eggs, sugar, and milk

There was a flurry of snow swirling through the night, illuminated by the street lights outside. Tuyết sat at a table in her family’s restaurant, toweling off stacks of bamboo steamers and pairs of chopsticks, mindlessly humming to the Christmas Eve special playing on the TVs. There was no one else left in the building but her; the cooks and waitstaff had all left two hours ago at her behest. It had been a long service tonight and it would be even more busy come Christmas morning. They deserved to spend the evening with their loved ones.

Tuyết had always dreamed of taking over Moon Palace, the restaurant her grandmother had built from a street stall into a three story operation. After an unsuccessful half-hearted job search post-graduation, she gleefully took to the back of the house. It was where she grew up, it was where she was meant to be. Gratified diner after diner, full house after full house, she was able to semi-retire her parents who now spent the latter half of the year visiting relatives back in Vietnam. 

So sure, maybe she was alone at the moment. But when the workday consists of non-stop standing for hours, piping bursts of steam, dodging popping oil from woks, and sore eardrums from the organized pandemonium, solitude was welcome. Quiet was nice. 

Red is an auspicious color. It brings fortune and celebration which is why it was everywhere in Moon Palace. The chairs and tablecloths were covered in scarlet satin and the walls lined with crimson velvet aptly accented with gold trim. Tuyết had set a small Christmas tree by the entrance to welcome visitors, the artificial pine branches and twinkling ornaments contrasted well against the warm decor.

The holiday bells she had hung on the front doors jingled. Tuyết stacked the steamer she held atop the tower she was building before turning her attention to the intruder. “We closed two hours ago.” 

“Yet you’re still here.” 

“Shouldn’t you be somewhere in Europe drinking Vin Chaud right now?” Laurent chuckled, brushing his snow soaked curls out of his eyes. 

Laurent had moved into a vacant storefront down the block earlier in the year. He had left a coveted role at a swanky Michelin starred joint somewhere in Europe to build his own place, Sephine, an ocean away. He was steeped in the world of fine dining, presenting chef’s table tasting menus and curating wine lists every week. 

They first met in the spring when Laurent spotted her scanning the grand opening banner for Sephine plastered on the window. Tuyết passed by Sephine every morning on her commute in and of course a new restaurant opening nearby would pique her interest. 

They exchanged polite greetings with Tuyết welcoming him to the neighborhood. Laurent expressed his hope that she’d dine there once they opened. Tuyết simply laughed, saying that she didn’t have the time nor money to afford it. Then a few days later they clashed at the Asian grocery when he had stolen the last bundles of morning glory even though she had been standing in front of the crate for far longer. In her outburst of ire, she offhandedly mentioned that she worked as a chef prompting his curiosity.  According to Laurent, he had come in for lunch once hoping to see her but she was nowhere to be seen. Tuyết seldom left the kitchen unless it was her meal break or service was over and every diner had paid and left. She revealed that to him in another argument at the Asian grocery, that time over duck eggs. Thus began a tradition between the two. Sephine closed an hour before Moon Palace and had far less clean up to do so Laurent would creep in during after hours when it was just Tuyết finishing the late night prep tasks. They’d pry into each other’s history and chat cookery, discussing the difference between small, intimate meal settings and bustling dining halls, occasionally sharing a bottle of wine from Laurent’s cellar.

However, she wasn’t expecting him over the holidays. Last week, a paper had been taped to Sephine’s front door saying it’d be closed for two weeks and would open up after the new year. So, surely he would’ve flown out to see his family. Restauranteering was strenuous on the mind and soul.

“I come bearing gifts.” Laurent pointed at the bundled mason jars in his arms filled with a pale liquid.

“Is that eggnog?” Tuyết deadpanned.

“...Maybe.”

“I hate eggnog.” 

“Not my recipe, you won’t. I made it just for you.” Tuyết snorted at his conviction. Ever since she nearly choked on a ghastly mixture of cloves and boozy egg substitute at a high school football game, never had she met a mug of eggnog she didn’t gag at. She nudged the chair next to her out from the table. Laurent plopped down, leaning back against the cushioned seat. Tuyết tried to ignore how his jars leered at her next to the pile of newly dried chopsticks. 

“It’s Christmas Eve and you’re spending it here surrounded by steamers and silverware?” Tuyết shrugged in response. 

“You’re one to talk. Why aren’t you home with your family?”

“We’re spread out around the world. We couldn’t coordinate enough for the holidays.” His smile was nonchalant, like he had reconciled with this self-imposed exile. Not that Tuyết could argue. They were in the same situation but Christmas had never been a holiday in her family. She was flying to Saigon for Lunar New Year where the whole extended family would exchange envelopes and consume copious amounts of homemade sticky rice. Spending a major family holiday isolated across the world sounded heartbreaking.

“So we both planned on spending Christmas Eve alone?” She sheepishly mused, stacking another steamer onto the tower.

“Maybe we could spend Christmas Eve alone together?” No matter their relentless banter, she just couldn’t resist that beguiling smile of his. Tuyết stood on her tiptoes, stacking the last steamer away before turning to Laurent. 

“Did you eat yet?” She tapped her trimmed nails on the glass turntable. Laurent’s stomach unceremoniously growled in response. 

They made haste to the kitchen where Tuyết scattered bowls from the fridge across the metal counter: milky dough, petite quail eggs, ground pork filling, and a sauce dish of water.

“Do they teach you bánh bao in French culinary school?” He shook his head eyeing the table as she started sectioning pieces of dough out.

“Another reason why the French are not to be respected.” Tuyết could hear his stifled laughter over her shoulder.

 As she packed a quail egg into the filling and dough before pinching it all close, Laurent mimicked her hands, pressing the dough into itself but the pork spilled out through the gaps. Tuyết’s lips in disapproval, setting her perfectly formed bao down and moving towards Laurent. Her hands above his, she guided his fingers through the motions, crimping the bun together. She disregarded how his breath hitched when she took his hands in hers, ignoring how close they stood to each other. It took him a couple more tries before Tuyết clapped his shoulder, pleased at his handiwork. They worked side by side, finding a comfortable rhythm. Laurent made a point to get her approval for every bun he pleated shut. The glee on his face only grew the more nods he received from Tuyết. As Tuyết steamed the buns, Laurent warmed up his jars of eggnog in a pot on the stove. She tried thinking of ways she could escape its consumption but they all sounded like sorry excuses in her mind.

With their small army of bánh bao standing squat in their bamboo baskets letting puffs of steam rise into the dining room, the chef duo clinked their jars together, toasting to their quaint Christmas dinner. Tuyết eyed the eggnog in her hands, hesitant to take a swig of it. But Laurent had spent time out of his holiday making it. The least she could do was taste it, from one chef to another. She took a delicate sip, lest she gag in front of him.

“It’s good?” He asked.

It was perfect. It wasn’t too eggy or potpourri-esque. He had found the perfect balance between the custardy eggs and rich sweet cream. The cinnamon and nutmeg tickled her nose while the brandy and rum sent a wave of warmth down her shoulders. He must have liquified an egg tart and cast a Christmas miracle onto it. 

Laurent’s eyes were glued to her, closely waiting for her reaction. Tuyết looked down at her jar then back to him, making no effort to hide her smile. Maybe that’d be her gift to him. 

“Tastes better knowing it’s from you.” The decadent drink lingered on her tongue, her taste buds earnestly waiting for more.