not what I will be focusing on.”
Mark looked flabbergasted. Selina stepped in. “Well, what are you going to do with
the wine room, then? It cost a lot of money, you know.”
Aunty Lee knew that. She had paid for the construction of the wine room because, as
Selina had pointed out, it was installed in her café. And she loved it. The inch of
high-density, rigid foam insulation was discreetly covered with unfinished oak, the
sophisticated Breezaire system worked almost silently, and Mark had chosen a double
pane of dark-tinted glass for the door that hinted at joys within without revealing
too much.
Despite being widely seen as the sweet old aunty championing traditional foods and
cooking methods, Aunty Lee loved modern electronic gadgets and systems. She might
have an enormous charcoal brazier standing in the back alleyway, but she also had
Certis CISCO Integrated Operations round-the-clock burglar and fire alarms, which
Nina had linked to the nearest neighborhood police station. And though Aunty Lee swore
by the superior quality of spices hand-pounded in the heavy granite mortar and pestle
(never to be washed with soap), she also owned the latest models in blender mixers
(for catering) and took no chances with her API Food Poison Detection Kits and a GHM-01
Detector for Common Heavy Metals that covered possible food contaminants from rusty
water pipes to arsenic.
She had been less happy about the room’s exit to the rear alley, a legacy of its origin
as a toilet. “If you don’t lock the door properly, alcoholics can come through the
back door and steal my kitchen equipment.”
“Alcoholics are hardly likely to steal your kitchen equipment, Aunty Lee,” Selina
had pointed out sarcastically.
“You think just because they like to drink they don’t like to cook?”
“I’ll make sure Mark locks the door properly,” Selina had said.
Now Aunty Lee had the temperature-controlled walk-in storeroom every Singaporean cook
dreamed of. It would be perfect for store-at-room-temperature goods like soy sauce
and sesame oil once they got rid of the wine bottles. “I could make kimchi,” Aunty
Lee said dreamily. “Part achar, part kimchi. It will be like a fusion pickle.”
“We will serve wine of course,” Cherril said. “After all, it would be a waste not
to when we have the wine license. But it’s not going to be our main focus. We’re also
going to serve cocktails, mocktails, and doctails. Doctails . . .” Forestalling the
question: “Doctails are the medicinal drinks. The drinks that TCM and folk remedies
recommend as healing. Honey drinks and aloe vera and wolfberry teas as well as energy
drinks.”
“That’s actually a good idea!” Selina said. “Traditional Chinese medicine is a growing
market today. Mark, are you sure you don’t want to do this? You haven’t signed the
papers yet. This could work. You take care of the wine, I take care of everything
else. You—this to Aunty Lee—“you must agree not to sell any kind of cold drinks or
desserts so that people are forced to buy from us . . .”
Mark had intended to cultivate a Singapore-based wine appreciation platform. Making
money from the business had never been a priority for him. And now even the people
he had been trying to help didn’t appreciate him.
“I don’t want to,” he said sulkily.
Aunty Lee wondered how this would influence his next career step. ML had been wise,
she thought, to set a limit on how much of his inheritance Mark could tap into during
her lifetime. Though both he and Mathilda had been left well off by their father and
would be wealthy by Singapore standards after her death, Mark had already drawn substantial
loans on his future inheritance.
The shop phone rang just then. Nina answered, “Aunty Lee’s Delights, good morning,”
brightly enough, but as she listened to the voice at the other end her expression
changed. “But it is
Mark looked flabbergasted. Selina stepped in. “Well, what are you going to do with
the wine room, then? It cost a lot of money, you know.”
Aunty Lee knew that. She had paid for the construction of the wine room because, as
Selina had pointed out, it was installed in her café. And she loved it. The inch of
high-density, rigid foam insulation was discreetly covered with unfinished oak, the
sophisticated Breezaire system worked almost silently, and Mark had chosen a double
pane of dark-tinted glass for the door that hinted at joys within without revealing
too much.
Despite being widely seen as the sweet old aunty championing traditional foods and
cooking methods, Aunty Lee loved modern electronic gadgets and systems. She might
have an enormous charcoal brazier standing in the back alleyway, but she also had
Certis CISCO Integrated Operations round-the-clock burglar and fire alarms, which
Nina had linked to the nearest neighborhood police station. And though Aunty Lee swore
by the superior quality of spices hand-pounded in the heavy granite mortar and pestle
(never to be washed with soap), she also owned the latest models in blender mixers
(for catering) and took no chances with her API Food Poison Detection Kits and a GHM-01
Detector for Common Heavy Metals that covered possible food contaminants from rusty
water pipes to arsenic.
She had been less happy about the room’s exit to the rear alley, a legacy of its origin
as a toilet. “If you don’t lock the door properly, alcoholics can come through the
back door and steal my kitchen equipment.”
“Alcoholics are hardly likely to steal your kitchen equipment, Aunty Lee,” Selina
had pointed out sarcastically.
“You think just because they like to drink they don’t like to cook?”
“I’ll make sure Mark locks the door properly,” Selina had said.
Now Aunty Lee had the temperature-controlled walk-in storeroom every Singaporean cook
dreamed of. It would be perfect for store-at-room-temperature goods like soy sauce
and sesame oil once they got rid of the wine bottles. “I could make kimchi,” Aunty
Lee said dreamily. “Part achar, part kimchi. It will be like a fusion pickle.”
“We will serve wine of course,” Cherril said. “After all, it would be a waste not
to when we have the wine license. But it’s not going to be our main focus. We’re also
going to serve cocktails, mocktails, and doctails. Doctails . . .” Forestalling the
question: “Doctails are the medicinal drinks. The drinks that TCM and folk remedies
recommend as healing. Honey drinks and aloe vera and wolfberry teas as well as energy
drinks.”
“That’s actually a good idea!” Selina said. “Traditional Chinese medicine is a growing
market today. Mark, are you sure you don’t want to do this? You haven’t signed the
papers yet. This could work. You take care of the wine, I take care of everything
else. You—this to Aunty Lee—“you must agree not to sell any kind of cold drinks or
desserts so that people are forced to buy from us . . .”
Mark had intended to cultivate a Singapore-based wine appreciation platform. Making
money from the business had never been a priority for him. And now even the people
he had been trying to help didn’t appreciate him.
“I don’t want to,” he said sulkily.
Aunty Lee wondered how this would influence his next career step. ML had been wise,
she thought, to set a limit on how much of his inheritance Mark could tap into during
her lifetime. Though both he and Mathilda had been left well off by their father and
would be wealthy by Singapore standards after her death, Mark had already drawn substantial
loans on his future inheritance.
The shop phone rang just then. Nina answered, “Aunty Lee’s Delights, good morning,”
brightly enough, but as she listened to the voice at the other end her expression
changed. “But it is
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