“That’s not bad. I may need to have new business cards printed up,” I say, playing along.
“It’s about time you were in charge. Though I remember June starting Lunar Love like it was yesterday. Do I look as old as I feel?” Mae Yí-Pó wipes her hands on the towel hanging from her apron. She’s the one who taught me how to bake when I was younger. When Pó Po and Auntie Lydia, my mom’s sister who took over Lunar Love after Pó Po retired, were busy with clients, I’d sneak over here to help mix icing and watch dough rise.
“Not even a little,” I say. “Are you still coming to Pó Po’s birthday party today?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. Dale won’t be there, unfortunately, since he’ll be covering for me.”
“Sounds like he’s finally feeling better?”
“Much better. The doctor says it was just stress. I’m sure you know the pressure to sell has been increasing all over town, and with new restaurants coming in, it’s hard to compete with shiny things.” Mae Yí-Pó swipes crumbs off the counter into her hands as she talks. “Very dangerous to his heart. Have you been approached by the vultures yet?”
“Who?” I ask, confused.
“Real estate agents,” she clarifies.
“Oh. Not that I know of,” I say, thinking back on recent non-client visitors.
“They act all sneaky and try to befriend you, but at the first sign of weakness, they swoop in and try to buy your land out from under you.” Mae Yí-Pó claps her hands together, startling me. “It happened to our friends at the bookstore next to you.”
“We need to hold strong so we don’t lose the essence of what makes Chinatown special,” I say.
Mae Yí-Pó pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Exactly! Good girl. Anyways, go, go! We know you’re going to do great things with Lunar Love. We’re so proud.”
“Thanks, Mae Yí-Pó.” I smile at her, grateful for the support. “See you at the party!”
I select a pair of tongs and a small cream-colored tray lined with parchment. I take count of what remains after the early morning rush through the illuminated plastic cases presenting the day’s fresh creations. My eyes fall over the seemingly endless options: sweet and savory buns, steamed and baked buns, egg tarts, mochi doughnuts, sesame balls, and Swiss rolls.
I squeeze past a woman loading up her tray with red bean buns and bend over to grab two ham and cheese buns with my tongs. They look identical, their browned tops glossy from baked egg wash. I open the case door directly above the ham and cheese buns to pick out Bo Lo Baos for Mom. She loves these sweet buns because they resemble pineapple skin with their scored yellow tops, even though there’s actually no pineapple in them. They’re Lucky Monkey’s bestselling item, so Mae Yí-Pó always makes sure to bake triple the amount compared to other treats.
Having already memorized the pastry placements, I take two steps to my right and secure the last baked pork bun. Then without hesitation, I open the plastic case door next to the now-empty tray of meat-filled mounds and reach in for the last cocktail bun for Pó Po. Before my tongs reach the puffy pastry, another pair of tongs swoops in before my eyes to grab the sesame-seed-sprinkled treat.
“Oops! Excuse me!” I look over at the offender who just swiped Pó Po’s breakfast. I expect to see the woman with the full tray of red bean buns, but instead a tall man stands beside me. I nod toward the cocktail bun on his tray. “I didn’t see you there, but I was actually here first. Would you mind?”
The man looks at me with a surprised expression. “Would I mind…moving? Sure!” He takes a couple of steps back from the wall of cases.
“Uh, no. The cocktail bun. It’s mine.”
The man looks down at his pile of food. “I had my tongs on it first. Therefore, I have first pick. It’s a law.”
“My tongs were on that bun before you ripped it out of my cold metal grip,” I casually explain. I eye up the cocktail bun, the sides still looking soft from recently being pulled apart. Across the surface of the bun, which is baked to golden perfection, are two white lines of sweet cream.
“That’s quite the dramatic retelling of what just happened. I’d love to hear your version of what happens when I keep the bun.” The man smiles, his cheeks pushing crinkled lines up around his delighted eyes.
I gesture with my tongs to signify my personal space. “I was clearly here before you.”
The man raises both eyebrows. “If you move too slowly, you miss out. What’s that saying? If you’re browsing for fun, you don’t get the bun.”
“I think it actually goes: When you cut me off, things are going to get rough,” I retort, slightly amused.
“Mmm, nope,” he says, “haven’t heard of that one.”
“You see, it’s my pó po’s birthday, and if I don’t get her that cocktail bun, well, I’ll be a disappointment to her. You wouldn’t want that for me, right?” I ask sweetly. I look into the light shading of his deep-set eyes, and for a moment, I’m at a loss for what color they are.
“How do you know that I’m not taking this bun to my pó po?” the man asks. His use of the Chinese term for maternal grandmother surprises me.
“You have a pó po who also happens to be obsessed with cocktail buns?” I ask suspiciously.
“Actually, my pó po prefers egg tarts. She’s got a thing for puff pastry and butter,” he replies, glancing over at the cases next to us. “But that’s beside the point.”
Before I can make my rebuttal, a young boy pushes past me to snatch the last Swiss roll out of the case. “Great, there goes the last one!” I shout, looking at the vacant platter and throwing my hand up to overemphasize my distress. Maybe this approach will work.
“I can tell you need this bun more than I do. If you really want it,” he says, “we can make a trade.”
“A trade?” My pulse begins to race. His eye color is on the tip of my tongue.
“Yes. A good old-fashioned barter,” he says, looking entertained. He studies me with his color-I-can’t-quite-place eyes, unnerving me. There’s a soulful depth to them that draws me in, making me forget why I’m staring at him in the first place.
The man clears his throat, and I refocus. “Sure. You can have my Bo Lo Bao, and I’ll take your cocktail bun,” I offer. I make a move for my prize, but the man gently clutches my wrist with his tongs, guiding my arm back to my tray.
“Whoa, hold on! No deal. There’s still a pile of those. I could grab five of them right now if I wanted to. Therefore, your trade is worthless,” he says.
On the tray, he has two slices of Swiss rolls (one rainbow and one vanilla), a Chinese hot dog bun, two curry beef puffs, and my cocktail bun.
“You clearly have an agenda,” I say, “so what is it you want? Ham and cheese? They look extra delicious this morning.”