Soy Sauce for Beginners by Kirstin Chen Page A

was in a taxi speeding toward the restaurant, my ambivalence intensifying with the rate of my pulse. The same thoughts I’d considered and dismissed rose up once again: Did he really expect me to drop what I was doing and rush to meet him, especially after taking five days to call? Why was I doing precisely that?
    “Uncle, don’t mind turn up air-con can?” I asked the cab driver. I reminded myself to breathe.
    James and I were meeting at Clarke Quay, a strip of bars and restaurants on the banks of the Singapore River—our island’s most famous river, which was puny enough to be mistaken by tourists for a canal. Back in the nineteenth century, the Clarke Quay area had been a major port, and the government had done its best to preserve that historical charm, albeit in sterilized form. Crumbling godowns had been gutted and given fresh coats of candy-colored paint. Smooth cement boardwalks were laid down around evenly spaced palm trees. An army of neon green-clad workers was on hand to sweep up any traces of litter that had fallen short of the ubiquitous trash cans, themselves sleek and glossy enough to be mistaken for sculpture. Here in Clarke Quay, every table was clogged with local yuppies and Caucasian expats and Australian and Japanese tourists, yet the bars and restaurants turned over each year.
    James’s pick was a new tapas bar pragmatically called Tapas Bar. The space had formerly housed a seedy bar slash lounge that had gone by the more enigmatic name of China Black. I’d been there once or twice in my twenties—just frequently enough to be able to reference it whenever my friends and I needed an example of what we didn’t want to do on a Saturday night.
    James was already standing outside the restaurant door, immaculately dressed in a periwinkle-blue button-up shirt and jeans so stiff, they had to have been ironed. His fauxhawk had been flattened and artfully tousled. Just as I raised my hand to get his attention, he pulled his phone from his pocket and began tapping on the screen. I pulled back my hand and slowed down, hoping no one had witnessed my awkwardness.
    A moment later, he caught sight of me. Before I could hesitate, he came forward and gave me a hug. “Glad you could make it.”
    I took a step back and waited for him to explain why he’d taken so long to call, and when no explanation came, I said, “It was a challenge to clear my schedule, but I managed.”
    He laughed like it was the best joke he’d ever heard, then dropped his voice a notch. “By the way, you look amazing.”
    “Why, thank you,” I said extravagantly to mask my pleasure.
    “Shall we?” He whisked the door open and motioned me through with a bullfighter’s grace, something Paul never did—out of principle, he claimed.
    As I stepped into the cool entranceway, the toe of my pump caught the edge of the rug, and I fell forward. I let out a yelp and grabbed onto James with both hands.
    “I got you,” he said in a low voice.
    The muscles in his arm were hard and lean beneath my fingers. I dropped my hands to my sides, startled by the comfort of his touch.
    “You okay?” he asked, his gaze locking onto mine.
    I brushed my hair away from my face and choked out that I was fine.
    A waiter who had caught my gaffe hurried over.
    “She’s just really excited to try your food,” James said.
    Tapas Bar’s new proprietors had renovated extensively since I’d last visited this location. Gone were the low-hanging lanterns, leopard-print couches and faux sheepskin rugs. The space had been stripped down to its concrete floors and ceiling beams. The restaurant’s sole embellishment was an oversized canvas of wild paint splotches that spanned an entire wall.
    The waiter led us to a spacious corner table. We were taking our seats when a slender man, his trimness amplified by his narrow pinstriped suit and skinny black tie, materialized before us. “I thought I saw your name on the list,” he said, pumping James’s hand. “So