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My Turn by Wayne Chan

From The Asian Reporter, V34, #11 (November 4, 2024), page 6.

Have you ever felt guilty about something you’ve done, even though you know you absolutely didn’t do anything wrong? Allow me to explain what we did, then let me know if you would’ve felt the same.

From our home in San Diego, my wife Maya and I, as well as our son Tyler, went up to Fullerton, California, for a family reunion. The occasion was to see my auntie Jen and her family, who travelled from Taiwan to California for the gathering. We also had relatives arriving from Colorado, the East Coast, and Washington state.

There were about 50 of us meeting at a fancy Cantonese-style Chinese restaurant, so we reserved a banquet room.

It was a wonderful get-together, visiting with family we hadn’t seen in years. But let me get to the "illicit" activity.

Somewhere along the way, my auntie Lucy said that after lunch, we needed to stop at a nearby store to pick up some homemade steamed pork buns. Auntie is in her 80s, walks with a cane, and for as long as I can remember, knows how to cook and find the best Chinese food in every town she goes. So, if auntie Lucy says these pork buns are good, they must be the best.

The only thing is, she wasn’t quite sure about the address of the bun house, but said she’d find out and give us the address and directions. Auntie Lucy insists we ask auntie Ling for the address, and that’s exactly what we did.

When we approached auntie Ling, she didn’t actually have the address, either, but her husband, uncle Paul, did.

So he picked up a napkin from the banquet table and proceeded to scribble down some cryptic notes while giving directions to the place.

Right after lunch, we piled into the car and headed for the bun supplier.

Now, you tell me, does the following sound like we were buying steamed buns, or does it seem like something much more sinister?

According to my uncle’s instructions, the shopping center was just a few miles away. Once we arrived, we needed to go into the Asian bakery next to the Asian supermarket, head to the back, and ask for Stacy.

So to the bakery we went, but nobody knew anyone named Stacy. We then called uncle Paul, who provided Stacy’s cellphone number.

My son Tyler called the number and a woman answered. Tyler asks: "Hello, I believe we placed an order for …" The woman replied "wrong numbah!" and hung up.

Then Maya called the same number and started speaking to the woman in Chinese, so now she seemed more cooperative. She said she had our order, but she parked in the parking lot and our order was in the trunk of her car.

So we drove to the front of the Asian bakery. The parking lot was packed with vehicles and we didn’t see any car with a woman standing by it with a trunk open. So we called Stacy again.

We told her we couldn’t find her car in front of the bakery, and she said, "Too busy there! I’m parked on the other side next to bank! Hurry up! Too many people want their orders, too!"

So we went to the other side of the parking lot and saw an elderly Asian woman standing next to a small white sedan with her trunk open. And also a number of people surrounding her.

That must be Stacy.

We ended up buying 33 buns, because we got a free bun for every ten purchased. And no, surprise-surprise, she doesn’t take credit cards.

But my auntie Lucy was right. They were some awesome buns.

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