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I want to make Valerie smile again. I’m addicted to her smiles.
I don’t know where to find durian cheesecake downtown, but I do a little research on my phone and find the perfect thing to bring her for our next date.
I head to the bakery just before we meet on Sunday. In some ways, it’s similar to the bakeries in Chinatown. You take a tray and a pair of tongs, and you put everything you want on the tray and bring it to the cashier.
Except here, rather than plastic cafeteria trays, there are smooth wooden trays lined with tissue paper, and the prices aren’t “three for a dollar” but more along the lines of three to five bucks each. Expensive, in other words. There are smooth, flawless buns filled with things like red bean and taro. There are pineapple buns with their crunchy pineapple-less topping, like you’d get at a regular Chinese bakery, except these look like perfection, and they’re actually “double pineapple” buns, filled with pineapple custard. I pick one up and put it on my tray. I better try something at the bakery and make sure it’s good, right? Then I select another bun—the reason for my trip to this bakery. To my surprise, it doesn’t smell.
The cashier gives me a little bag for my purchases, and I eat the double pineapple bun as I’m walking to Ginger Scoops. It’s quite good.
Hopefully the other bun is just as good.
I don’t know as much about Valerie as I’d like to, but from what I do know, I’m pretty sure she’ll like this.
* * *
“I got you a present,” I tell Valerie as we take a seat on the patio at Ginger Scoops. It’s a Sunday, so it closed at seven. We’re supposed to go out for dinner somewhere in the area.
“You didn’t need to,” she protests.
I shrug. “It’s no big deal.” I pull out the paper bag and set the bun on top of it. “For you.”
“You got me a bun.” She eyes me suspiciously.
“Yes. I got you a bun at a fancy-ass Asian fusion bakery.”
“Is that what it called itself? ‘A fancy-ass Asian fusion bakery’?”
“Actually, it was just called ‘Eight Buns,’ but it was fancy inside. Trust me.”
“What is this?” she asks, nodding at the bun.
“Try it and see.”
“Uh-uh. I’m not falling for that trick again.”
“What have you been forced to eat in the past?”
“Rat poison.”
“Who the hell fed you rat poison?”
“Sorry, sorry,” she says. “I just mean, it could be filled with rat poison for all I know, but I’m sure it’s something normal like barbecued pork.”
“It’s a durian bun, filled with durian custard. It’s supposed to be the best durian bun in the city, and you deserve the very best in stinky fruit buns.”
Her eyes light up...and there’s that smile I was hoping for. It causes a pleasant warmth in my chest.
She picks up the bun. “Would you like to do the honors?”
“No, I’m not touching that.”
She bites into the bun, closing her eyes. I’ve noticed that Valerie likes to close her eyes when she eats, as though it allows her to truly savor food.
“Good?” I ask.
For some reason, it’s extremely important that she like it.
“Yeah.” She sighs in bliss.
The extra stop before going to Ginger Scoops was definitely worth it.
There’s a tiny bit of custard on her lip, and I want to lick it off. Then I remind myself that it’s durian-flavored and must taste like absolute shit.
Still, I would happily lick her lip if she’d let me.
The key to romance, you see, is not bringing a woman dozens of red roses or hiring a string quartet to serenade her.
No, the secret is finding something that’s uniquely for her, whether or not it’s expensive.
She holds the bun out to me, and I instinctively turn away, fearing for the safety of my nose. I don’t smell anything yet, but I’m sure the smell is there, now that she’s bitten into it.
“Try it,” she says. “Just a small bite. The durian isn’t very strong.”
“No?”
“Really, it’s a mellow durian flavor.”
“That’s like saying something has a mild garbage flavor. I still don’t want to eat it.”
She makes a face, then thrusts the durian bun under my nose, but I stand up before I get a proper whiff of it. Valerie stands up, too, and I hurry around a nearby table. She follows. I dart around the next table and bang my knee on a chair.
“Come and get it,” she says, shaking the half-eaten bun in her hand.
“I’m keeping my distance.”
She doesn’t move, so I stay where I am, my heart rate kicking up, not from scurrying around on the patio, but because of her. I enjoy being chased by Valerie.
“You sure you don’t want this?” She grins and steps toward me.
I step back. “I’m sure.”
“What kind of bribe would work on you?”
“Season tickets to the Leafs,” I say automatically.
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, you’re one of those rabid Leafs fans. You know, I’ve always thought the Leafs had an interesting business model. They put out a shitty product year after year, yet they’re still one of the most valuable teams in the league. It’s impressive.”
“Maybe you missed the memo, but the Leafs are good now.”
She shrugs and thrusts the durian bun toward me again. I try to step back, but I can’t. I’m against the fence that separates Ginger Scoops’ patio from the one next to it.
The next thing I know, Valerie is nearly pressed up against me and a mildly terrible smell permeates the air.
But she’s pressed up against me. I’m intoxicated by her nearness...and the foul smell of the durian bun, but she’s right, it’s not nearly as bad as, say, the durian smell in Brian Poon’s backyard.
“What are you two doing?” Chloe steps onto the patio. “It looks like you’re trying to feed him a bun.”
“It’s a durian bun,” Valerie explains.
When she looks at Chloe, I jump to the right. Away from Valerie, but also away from the foul-smelling bun. She chases me.
Chloe laughs and heads to the sidewalk. I can see her out of the corner of my eyes, but my focus stays on Valerie. Her mouth is open, and she’s breathing a little quickly, and there’s a wild look in her eyes that absolutely delights me.
I run to the other side of the patio and crawl under a table.
“What are you?” Valerie asks. “Five?”
When she crouches down next to me, it’s like we’re in our own little world, here under the plastic patio furniture. Some hair has escaped her ponytail, and I long to reach out and smooth it behind her ear, but I won’t.
Because under the table, we don’t have to fake it for anyone. It’s just us.
And she only wants me to touch her in public.
“Come on,” she whispers, and for a moment I imagine she’s talking about something other than a freaking durian bun.
God, I want to touch her so badly. I want to toss aside that evil bun and press my lips against hers and pull her into my lap. I want to lie down on the ground with her on top of me, her breasts pressed against my chest.
But I won’t.
I grin at her. “Eat the bun, Valerie.”
“You got it for me. It’s mine, and I can do what I wish with it. And I wish for you to try a bite.” She holds it in front of my face again.
I should crawl out from under the table and stand up, but I like being in our own little world here. I like it a lot.
When Valerie shoves the bun under my nose again, I don’t turn away. I smell sweet bun and fruity gasoline. Not that I’ve ever smelled fruity gasoline before, but I can imagine. I have a good imagination. For example, I’m currently imagining Valerie crawling across my bed in red lingerie, with a whole durian in her hand—
Wait. What the fuck? If it’s a fantasy, why is there a durian in it?
“Try it,” she says. “Just a tiny bite of the scrumptious durian bun.”
“Geez, you’re really pulling out the big words.”
“I’m complimenting you on the present you gave me.”
“How kind.”
She holds the bun closer to my lips, and I lean forward. I admit I’m a bit curious to know what “mellow durian flavor” is like.
I take a small bite. The pleasantly-sweet bun is filled with some kind of custard, and it’s not completely repellent. Like, I wouldn’t buy one of these for myself, but it’s not that gross.
“You didn’t even make a face,” she said. “You’re a durian convert.”
“Nope, not happening. But you’re right, that isn’t too strong.”
We stand up and brush off our jeans, and for a moment, we simply stare at each other. It’s almost dusk; the light is fading.
When night blankets the city, I want to be curled up in bed with her. Or maybe we’d chase each other around my bed with pillows. I don’t know, but I want her there.
Except this isn’t real, not really.
Not yet, anyway.
Valerie nibbles at her bun, and I keep my eyes on her lips, jealous of how something that smells of fruity gasoline gets to enjoy her lips.
“Are you still hungry for dinner?” I ask after she pops the last bite in her mouth.
She holds a finger up to indicate she’s still chewing, then finally says, “Yeah, I’m hungry, don’t worry. Where do you want to go?”
“Have you been to K-Polish?”
“No, actually, I haven’t. Let’s try it.”
K-Polish is a Korean-Polish restaurant on Baldwin Street. We’re quickly seated and given menus, which have a Korean section, a Polish section, and a fusion section. I read through the latter. There are bulgogi and kimchi pierogis, and potato pancakes stuffed with either kimchi jjigae or bulgogi with cabbage and pear. Then there’s “sumptuous” soon tofu with “delectable” sauerkraut.
In fact, “delectable” appears three times on the menu.
And that’s the first time I’ve ever heard someone refer to soon tofu as “sumptuous.”
“What are you getting?” Valerie asks me.
“I think I’ll have the ‘sumptuous and scrumptious’ potato pancake with kimchi jjigae. Though the last thing that someone described as scrumptious did not live up to the description.”
She laughs. “I’m having the potato pancake, too, but with bulgogi. It’s described as ‘scrumdiddlyumptious,’ so it must be better than yours.”
I shoot her a look of mock outrage.
We place our orders, and our banchan arrives soon after. There are small dishes of kimchi and soybean sprouts, as one would normally get at a Korean restaurant, but there’s also sauerkraut, as well as beet salad. I tackle everything with my chopsticks; Valerie uses her fork.
“We should get to know each other better,” she says, “so I can answer my mother’s numerous questions. She keeps bugging me about your family.”
“Mom and Dad live in Thornhill. That’s where I grew up. They were both born in Hong Kong but grew up in Canada, my mother in a small town near Ottawa, and my father in a small town near Waterloo. ”
“Do you speak Cantonese?”
“Very little.”
“Well, that will make you a little less perfect in my mother’s eyes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, thank God. It’s getting annoying to be compared to you. She thinks you’re, like, the perfect Chinese son and you go around saving babies all day.”
I frown. “What?”
“You know. The pediatrician thing.”
“Right, right. How could I have forgotten?”
“You better not forget on Thursday.”
“Why, what’s Thursday?”
“Sorry, I forgot to tell you.” She deposits some kimchi in her mouth. “I’ve spent the past few days insisting it’s too soon for you to come to dinner, but my mom wants to meet you, come hell or high water. She threatened to follow me around every day this week until she met you.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. And since she’s retired, she has the time to do so—I’m afraid it’s not an empty threat. So I offered an informal meeting at Ginger Scoops on Thursday. She’ll just come over and interrogate you for twenty minutes. I’ll make sure it’s no more than that. Anyway, you can keep all your personal details the same, for simplicity’s sake. Except for your career, of course, and remember that you majored in life sciences. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
“I’ve done the meet-the-parents thing many times before.”
“How many?”
I think for a moment. “Ten?”
“Ten different women?”
“Yeah.”
“Ten?”
I shrug. “I’ve had thirteen girlfriends.”
Her eyes bug out of her head. “Thirteen?”
“Polly, is that you?”
She screws up her face.
“You sound like a parrot, that’s all.”
“Thanks for that, genius.”
“How many boyfriends have you had?”
“One. He lasted...a long time. Way too long.” She picks up a forkful of beet salad but doesn’t put it in her mouth. “I met Stephen in university, and we lived together for a while. It did not end well. He cheated on me.” Her grip tightens on her fork.
Instinctively, I reach across the table and cover her other hand with mine. I’m stroking her fingers before I realize what I’m doing.
“Is this okay?” I ask.
She nods.
“I’ll only do it if you like it.”
“I do,” she whispers, looking down. “It’s hard for me to let someone in, but it sounds like it’s easy for you. Thirteen relationships? I can’t imagine going through that thirteen times.”
“Well, none of my relationships ended quite like that. And not all of them were serious.”
“But the beginning, I mean. Just opening yourself up.”
“I’ve always liked being in a relationship.”
“I liked it, too. At least, I thought I did. Afterward, I wondered how much of it was real, and how deluded I was. Men suck.”
I don’t argue.
Now I get why Valerie said “no” when I asked her out, even though she seems to be attracted to me. She had a bad experience with her last boyfriend and has trouble trusting men. I don’t blame her.
The server puts two plates in front of us. My pancake is crispy and golden brown. It’s folded in half and stuffed with stew, and it looks delicious.
I let go of Valerie’s hand and use my knife to cut through the pancake. Steam rises. I pick up a bite with my fork and blow on it before popping it in my mouth.
“This is really good,” I say.
“Yeah, so is this.”
“Want to try some?”
When she nods eagerly, I chuckle and deposit a bite onto her plate.
“It’s good,” she agrees, “but mine is even more scrumdiddlyumptious.”
She lets me try some of hers, and oh, she might be right. That’s some quality bulgogi. But I don’t admit that I might like hers more than my own; I’m just happy she’s enjoying herself. And pleased with myself for picking this restaurant.
After dinner, we amble down the street. I’m not ready for this date to end.
“Let’s do something naughty,” I say with a mischievous smile.
So many wonderful scenes float through my mind, all of them involving Valerie in various states of undress.
But that’s not what I’m going to suggest.
“Let’s eat ice cream at a place that isn’t Ginger Scoops,” I say. “There’s a Thai rolled ice cream place in Kensington Market.”
We stroll west on Baldwin Street. It’s a nice night. Warmish, but with a cool breeze. I shove my hands in my pockets so I’m not tempted to hold her hand.
Well, that’s not quite true. I’m still tempted, but at least now I’ve put a little distance between me and temptation.
We soon reach the ice cream shop, which could best be described as Instagrammable. It’s a simple space with a light purple wall behind the area where the workers stir-fry ice cream. The counter looks like marble. At the front of the shop are a few tables and chairs of light-colored wood, and there are two square shelves at chest level for taking pretty pictures of your ice cream, as one woman is doing now.
Valerie rolls her eyes.
On the wall behind the cash register, there’s a list of six choices. Each one includes an ice cream flavor plus toppings.
“What do you want?” she asks. “Probably best if we share. They look big.”
Not gonna lie, I like the idea of sharing ice cream with her. Very date-like.
“Why don’t you pick?” I say.
“No, you’re the one who wanted to come here.”
“Since I picked the ice cream spot, you should pick the ice cream.”
“Fine,” she says.
“You sound awfully pissy about getting what you want.”
“It’s an impossible decision. I don’t want to make it.”
“Which ones are you deciding between?”
“All of them!”
I chuckle.
“What?” she demands.
“You’re cute.”
She gives me a glare that isn’t quite as icy as I suspect she thinks it is.
“How about this?” I say. “I’ll pick two, and you can decide between them. That okay?”
She agrees.
It really is a tough decision, but I eventually pick Thai iced tea and chocolate-strawberry. The first has Thai tea-flavored ice cream rolls, which are garnished with whipped cream plus a small waffle cone and drizzled with condensed milk; the second contains strawberry ice cream rolls garnished with whipped cream, chocolate shavings, chocolate sauce, fresh strawberries, and chocolate Pocky.
I’m kind of hoping she chooses the chocolate-strawberry, as I think it will make a more exciting Instagram picture, and yeah, I’m totally planning on putting this on Instagram. To needle her, if nothing else.
“I don’t know,” she says. “They both sound good.”
“Alright, let’s flip a coin.” I pull out a quarter. “Which one’s heads?”
“Thai iced tea.”
I throw the coin in the air, catch it, and slap it on the back of my hand.
It’s heads.
“Thai iced tea it is,” I say.
“Okay.”
“Is it just my imagination, or are you a little disappointed?”
She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, and I refrain from telling her again that she’s cute. “Um... No. It’s good.”
“I think you’re disappointed.”
“Okay, fine. You win.” She throws up her hands. “The coin toss made me realize I’d prefer the chocolate-strawberry, but it seems so excessive. Chocolate shavings and chocolate sauce? It’s like when kids get sundaes at Ginger Scoops and decide they want literally everything on them. Also, strawberries and chocolate seem, well...romantic.”
“Lucky for you, we’re on a date.”
She narrows her eyes.
“I hereby decree,” I say, “that strawberries and chocolate are an entirely unromantic combination, even if we’re sharing. Will you have it now?”
“Too bad they don’t have a durian one. I’d definitely get that.”
“I know. And I’d get my own chocolate-strawberry and eat it as far away from you as possible. But really, we should have the one you want the most, even if you think it’s excessive.”
At last she nods her assent, and I go up to the counter and pay for our ice cream. Then we watch as a woman pours some white liquid onto a cold metal surface, covers it with a few squeezes of red sauce and “stir fries” it with a metal spatula. When it’s all frozen and spread out in a thin layer, she uses the spatula to roll it into six pink cylinders, each containing several thin layers of the frozen dessert. These are placed in a purple disposable cup with a white rose logo. Next, she adds the garnishes before placing the cup on the counter for us. I grab it before Valerie can and bring it to one of the shelves for a picture.
“Are you serious?” Valerie asks. “You’re one of those people?”
I don’t take pictures of my food all that often, but I do on occasion, and I’m definitely going to do it to annoy her now.
I snap a few photos. “Hmm. I think I need to play with the settings.”
“That’s enough!” Valerie grabs the ice cream off its perch and takes it to a table by the window. “It’s going to melt if you keep that up.”
I chuckle as I sit down across from her, then help myself to one of the Pocky before trying the ice cream. I get a bite with a generous amount of chocolate sauce; Valerie’s first bite, in contrast, is about half ice cream and half whipped cream.
“You glad we got the chocolate-strawberry?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, as though it’s painful for her to admit. “I love chocolate.”
“More or less than you love durian?”
“Good question.” She has some more ice cream, and I watch as she slides the white plastic spoon into her mouth, jealous of it for getting to touch her lips and tongue.
Yeah, that’s right, I’m jealous of a plastic spoon.
This may be a new low, but I’m on a (fake) date with a pretty girl and we’ve eaten lots of delicious food. So my life really isn’t too bad.
“I prefer durian,” she says.
I gasp and put my hand to my mouth. “How dare you slander chocolate like that! What did chocolate ever do to you?”
She shakes her head. “Sometimes you’re kind of annoying, you know.”
“Who, me?”
It’s so much fun to get under her nerves, and I want to kiss that scowl off her face. She’s forcing the scowl—I can see a smile trying to break through.
I take my spoon and scoop up some ice cream, strawberry pieces, and chocolate shavings, and I bring it to her lips. “For you,” I whisper. “Indulge me.”
She holds my gaze, her wide dark eyes focused on mine. She has such lovely eyes, framed by lovely eyelashes. And then she leans forward and slides the ice cream off the spoon with her lips, and I feel victorious.
It’s a strange thing, feeding someone like this. We’re not touching, but it’s very intimate nonetheless. She’s still staring at my eyes, and after she swallows, she parts her lips, and I can see a shudder pass through her.
“Too cold?” I murmur.
“Yes. Too cold.”
Liar. I don’t say that, though. I won’t win Valerie over by calling her out on her reaction to me. But we had a good time tonight, and I’m patient.
We walk back to Yonge Street. I offer to drive her home, but she says she’ll take transit.
“Text me when you get there,” I tell her outside College Park.
She kisses me on the cheek.
And then she’s gone, and my skin prickles where it touched her lips.