“YOU'RE HERE TO SERVE TEA, NOT TO PRETEND YOU UNDERSTAND BUSINESS!”
The elderly businessman slammed his hand against the polished wooden dining table so hard that six porcelain tea bowls rattled against their saucers.
Every conversation inside the luxurious private dining room stopped.
I stood beside his chair wearing a pearl-gray service blouse with a crisp white collar, white cuffs, a black high-waisted apron, and a long black skirt. My hair was gathered into a smooth high bun, and a small brown notebook rested between my clasped hands. Behind me, an enormous window overlooked the illuminated skyline of Taipei, where the distant silhouette of Taipei 101 rose above the city.
The restaurant was called Moonbridge Pavilion, one of the most exclusive dining establishments in Taiwan.
A dinner here could cost more than some of my fellow university students spent on groceries in a month.
The table was covered with carefully arranged Taiwanese and Japanese dishes: steamed grouper with ginger, delicate slices of sashimi, seasonal vegetables, porcelain bowls of fragrant soup, and hand-painted cups filled with expensive oolong tea.
The guests were discussing a two-million-dollar technology investment.
And the man shouting at me was one of the wealthiest businessmen in Taiwan.
His name was Hsu Ming-jen.
He was sixty-five years old, with thick silver-gray hair swept backward from his forehead, a neatly trimmed gray beard, sharp dark eyes, and the confident posture of someone accustomed to controlling every room he entered. He wore an expensive black pinstripe suit, a white shirt, and a silk tie that probably cost more than my weekly wages.
He was the chairman of Hsu Meridian Capital, a private investment company with interests in electronics, manufacturing, real estate, and medical technology.