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Overview
Yale and Celine Yee’s food stall business is going so well that they’ve been invited to join an exclusive dinner with the local restaurant owners association. The members gather together for a relaxing hot pot feast…until Jeffery Vue, president of the group, receives a literal shock to his system and dies.
Everyone at the meal is a suspect, but the authorities are homing in on family friend Ai Ho, owner of the restaurant where Jeffery was killed—and Yale’s dad is a close second on their list. Yale and Celine step up to the plate and investigate the dinner attendees: the association’s ambitious VP, a familiar frenemy, a ramen king, a snacks shopkeeper, and a second-generation restaurateur. It’s up to the detecting duo to figure out what really happened before their friends and family have to close their businesses for good.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781638089339 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Center Point |
| Publication date: | 11/01/2023 |
| Series: | L.A. Night Market , #2 |
| Edition description: | Large Print |
| Pages: | 500 |
| Sales rank: | 554,373 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.70(w) x 8.60(h) x 1.10(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
ONE
All happy hot pot gatherings are alike; each unhappy hot pot event is disastrous in its own way. It started off early with the invitation from Nikola Ho. Continuing his trend of irritating me ever since we were middle school academic rivals, Nik had now single-handedly ruined my plans for a quiet Thanksgiving dinner with my nearest and dearest beside me. The holiday was one of the few times that Ba actually shut down his dim sum restaurant, Wing Fat, and focused on family. Even though it'd been quieter in recent years with just the two of us sharing slices of turkey, I'd still appreciated the time spent with my dad. This year, it'd be even livelier with the presence of my cousin, Celine, who'd flown in from Hong Kong last month. Although she and I had two decades of silence between us, we'd mended our ways recently, especially while clearing our shared Yee name from police suspicion when someone had died at the night market where we run our food booth. The murder and its subsequent resolution had placed the inaugural Eastwood Village Night Market on the L.A. dining map. It also ended up creating an exciting food event every weekend in the planned community of Eastwood Village.
I loved living in the local area. Everything had its place and order. All essential services were within walking distance of my apartment-and Celine's current residence while living in the States-at Fountain Vista. I could stroll to my two favorite spots, the Eastwood Village Public Library and The Literary Narnia, my beloved bookstore (and previous place of employment, until I'd rediscovered my passion for cooking).
Nik hadn't bothered to officially invite me to his Thanksgiving banquet. He didn't send me a card or call me on my landline (Celine was still trying to convince me to get a cell phone). To be honest, I wasn't even sure I'd made it on the list of exclusive attendees. He'd actually asked Ba to come, but added a plus-one option, which Ba had changed to plus-two. I bet Nik's mother, Ai Ho, wanted my cousin to show up as the extra guest. She had rosy-hued dreams of Celine staying in the States and settling down with Nik.
The Thanksgiving gathering had been billed as a meeting of minds for the local Asian restaurant business community. They even had an official title for their group: Asian American Restaurant Owners Association, or AAROA.
Nik had called together a group meet-up because of the dwindling membership of the association. To be fair, there weren't that many Asian restaurants in West Los Angeles-many of them stayed in distinct geographic locations like Chinatown and Thai Town. Others had branched off to the San Gabriel Valley or even Westminster, down in Orange County. The ones that stayed in business in the region either didn't have time to join AAROA or maybe felt like the restaurant-owner connection wasn't necessary. Nik's mother thought the tie was essential and wanted to promote cooperation among the younger generations of restaurateurs. I half wondered if she'd thought up the original idea of a Thanksgiving meal to promote unity among the business owners.
At the onset of the idea, though, Nik and I had clashed. Once I'd known about the revised Thanksgiving, I offered up Wing Fat as the logical place to gather. We had plenty of space for guests, even though I knew that the group currently numbered only six people. Wing Fat had a whole banquet room, a partitioned space, to fill up with people and food.
Nik declined our offer and said everybody should meet up at his mother's restaurant, Ho's, and he won the argument. I was surprised the Thanksgiving meal wouldn't be at Jeffery Vue's eatery, actually. I figured as the president of AAROA, he'd be ready to jump in with the meeting location. Then again, maybe he didn't want to deal with the cleanup on his day off. Plus, I'd heard from Ba that he was rearranging his priorities and currently focusing on his dating life.
Despite the contentious venue, Celine's ambitious social media influencer inclination to "put a shine" on the event meant that my cousin and I had arrived early on Thanksgiving to decorate the restaurant in advance of the dinner. She stood in front of Ho's, carrying a large cardboard box, while I tapped on the glass door.
Nik came and greeted us with a half-hearted wave. Although it appeared like he'd just woken up, I knew his signature bedhead look took meticulous styling. He'd mastered the effort in high school and then added bleached strands and a goatee to the hair mix post-college.
He pushed the door open to let us in. "If it isn't the deadly Yee duo."
"Very funny," I said, although I hadn't seen any humor in the situation when I'd literally run into a dead body with my food cart during the night market event around Halloween. "Can't believe you wrote that I made 'brutal boba.'" Nik had run a column in his Eastwood Village Connection blog about how the night market had turned deadly, perhaps due to my fatal recipe.
"Who are you to complain?" he said. "People were lining up at Canai and Chai last weekend for your signature drink."
I stopped a sigh from escaping my lips. Who knew what would catch people's fancy? Night market-goers did like ordering my grapefruit green tea with boba, those chewy tapioca balls, for the fun of it. Maybe they felt like they were daring death, even though the police had cleared my drink of any suspicion after they'd arrested the real killer.
"Ho's Small Eats didn't do so badly either," I said, referring to the food stand Nik and his mother ran, a neighboring stall to our own. I'd seen a line snaking before them, people eager to eat spiced popcorn chicken and enjoy freezing-cold shaved ice.
Celine dropped her box on the long counter of Ho's, and it landed with a heavy thump. "Less talking, more work," she said. "It might take a miracle to transform this place in only one hour."
I studied the restaurant, again reflecting on the fact that a 1950s diner had previously been in this location. Ho's still retained red vinyl booths and checkerboard flooring. They'd even kept the swivel barstools lined up along the counter. "This place has never really screamed 'Taiwanese' to me."
"It's the authentic food cooked in here that draws in our customers," Nik said in an irritated tone. I wasn't sure which hurt him more: that I'd put down his family's restaurant or that I knew the dishes he referred to didn't come from his own hands. Mrs. Ho still didn't trust her son to do more than serve and wipe down the tables.
I leaned toward the kitchen door. In fact, I could hear some banging around in there. Maybe she'd already started preparing. Dad should also be there, and maybe Roy Yamada. All members of AAROA, they'd bonded over their stories about immigrating to America and also the fact that they'd lost their spouses within the past ten years. Mr. Yamada had been widowed the least amount of time. His wife had died last year after a bout with aggressive cancer.
Celine clapped her hands together twice to get Nik's and my attention. "Here's what I'm envisioning," she said. My cousin was a foodstagrammer, and while she loved her food shots on Instagram the most, I could see her creative brain working as she laid out her Thanksgiving design plan. She wanted to decorate the tabletops with scented spice candles, arrange a line of painted pumpkins along the counter, and pin a garland of colorful walnuts against a wall.
"How do you know so much about Thanksgiving anyway?" I said. "Isn't it an American holiday?"
"I live in Hong Kong," she said, "not Antarctica."
"We're not even having turkey per tradition," I said as I shook my head at Nik.
"News flash," he said. "Nobody likes turkey. Usually it comes out too dry."
"I like turkey," I said, grabbing a few orange candles and bunching them together on a table. "I'm not sure why we have to do hot pot anyway." I liked veggies and meat simmering away in hot broth as much as the next person, but I had looked forward to the holiday's typical stuffing and candied yams.
"My restaurant, my rules," Nik said, as he lined up a few pumpkins along the counter.
I wanted to make a sharp retort about his mother really owning the place, when the front door swung open. Jeffery Vue, wearing a faded black suit and tie, had arrived.
"Friends, how can I help?" he said, sweeping his hands wide, their huge motion mimicking his booming voice. Jeffery had been president of the Asian restaurant owners' club even back when I'd started helping out after my abbreviated time attending college. I didn't think he ever wanted to leave the position. He was a social man who loved gatherings.
On my dim sum personality assessment scale, I labeled him as char siu bao, or barbecued pork bun. He had the same kind of rotund appearance as the steamed treat and overflowed with sweet talk. Jeffery had even snared the woman of his dreams with his honeyed mouth. Although he'd taken his "merry time to do so," according to his internal calendar.
The man was in his forties, about ten years older than me, but I remembered to use a respectful title to greet him. "Hello, Mr. Vue, good to see you," I said. "Did you bring your date?"
I tried to peer behind his broad body to catch a glimpse of her. I didn't know anything about the mysterious lady. No one in the association had met her yet.
"She wasn't free this evening. Family obligations of her own," he said.
"A shame."
"Thank you for showing up early, Mr. Vue," my cousin said. Celine moved toward him in her goldenrod sweater dress with suede boots, which she told me she'd selected to match the autumn season. "You can assist with the garland." She handed him a clear jar full of prepainted walnuts in various colors.
He accepted the container and blinked at its contents. "What am I supposed to do with these?"
"Put holes in them and string them together," Celine said. "The drill and twine are in the box on the counter."
Jeffery had just picked up the tool when the door to Ho's burst open, as though by a strong gust of wind. Derrick Tran barreled through. "I'm here," he said.
"Hello, Veep." Jeffery raised the drill in his hand as greeting.
Derrick flinched at the movement. "I have a first name you can use, Jeffery."
"But it's so much quicker to say Veep," Jeffery replied.
Derrick had been second-in-command in the association almost as long as Jeffery had been number one. I didn't think the titles in the organization mattered much, though, because I couldn't see the difference in their duties. All the members of the group seemed to pitch in to get the word out about local Asian restaurants.
"Maybe I won't be VP anymore in a few months," Derrick said. "Voting is coming around, and new leaders start in January." Worry lines creased his pointy forehead, making him appear like the pot sticker personality I'd dubbed him. He'd always seemed an overdone example of the pan-fried version, too crispy and with abundant sharp folds.
"Don't you worry your remaining hairs about that, Veep," Jeffery said as he powered up the drill and bored a hole in a scarlet unshelled walnut. "Because I'll remain in charge."
Celine stepped between them and said, "I'm sure you can figure out how to work together. In fact, why don't you both assist with the walnut garland? Mr. Vue, you can continue with the drilling. Once he's pierced a few, Mr. Tran, you can begin stringing them together."
"I know my way around a power tool as much as Jeffery," Derrick said, grabbing for the drill. "And who's paying for these decorations anyway? I hope they're not coming out of the AAROA budget."
Celine's attempt at mediation didn't seem to be working, so I abandoned my role crafting the centerpieces. "Why don't I step inside the kitchen and help Mrs. Ho? Then someone can take over my duties."
The two men blinked at me but didn't relinquish their combined hold on the tool. Without waiting for a resolution, I hurried away.
Iloved the perfume of a well-kept kitchen. The fragrance of soup and the sound of bubbling broth greeted me in Ho’s inner sanctum. Nik’s mother stood over a large silver pot, sprinkling in spices. At five feet tall, she almost needed a step stool to cook at the range.
"Smells delicious, Auntie Ai," I said, using the familial term to greet her.
Mrs. Ho turned from the stove. "Yale, come join our little trio. We'll always welcome the next generation and pass down our tricks of the trade. Otherwise we'd be more like AARP than AAROA." She chuckled.
"I can also get Nik in here," I said, but Mrs. Ho waved her oil-spotted hand in the air.
"No need," she said. "Better that he spend extra time with Celine."
I didn't have a response, not wanting to burst her hopes of the two of them getting together. Celine didn't like serious relationships. Besides, she hated being pushed into anything.
Ba called me to his side, and I obeyed. He was bent over a box of tofu at the prep counter.
"Can you help me?" my dad said. "I'm in charge of vegetables. A lot of them. While Ai Jeh"-he'd appended the jeh, or "sister," term to her name-"makes the bone broth. Roy, who's coming out of the fridge right now, is going to handle the meats." Ba sometimes used the plural form of a word to talk about it, his one verbal tell of having emigrated from Hong Kong decades ago.
"Hi, Mr. Yamada," I said to the bald man exiting the walk-in fridge. He had plastic trays of meat in his hands, along with a clear bag of raw shrimp, unpeeled and complete with antennae and eyes.
"Yale," he said, squinting at me. "It's been a long time. How was university? You went to your namesake, right?"
"No." I felt my cheeks heat up. "Actually, I stayed local." I didn't tell him that I'd halted my plans to transfer from community college and returned home because my mom had suffered from respiratory issues. Both she and Ba had needed me.
"I wanted her at Wing Fat instead," my dad said before plopping a second box of tofu in front of me. "She got our cooking genes."
Mr. Yamada placed his provisions on the far end away from our vegetables. "The lucky Yee family," he said. "Mother, father, and daughter. All good cooks."