Lunar Love (2)

“Olivia!” a voice shouts over the bustle of hungry visitors. “Nǐ hǎo! It’s nice to see you!”

I wave to Mae Yí-Pó as she carefully slides a freshly frosted cake into the display case.

“Nǐ hǎo!” I call out as I make my way to her. “How are you doing today?”

“I can’t get the damn oven to turn off. So other than being drenched in sweat, great!” Mae Yí-Pó says, sweeping her bangs over to the left.

Last summer, she chopped all her silver hair off into a pixie cut, which has accentuated her cheekbones and complemented her petite but strong frame. Mae Yí-Pó twists another fruit-topped cake on a pedestal so that her piped whipped cream designs are prominently displayed.

“I hear Monday’s a big day for you,” she says.

I nod. “I’m really excited.”

“It feels like yesterday that you and Nina were tiny little things coming in here and eating all of our steamed buns.” Her eyes flick over to the wall of photos. “How’s your friend Colette doing?”

I hesitate before answering. “I’m not sure,” I admit, tensing up. “I’ve been busy.”

“Well, of course you are! You’re in charge of the family business now,” Mae Yí-Pó says. In the air in front of her, she draws an arch with her hands. “Olivia Huang Christenson, Chief Executive of Love. That’s got a nice ring to it.”

“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.”