The Delivery Girl

1. Delivery

Julie

I rush through the packed dining room, careful to avoid the countless tripping hazards. It doesn't take much thought; after having worked here since I was nine, I know this place like the back of my hand.

"Liang yun tun tang!" I call through the kitchen's narrow window. [Translation: two wonton soups!]

I haphazardly tear the slip of paper from my notepad and clip it onto the railing, even though there isn't much point. My writing in Chinese is comparable to a kindergartener's chicken scratch, and the cooks are forced to rely on my speaking – which isn't the best either.

I get a brief nod and ok from one of the nearby cooks – a rare occurrence. They probably only listen to me half of the time.

Selective hearing, as mom always said.

It's somehow even more noisy and hectic in the kitchen than out in the dining room. Hissing steam and smoke billow from the pots and woks, metal utensils clang and scratch, a radio plays at full blast, and everyone is shouting in Cantonese and Mandarin.

I load my tray with massive plates of fried rice, steamed fish, and roast duck before quickly heading back out.

The vibe of a Saturday night is unmatchable; utensils clanging, a dense cloud of delicious scents, roars of laughter, and everyone simultaneously trying to shout over the noise. The small dining room with its low ceilings and furniture tightly packed together only condenses and concentrates the energy.

Through the noise, I manage to hear the phone by the door ringing. The thought of letting it go to voicemail is tempting, but I know calling back will be an even bigger hassle. Sometimes things get so busy that I just completely forget to call back. In record time, I rush through the dining room and serve the tables before speed walking over to the phone.

"Hello?" I plug my ear, straining to hear the person on the other end of the call.

"Hi, I'd like to place an order for takeout," a woman says.

"Sorry, we don't do takeout," I apologize, though I'm not very sorry at all.

Thank god we don't, we have more than enough on our plates as is. Despite being the most popular restaurant in the neighbourhood, dad refuses to hire any additional staff. Why pay for staff when family works for free?

"Oh ok, thanks anyways."

I hang up and turn around, nearly walking face first into dad. He wipes his hands on his apron, slightly stained with green streaks, before crossing his arms.

"Who was that?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. Even with only a three word sentence, I can hear the disapproval in his voice.

I shrug nonchalantly. "Just someone asking about ordering takeout," I explain, hoping he'll just drop it. "I told them we don't do that here."

"Zhu Li, we don't say no to customers," he scolds, as if I'm still a child. "Call them back right now and tell them we will deliver."

I grit my teeth and do my best to hold my tongue. "We don't have time for that," I insist. "Who's even going to deliver it?"

"Don't use that attitude with me," he says sternly. "You'll deliver."

I glance through the front door's window. Rain being blown sideways patters noisily against the door, and tree branches are being whipped back and forth in the howling wind.

"But it's pouring out there!" I protest.

He waves his hand dismissively. "Then kuai dian." [Translation: Then you better be quick.]