomayto, tomahto.” He shrugs. “Everyone reinvents themselves in China. Except for me, of course,” he adds hastily. “I actually was a features editor at the Sydney Morning Herald.
    Anyway, I know your sister.” Seeing the surprised expression on my face, he adds, “In China, you have to rely on your guanxi .”
    Guanxi . Connections. In the States, connections are like a strand of fishing wire—strong enough to reel in a heavy fish, yet so cunningly transparent they’re almost invisible. I had forgotten that in China, guanxi is like flashy jewelry—flaunted, fawned over, and, at times, used to bribe. Guanxi forms the base of every relationship; from work to friends, it’s the only way most business gets done.
    I take a deep breath, but before I can say a word, he plunges into a discussion about salary—naming a figure so tiny it makes my former slave wages at Belle look grand—benefits, and my visa situation. “We’ll help you get you a Z visa. You’ll need it to work legally in China.”
    “But—But—” I stammer.
    “What’s wrong, mate?”
    “I haven’t said yes!”
    “Don’t be coy, Isabelle. No other prospects on the horizon, are there? Listen, if you don’t like the job, you can