“Because research doesn't pay every bill.”
For a moment, he stared.
Then laughed.
“Fair answer.”
He asked about my Mandarin.
I replied in Mandarin.
His eyebrows rose.
Then he switched to a more formal register.
I understood.
He looked pleased.
“Good.”
I was hired.
The first few weeks were difficult.
Fine dining required precision.
Remembering dishes.
Explaining ingredients.
Coordinating service.
Understanding guest preferences.
And recognizing the differences between being attentive and being intrusive.
I took the work seriously.
I learned the menu.
Practiced tea service.
And became familiar with the restaurant's Taiwanese and Japanese influences.
I also learned something about people.
A wealthy guest could be generous.
A famous executive could be polite.
An elderly diner could be demanding.
A young professional could become impossible after drinking too much.
Money didn't always predict character.
But certain people used money to excuse behavior they'd never accept from someone serving them.
I learned to handle those guests professionally.
Most evenings, I worked quietly.
Took orders.
Served tea.
And returned home tired enough to fall asleep before I finished reviewing my notes.
My colleagues became friends.
One senior server, Chen Li-hua, was a fifty-eight-year-old woman who had worked in hospitality since she was sixteen.
She was famous for remembering guests' preferences and correcting younger employees with a single raised eyebrow.
At first, she was stern with me.
Then one evening, after a difficult service, she handed me a cup of tea and sat beside me in the staff room.
“You work too much.”
I laughed.
“So does everybody here.”
She shook her head.
“No. You study all day and work all night.”
I shrugged.
“Bills.”
She nodded.
Then looked at my notebook.
“What are you studying?”