Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I f there is anything I am good at, it’s sheer dogged determination. When I was little, I once got into a fight with the schoolyard bully. He was twice my size and easily bested me, grabbing my hair in one fist and yanking it until tears rushed into my eyes and streamed down my cheeks. Say you were wrong! he yelled, but though I was trapped, I resolutely kept silent, even as tears ran down my face in rivulets and snot dripped down my chin from the burning pain in my scalp. I’d stayed like that until he lost patience and shoved me to the ground. And though anyone who witnessed this would say that I got the shit kicked out of me that day, I felt like I’d also won, in a way. I’d managed to hold back from saying I was wrong. The tears and snot had been a physiological reaction I couldn’t control, but the words were something I could hold back, and I did, despite the excruciating pain. And ever since then, I have known I have what it takes to make it in a world that doesn’t want me to succeed.
This is the thought I cling to that evening, after my shower. Though my body, bruised and exhausted, begs me to stop and crawl inside my room to hide, I force myself to get back out as soon as I’m dressed. Thankfully, the Li family seems to have dispersed all over the ranch. It seems they have given up on our tour for now. Mushu is probably out there somewhere, taking a million selfies with the animals. This is my chance to have an undisturbed look at the ranch and distillery. I’ve learned by now that no amount of reading or analyzing can replace actually going around the physical space and learning more about it through observation.
The Li family ranch is beautiful and maintained with care and love, there’s no doubt about it. As I walk past the barnyard, I notice how healthy the animals look, how several of them approach me with a curious friendliness. None of them shy away, which means they’re used to being treated by humans with kindness. I smile and pet a nearby sheep. I’m getting used to them now, their bucolic movements, their guttural noises, and their earthy smells.
“Having a moment with Geraldine?” a voice says.
I look up to find Shang there, watching me with yet another one of his unreadable expressions. “Yeah,” I say. “Thought I’d come by and apologize to her for nicking her earlier.”
“That’s nice of you. Except that’s Sheldon. Geraldine’s over there.”
I roll my eyes. “Obviously I knew that. I was just getting Sheldon here to pass the message to Geraldine.” Why am I speaking with such abandon? This isn’t Ranch Mulan, nor Work Mulan, and it definitely is not Zhou. I need to focus. There’s something about Shang that encourages me to take off my masks, and I can’t let that happen, not when there’s so much at stake.
The smallest hint of a smile cracks Shang’s face. “When you’re done talking to Sheldon, what say you to a tour around the distillery?”
It’s all I can do to say, in as casual a voice as possible, “Sounds good. Just give me another moment with Sheldon.” I turn back to the sheep and close my eyes, drawing in a deep breath to recenter myself. I can do this. I can tour the distillery with Shang. I am not attracted to him or his dark brown eyes and that warm olive skin of his or those extremely kissable lips—damn it. I am not attracted to him. Nope. Not at all. Okay. I can do this. “Okay, ready!” I say brightly.
Like the ranch, the distillery is carefully maintained. Shang pushes a tall, heavy door open and we walk inside, escaping the fierce glow of the late afternoon Californian sun, into the large building. The distillery might as well be a whole other universe. As soon as I step inside, I become distinctly aware of the rich history behind this family-run whiskey company. It’s impossible not to when all of my senses are enveloped by everything whiskey-related, from fermented barley to smoke from the kiln to the impressive copper stills that look as though they were built way back in the industrial era.
It’s a humbling space to be in, because every part of it is so unfamiliar to me. It’s a completely different space than the ones I’m used to; I’m used to cold, hard numbers, so far removed from their sources that by the time they get to me, the product itself has become an abstract concept, less tangible than the numbers they generate. But now I am standing in the product’s territory.
As though reading my mind, Shang says, “This is one of my favorite places in the world. It’s where the numbers cease and the art begins. In here, nothing else matters. The market, or the shifting supply and demand, none of it matters. This is where the barley is soaked, malted, and fermented. The farmer doesn’t care about marketing or packaging; here it’s all down to pure farming for the love of it.”
I nod, absorbing the rich history of the art of whiskey-making through his words. As we walk deeper inside, I begin to understand why Baba might want to acquire the company. It’s obvious that everything here has been built and maintained with love. Maybe he attended one of their public tours once and hasn’t been able to forget it since? I smile at the thought. I can just see it. Baba is a hopeless romantic, after all. And none of the reading I’ve done on the science of whiskey distillation can compare to actually being here, taking in the massive copper stills that tower over me and smelling the rich, sweet scent of roasting barley blanketing the space.
“Come here,” Shang calls out. “This is a kiln,” he says. “It’s where we dry the barley. It’s also where we introduce flavors by using peat smoke during kilning. We can also get different flavors by altering the temperature within the kiln.”
“Oh, yes,” I reply, glad that some of my reading is finally coming into good use. “Like how high-nitrogen barley is steeped and then cooked with no airflow to create a caramel flavor.”
Shang pauses, studying me with a curious expression. “You’ve done your homework.”
I allow myself to give him a lingering look before shrugging and turning away. I haven’t missed the way a muscle works on the side of his jaw, as though he’s thinking something he shouldn’t when he looks at me. The same exact way I’m thinking things I shouldn’t be when I look at him. “It’s just a bit of general reading,” I say casually.
After a moment, Shang says, “Would you like to put your hands inside the kiln? It’s not too hot right now.”
“Oh, sure!” I step forward, feeling the warmth emanating from the kiln, and, gingerly, I reach out and touch the drying barley. “Oh my gosh.” I breathe in. An odd sense of peace overwhelms my entire being as I bury my hands in the smooth granules.
Shang steps close to me and does the same, breathing in deeply as he does so. “When I was a kid, this was my favorite place. I’d just come here and touch everything. Burned my hands pretty badly once.”
The way he describes it makes me realize again how much more there is to this place than just pure numbers. I see Shang as a little boy, wandering around the distillery, touching everything with curious little hands. I think of him burning his palms and my heart aches with the need to comfort him. Oh, Baba, I think I’m starting to understand what you saw in this company.
I’m about to reply when my right hand, buried in the barley, bumps against something solid and warm. Shang’s hand. We both tense at once, but neither of us moves our hand away. Oh my god. All my senses have focused, laser sharp, on the electric sensation shooting up my arm from the sliver of skin-on-skin contact. The attraction I feel toward Shang right now is so irresistible, so magnetic, that it scares me a little. What is happening? This can’t happen. This is so unprofessional! And with that, I use the last vestiges of my self-restraint and pull my hand away. Shang does the same just a split second later while clearing his throat.
“It’s getting late,” he says gruffly. “I need to help prep for dinner.”
“Oh, right! Of course.” I hurry after him and we both walk out of the distillery in thick silence.
Outside, the sun is slowly setting, limning everything gold. I stop to admire the gorgeous land, loving the way the breeze makes the leaves sway. Farmhands are guiding the animals back into the barn, and a sort of peace is settling over the land. When I glance up, I find Shang watching me with an intense gaze. He opens his mouth, as though to say something, then seems to think better of it and walks on ahead of me.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” he says.
“Yep, see you.”
I hurry back toward the farmhouse, wincing as my new boots bite into my feet. I’ve been able to ignore the pinch of the tough boots this whole time, but after wearing them for so many hours, I can no longer pretend not to notice the way my poor feet are blistering inside these torture devices. Inside the house, I yank off the boots with a grateful sigh and steal a precious few minutes just submerging my aching feet in a shallow bath before dinner.
Dinner that night is a feast, a collection of steaming dishes, each one worthy of a restaurant. When Shang said he had to help prep for dinner, surely he didn’t mean he cooked all of this? He probably helped with the simple things like washing the rice or chopping the vegetables. I’m so tired by now that I can barely keep up with the multiple conversations going around the table, but thankfully, Mushu is in her usual fine form, regaling this uncle and that auntie with funny stories and as always making everyone fall in love with her. I chew my green beans (which, like everything else on the table, have come from the farm) and smile and nod, smile and nod. A couple of times, I catch Shang’s eyes on me, and when I look over at him, he quickly breaks eye contact. This can’t happen, I remind myself.
By the time dinner is over, I’m all ready for bed. Mushu opts to stay in the living room, where the cousins are gathered to play poker, but I bid everyone good night and retire to our bedroom. But once I’m in bed, I don’t go to sleep. Instead, I grab my phone and open up TikTok. By tomorrow morning, I am going to know everything there is to know about ranch living, and I’m going to wipe the smug looks off everybody’s faces.
When I wake up the next morning, Mushu is sprawled across the other bed, her mouth hanging open as she snores. Soft, dim light streams in through the gap in the curtains. I peep through the gap and see gentle, golden sunlight blanketing the fields. I’m so used to waking up at dawn that I no longer need an alarm to rouse me. I get up slowly, careful not to wake Mushu, wondering what time she finally climbed into bed last night. After brushing my teeth, I shrug on a pair of jeans and a sweater and pad down the stairs.
Having the whole house to myself, if only for a bit, feels like heaven. Yesterday, I wasn’t able to enjoy the beautiful house because I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of people in it. Right now, I would like nothing more than to make myself a nice hot mug of coffee and settle down on the porch and take in the pastoral surroundings.
But as I near the kitchen, I hear the clanging of pots and pans. I groan inwardly. Clearly I won’t get the kitchen all to myself after all. Still, one can hope that perhaps it’s the housekeeper cleaning up after last night’s feast, or maybe a stray raccoon that I can just let out through the back door? Anything would be less intimidating than a member of the Li family, come to think of it.
No such luck. When I go inside the kitchen, I come face-to-face with Shang, wearing an apron and wielding a wooden rolling pin. The sight is so unexpected that I freeze, staring at him. I’ve never had a thing for men wearing aprons before. But now, seeing Shang wearing one, I’m realizing how incredibly sexy it is. He’s somehow more masculine in an apron, his broad shoulders accentuated by the apron strings. Unbidden, the thought of him buck naked, wearing only an apron, flashes through my mind. My god, what is wrong with me?
“Something on my face?” he says by way of greeting. “Only you’re kind of staring.”
I break eye contact and clear my throat, trying to hide how flustered I am. “I wasn’t expecting anyone down here this early in the morning.”
“Me neither,” he says. He flours the roller, picks up a small piece of dough from the counter, and begins to roll it out into a circle.
The sight is incongruous—Shang wearing an apron with a nectarine print, his hands floury, rolling out dough with expertise, and meanwhile his biceps are bulging as he works and he’s got an expression of intense focus that makes me sweat a little bit.
“Can I help you get something?” he says, glancing up for a second before turning his focus back to the dough.
“It’s okay,” I say hurriedly. “I’ll just—I’ll make some coffee and get out of your way.”
Of course, as soon as I say that, I notice the professional barista-style espresso machine on the kitchen counter. No easy-use Nespresso machines around here. Maybe they have an instant coffee mix that I can simply add water to?
Shang must’ve seen the hesitation on my face, because he wipes his hands on a towel and says, “I’ll make you a coffee. Latte? Cappuccino? Americano?”
“Uh. Latte.” I lean against the counter and watch as Shang picks out a jar of beans and pours them into the grinder. He measures out the ground coffee carefully, obviously comfortable with the espresso machine. “Where did you learn to make coffee like that?” I say, watching him fiddle with the pressure controls.
“Instagram,” he says, so simply and so straightforwardly that it takes a second for the answer to sink in.
I laugh. “Really?”
“Yup. That’s also where I learned how to cook most of my dishes.”
“Seriously? My Instagram algorithm only pushes parodies of finance bros. I’m not complaining, they are funny as hell, but they don’t exactly teach me anything I don’t already know.”
Shang presses a lever and the machine hisses as foamy coffee begins to pour into a mug. “Nothing wrong with that. Your job sounds very high-pressure and it’s probably good to have something that lets you blow off some steam.”
I frown at him, wondering if there’s a secret jab hidden in his words, but Shang is now walking to the fridge, where he takes out a jug of milk. “Fresh from our cows,” he says, grinning. “There’s nothing better than our cows’ milk.” He pours some into a small cup and slides it over to me.
“The last time I had milk on its own must’ve been when I was eight,” I say.
“Don’t knock it till you try it.”
I sip the milk, and Shang is right: There really is nothing better than their cows’ milk. It’s so creamy it almost tastes like I’m drinking heavy cream, but with a lightness to it that keeps it from being too cloying. There is no aftertaste; everything about it is refreshing and clean. “Wow. Okay. You were right.”
“Sorry, what was that again?” Shang grins, showing those deep dimples of his, and I roll my eyes.
He steams the milk, then pours it carefully into the mug with espresso in it. When he brings over the latte, I see that he’s drawn a leaf on it. Is there anything this guy does not excel at? And of course the latte is one of the best ones I’ve ever tasted, if not the best. The first sip makes me groan, its rich nutty flavors making my muscles relax even as the caffeine wakes me up.
“Quit your job and open up a café,” I mutter.
Shang chuckles. “Yeah, let me get right on that.”
I watch him roll out the dough. “Are those…pancakes?”
Shang cocks an eyebrow. “And just from that one question alone, I can tell you have never set foot in the kitchen.”
“Nope. My mom sends me food regularly and the rest of the time I subsist on Postmates.” I say this without shame, and in fact with a tad of pride because I am truly so sick of finance bros who tell me in many different, exhaustive ways that my place is in the kitchen.
“Fair enough. No one can beat mom’s cooking. These are not pancakes. You don’t roll out pancake dough. These are dumpling skins.”
“Oh! Wait, you’re making dumplings from scratch? Don’t they sell dumpling skins at the supermarket?”
Those dimples appear once more in his cheeks. “They do, but I like making my own. I started making them when my mom’s arthritis flared up, but over time I realized I liked working with dough. It’s therapeutic. Wanna try making one?”
Not wanting to seem like a grump (which I kind of am), I agree. I hop off the barstool and stand in front of the kitchen island. Shang sprinkles more flour on the counter and puts a ball of dough on the prepared surface before handing me the rolling pin. “Hold it like this,” he says, standing behind me and reaching out to show me the proper grip.
His hands are on either side of me! my mind squeaks. And indeed, they are. The nearness of him is impossible to ignore. If I lean back, even a little, I’ll feel his hard chest against my back. His scent envelops me—a clean, woody musk that fills my senses and clouds my mind. I want to nuzzle my nose into his neck and inhale deeply. I blink rapidly, forcing my mind to concentrate on the rolling pin. I place my hands on either end and press down on the dough.
“Not like that,” Shang says, and leans in closer. His chest pressing against my back is so solid I want to simply melt against him. Gently, he lays his fingertips on the backs of my hands, and it takes all of my will not to react. “A soft touch,” he says.
My mind goes to very, very NSFW places. Stop it, you pervert.
“You want to start from the edges and go in. The edges of the skin should be thinner than the center, so when you fold it you’ll get a uniform thickness all around.”
My god. That is so sexual. No, wait. Is it sexual? Or is my perverted mind just turning everything into an innuendo?
To be fair, Shang’s hands are still over mine, so he must be aware of the sexual tension sparkling in the air.
Or not.
Technically speaking, it’s only his fingertips, and very, very technically speaking, they are just barely grazing my skin.
But grazing of the skin is a well-known sexual practice! Isn’t it?
Okay, enough of this.
I jerk up, and Shang, startled, steps back. “You okay?”
“I think the coffee’s just kicked in,” I say, sidestepping so I’m now a very safe arm’s-length distance from him. To place emphasis on the coffee, I take a big gulp of it and go “Mmm.” Shang looks like he’s about to say something, so I hurriedly say, “Hey, do you need chores doing around the house? I feel like I should pitch in.”
“Uh—”
“How about firewood? You got enough of that?”
“Well—”
“Do you guys chop your own firewood around here? You know what? I love chopping firewood and I’m going to chop some up for you.”
Shang stops rolling out dough. “Really?”
“Yeah, chopping firewood is like my favorite hobby.” I spent nearly a whole hour last night watching female woodchoppers on TikTok and by god I am not about to let that go to waste.
“Cool, well, sure, we always need firewood around here. Come on, I’ll show you where the chopping block is.” Shang wipes his hands on the hand towel again (is there anything hotter than a guy with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, wiping flour from his hands?) and gestures at me to follow him.
We walk out the back door. Outside, the air is biting cold and the grass is dewy. I shiver as we make our way down a small path. I take another sip of the latte, relishing the way it warms me up from the inside. It’s setting up to be yet another flawless Northern Californian autumn day, the air carrying with it the sweet smell of apples, with wispy white clouds dabbed here and there across the endless blue sky.
When we get to the chopping block, I don’t give myself any time to hesitate or marvel at the realness of the situation like before. I spot an axe resting against the block and grab it. My mind goes: It’s heav—
I shut the thought down. Of course it’s heavy, it’s a real axe, not a TikTok axe. I even throw a confident smile at Shang as I strut past him, heaving up a log and settling it on the chopping block. Feet apart, strong stance. I grip the axe handle tight, letting it hang for a second, then swing it up over my head the way I’ve watched people do on TikTok before slamming it down onto the log, drawing power from my abs. The axe bites into the log with a satisfying thud. It doesn’t go all the way through, but no matter. I’ve seen this happen plenty of times on TikTok and merely lift it again, this time carrying the log up along with the axe, and then swing it down again and again until the log is completely sliced in half. Then I step back, looking at the split log in disbelief.
I did it. Joy rushes through my veins like sparkling wine and I toss the axe down and jump up with a whoop.
“Nicely done,” Shang says.
I bow. “Thank you, I agree.” I puff out my chest. “Throw me another. I will chop up a bunch of these before you know it.”
Shang smiles as he places another log on the chopping block. “All right, chop your heart out. I’ll be back at the house making dumplings.”
I do exactly that, chopping log after log before I realize that I am, in fact, famished.
“Zhou!” Mushu calls out from a distance. “How’s it going?” She jogs down the path. “What the—When Shang said you were out here chopping wood, I thought he meant you were taking a dump.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Why would ‘chopping wood’ mean taking a dump? And why would I do that out here when we have perfectly good working toilets indoors?”
“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “I ain’t judging.”
I laugh. “I think I’m just about done. Chopping wood is fun, but it’s also pretty tiring. You know, I bet this is even better than Pilates.”
As we walk back toward the house, Mushu fills me in on the night before.
“They brought out their best whiskey.”
“Ooh, sounds like I missed a good time,” I say.
“You really did. These people are actually pretty fun to spend time with.”
“When they’re not trying to sabotage your sheepshearing moment,” I mutter.
Mushu laughs. “Well, James is…not the best dude, but once you get a couple glasses of whiskey in him…” She hesitates, then says, “He’s even worse.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh.
“But you’ll be glad to know that I took the chance to talk you up.”
My laugh shrivels up and dies in my throat. “Um. You mean about how brilliant of a managing partner I am?”
“What? No!” Mushu cries. “Mulan, these people are ranchers and distiller—What are people who make whiskey called? Whiskey-ers? Whatever, my point is, they are about as far removed from finance as you can get. They’re not going to appreciate your skill with numbers. They have this attitude that’s almost, like, anti-money.”
“I can’t even begin to comprehend that,” I say dryly.
“You and me both, cuz. I’m all about that hustle. But the Li family is more concerned about their image. Their brand. Their legacy. That’s what I got from them last night. They really want the company that buys their whiskey brand to know what the company stands for,” she says.
I sigh. “I know what it stands for. Toxic masculinity.”
“Exactly!” she says. “So anyway, I talked you up with that in mind. Told them of your prowess when it comes to anything even vaguely masculine.”
“Uh-oh.” Dread is beginning to bubble up from deep inside my guts. “Um, what exactly did you say about me?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just how good of a hunter you are—”
“Hunter? I have literally never held a weapon in my hands.”
She waves that away as though it were hardly important. “How deadly of a fighter you are—”
“Are we talking, like, fighting on the internet? ’Cause I am pretty good at taking down Chads online.”
“And when they mentioned that overnight horseback camping trip we’re going on, I told them back in China, you were known as Zhou the Horse Whisperer.”
I stop walking and gape at Mushu in horror. “Mushu, I like horses as much as the next person, but I am no horse whisperer, you know this.”
“What do you mean?” Mushu looks genuinely surprised. “Don’t you remember our Disney trip when we were kids? You went on that pony ride and you had so much fun, whereas I puked all over my pony and then jumped off and cried?”
“First of all, you’d had three churros, one whole turkey leg, and a bucket of soda, so I’m not surprised you ended up puking. Second of all, you said it: It was a pony. They’re half the size of actual horses, and there was a—a pony dude holding on to it at all times.”
“Potayto-potahto,” Mushu says. “You’re going to do great.”
“Oh god,” I moan.
“They said they have just the perfect horse for you,” she says cheerfully.
I pat my cheeks. “This is a nightmare. I need to wake up now.”
“Oh, Mulan, you’re such a drama queen. Come on, I’m famished. Shang’s made dumplings.”
The rest of the morning passes by peacefully. Shang’s dumplings are delicious and plentiful, and when James heckles Shang about cooking, Shang merely laughs it off. By the time breakfast is done, everyone is stuffed. The Lis show Mushu and me to the distillery, where Uncle Hong takes us carefully through each step of the whiskey-making process.
“The first step to making whiskey is malting,” Uncle Hong says. “You know what malting is?”
To everyone’s surprise, I say, “Malting is when you take grains of barley or whatever and soak them before spreading them out so they germinate.”
“Impressive,” Shang says, with a small wink. A wave of pleasure trails down my spine. I think back to the private tour that Shang gave me yesterday and have to hide my smile.
I turn back to Uncle Hong. “Back at my family farm, we used to make everything from scratch, even our own candies. There’s this malted candy that we made from wheat and then mulch with glutinous rice—”
Uncle Hong’s face breaks into a joyous grin. “Mai ya tang! Ah, my favorite candy growing up. You know how to make mai ya tang?” He sounds so excited it makes my heart twist a little.
If by you know he means, have I memorized every step I’ve watched on TikTok? I tamp down my guilt as I say, “Sure, yeah.”
“My mother used to make it from scratch,” Uncle Hong says, and the enthusiasm on his face makes the years melt away. “She’d boil the syrup for hours and hours, until it was brown and thick and gooey, and my brothers and I, we would sneak little spoonfuls here and there when she wasn’t looking. Ah, the smell of the boiling syrup was so good.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in, then, seeming to remember himself, straightens his back and says, “Okay, so you know all about malting, very good. Now, over here is where we have our tuns. We mash our dried malt and then mix with hot water in the mash tun. We have to be very careful with the water. We add it in separate stages and each stage has a different temperature—” Uncle Hong turns his head and barks, “James!”
James, who’s been sauntering along behind us while scrolling on his phone, lifts his head. “What?” he says irritably.
“What are the proper temperatures for the water?” Uncle Hong says.
All eyes turn to James, who groans and says, “Seriously? Not this again.”
“Aiya, Er zi,” Auntie Chuang says, “how can you boast about our family distillery when you know nothing about the process?”
“That’s why we have employees,” James snaps. “So we can delegate.”
“The first stage is 152.6 degrees Fahrenheit,” I say helpfully, “the second stage is 161.6 degrees Fahrenheit, and for the third water, you want it to be between 176 and 185 degrees Fahrenheit.”
There is silence as they all turn to look at me. I secretly thank the gods of the internet. Herding cattle? Not so much. But numbers? All I have to do is glance at them once and they will be imprinted in my memory.
The aunties and uncles nod solemnly. Uncle Hong smacks me on the back and laughs. “Ah, good girl!”
Shang is studying me with something approaching admiration on his face, and the sight of it does funny things to my stomach. Funny, warm, nice things.
Uncle Hong goes through the fermentation process, and again, I am happy to share my knowledge of fermentation, based on a combination of me reading up on the whiskey-making process, what Shang told me yesterday, and my one and only disastrous experience making sourdough (I named my starter Breadley Cooper, but it was all downhill from there).
I could swear that Uncle Hong is looking markedly less annoyed by my presence now. He brings me to the pot stills. “Every distillery has its own distinct pot stills,” he says. “And ours are unique. We use the same shape from the first day we start the distillery. It’s what gives our whiskey its incomparable taste and smell.”
“How did you come by this particular shape?”
“Trial and error, of course,” Uncle Hong says. “We tried different shapes—wider stills and narrow ones. The wide ones will produce more refined spirit, same with tall ones. The shorter and narrower ones will have heavier whiskey. We like our whiskey to be heavy flavored, have more oomph, so we knew we wanted a shorter still.”
Though I’ve read up all I could about the process of making whiskey, seeing it in person—being surrounded by these huge pots and stills, hearing the whir and thuds and steaming of the machines, and smelling the rich scents of fermentation—is entirely different. I feel the gravity of the place, the echoes of its past years, of the trials and errors that the uncles and aunties went through.
“How did your family decide to go into the whiskey-making business?” I say.
At this, Uncle Hong gives a little roar and gestures at Uncle Jing and Uncle Xiaotian. “Ah, we three came up with it, didn’t we?”
Uncle Jing and Uncle Xiaotian both grin and nod, but I notice that Auntie Jiayi’s eyebrows are raised so high that they’ve practically disappeared into her hairline. I meet Auntie Jiayi’s eye and cock my head to one side, but she gives a small shake of the head and smiles in an Oh well, what are you gonna do? way.
“When we moved to America, we were all doing odd jobs,” Uncle Hong says. “I worked in a shoe factory.”
“I worked in a noodle factory,” Uncle Jing says.
“And I worked as a cleaner in an office building,” Uncle Xiaotian says.
“Pah!” Uncle Hong says. “You were hopping from job to job, like a rabbit.” He turns back to me. “And then one day, when we were eating dinner, we said, ‘We used to make our own baijiu. Let’s make it again to sell.’ But nobody in America knew what baijiu is at the time, so we decided to make an American drink. First we considered making beer, but we didn’t know much about beer making, you see. So then we decided, ah, whiskey. Yes. And it turns out there are many similarities in the process of making the whiskey. We started in our own garage, you know. Only after we saved up enough money were we able to buy this space to turn into a proper distillery.”
I gaze around the expansive building with newfound respect and awe. I know how hard immigrant lives are from my own parents’ struggle, and whenever I comes across a new story, I treat it as a priceless gift handed to me and tuck it in a safe place in the endless tapestry of my memories, something to be cherished in quiet moments.
By the time we end the tour of the distillery, it’s past lunchtime. We file out, going back to the farmhouse, where there is steamed mantou stuffed with roast duck that Shang made earlier. We eat outside, soaking in the sunlight and drinking refreshing mint juleps. The drinks are purposely made weak since it’s so early in the day, and I think about how much Baba would’ve enjoyed this trip. He would’ve fit in as easily as a fish slipping into water, and he would be delighted by the food, the drinks, and the stories. The thought strengthens my hope of securing the deal. Once we buy the company, there will surely be more of these trips, and another chance for me to drink in the sight of my parents laughing in the golden sunlight, mint juleps in hand. Of course, given the fact that I’m impersonating my father, I have no idea how this daydream will ever come to pass, but one can hope.