Amy, the Ayi. Mmmmmm. Part two

Amy it seems, has a great passion for cooking and she's quite good at it.

The last time Amy was the subject of conversation we were suspended in "wait and see" mode. I had instituted a moratorium on celebratory dinners to seriously reconsider my abilities to identify anyone who might be effective at anything here in Shanghai. Add the variables of an Ayi's duties and well, Shanghai's pristine patina tarnishes a bit and it's alter ego "Shanghai-ed" seems to emerge with the intensity of aliens in Ridley Scott's new film. 

New places can be that way, particularly if you're not a tourist or native.

The essence of existence is quite similar to floating. You're a part of things and yet you aren't. It can be good and bad as I've related to this point. With regard to Amy, it seems to be good, things are working much better.

Our common phonetic/mime vocabulary seems to be getting more finite. I'm learning Mandarin (Amy insists on a Shanghainese dialect) and she is learning English by virtue of our nondescript accents.

Amy is on time everyday now except when the elevator is slow (come again?). Ah, yes, the "slow elevator" it takes about a minute per story so when Amy arrives at 9:20a it's generally it's  because the elevator was on Huangpu River cruise control. It's funny because Amy is so emphatic about making sure I understand that it is the elevator and not Amy who was late.The longer I live here the more credible these explanations seem and generally the more widely accepted I see they are in the culture. 

"Okay, yeah, you're right the elevator was late, no worries, cheers!"

Once she has determined that I believe her (you know with that inquisitive albeit, reluctant puppy dog "well do I get a treat or not" look), acknowledging my nod, she's off like a shot to the chores at hand.

Within the hour she's taken care of straightening-up three bedrooms, four bathrooms, the kitchen, dining room, living room and as non-intrusively as possible the office. All impeccably done. She's like Molly Maid on brown/clears (those of you born after 1970 are just going to have to trust me). Invariably as she enters the office she looks to see what I'm up to. I always have the sense that she keeps a notebook and reports back to the Red Army on my behavior. I'm even starting to believe this whole "I don't understand English thing" is a front (I feel so at home in that wonderful Chinese province of Paranoia).

Regardless, usually by 10:00a or so she has the first load of laundry in the washer and is back in the office asking "Mista, mǐfàn?" Which I interpret as "do you want me to cook today?" (It actually means, Mista do you want cooked rice?) In any event, if the answer is yes, Amy demands that the driver be ready to go by 10:30a if it's any later she becomes agitated. (Mr. Zhao our driver has related to me that he thinks she is pig-headed because of her insistence.)

This day we do want Amy to cook.

Promptly at 10:30a (depending on if the elevator is slow) we, the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker, are on our way to the ATM for the shopping allowance of RMB (the well protected Chinese currency). I ask Amy how much she'll need and she counts in her best English to ten and then in Mandarin up to fifteen indicating that she needs 1500 RMB. Recently, I've noticed the amount has crept up from 1000 or 1100 RMB. A little perplexing because she always brings back 400-500 RMB in change. Frugality seems to be a source of pride for many Chinese and this is Amy's way of saying "Hey mista, I'm getting some great deals for you here!" As I finish counting out 1500 clams (an acceptable denomination in any language) Amy and Mr. Zhao are off bantering back and forth about whether Obama is a warlord or a coward regarding events in the South China Sea.

This is evident because Amy, with furled brow, squints more intently than usual while posturing in the backseat as if aiming two fists full of semi automatic 9mms (think Schwarzenegger muttering "Hasta La vista baby") while exclaiming "Obama, dud-dud-dud-dut!" (A widely accepted Sino sound effect for semi automatic weapon fire.) Mr. Zhao in an amused voice waves her off saying "Obama, no dud-dud-dud-dut!" He does the extended pinky and thumb call-me gesture, "Vietnam call Obama, say Obama help, help! Obama, say me sink." Mr. Zhao then impersonates Obama rubbing his chin in mock consideration for dramatic effect before delivering the punchline, "Obama say, No help Vietnam!" They both laugh hysterically. It's as funny as any John Stewart newscast. 

All joking aside, at either extreme, it's a US foreign policy failure by any standard. 

I'm just happy Amy and Mr. Zhao haven't "dud-dud-dud-dut-ed" each other. That means the shopping will get done, hopefully in time for Mr. Zhao to get my daughter where she needs to be later that afternoon.  

Four and a half hours, and five stores later, Amy is back with the groceries. She is talking 110 miles an hour about how hard it is to find some of the items on the list. Ultimately she grabs the check-out ribbon and goes down the list of items she couldn't get. Pointing to an item "Mista, méiyǒu!" (Mista, there weren't any) then to the next item "méiyǒu!" on it goes until I start to think that méiyǒu is a preexisting condition.

At about 3:30p the groceries are unpacked, Amy motions at me to leave the kitchen. She unceremoniously shoos me away as a snobby, French pantry chef might. It's hilarious to see her, back arched forward, arms extended, flicking her wrists so her fingers snap as if the tail of a whip to shoo me out. 

"I'm good, just make sure to honor the no cooking oil – particularly no Chinese cooking oil* request and we're cool."

An hour or so passes and she emerges from the kitchen to summon me from the office. She hands me a set of chopsticks motioning for me try what she has prepared. Earlier we had decided that she would make green beans with ground pork and a slightly altered spicy, chicken and pepper dish.

She watches eagerly as I taste the green beans, which I am pleasantly surprised by – they are (as Tony would say) great! There is enough garlic to keep things interesting and the beans are al dente, she mildly seasoned the pork bringing an added dimension and timing that could easily have been just another dull vegetable accompaniment.

Then it's on to the spicy chicken.

As I lift the first bite via chopsticks, I drop it. She tries to wrest the sticks from me as if to say "Do I need to feed you too?" It's my turn to shoo her away "Chill gurl, I got this!" She rolls her eyes as if she'd learned from Aretha herself (Amy, don't tell me you don't understand English). I taste the chicken and it is better than the first dish. "Wow, mmmm, Amy this is really good." I try to snag a few more pieces before Amy has the time to get me a fork. As spicy goes, it has heat and great flavor. She uses three different varieties of peppers from very hot to sweet and the subtleties are amazing.

Damn, this is good. And I thought Yan could cook!

She looks at me pensively, asking "Good?!?" I say "yeah, very good!" again she asks "Good??" as if to savor the moment. I give in "Amy, this is very, very good, xièxie!" (Thank you.) Amy, modestly, with eyebrows piqued and eyes-wide bows and says with her trademarked show of gratitude "Sank you Mista, sank you."

It's nearly 5:00p and Amy is about to leave but not before painstakingly "plating" the serving dishes so as to impress "baby and Ms. Kris". I have to say Martha Stewart might learn a thing or two from her where aesthetics are concerned. 

Soon Amy is out the door with a "bye-pie Mista, zàijiàn!" (farewell).

Meanwhile, I'm back in the kitchen sneaking a bit of the newly reinstated celebratory dinner.

* – China is cracking down on swill shops that will render-down anything under the sun and sell it to non-government conforming cooking oil brands looking to make a fast buck by selling it. It is literally poison.

© 2012 Karl Shaffer