Page 31 of Don't Point at the Moon

Having lunched with his friends many times, Mitchell was familiar with Harold’s choices, a selection of popular steamed and fried dishes and including some Mitchell had sampled but did not particularly care for—steamed chickens’ feet and tripe served in bamboo steamers. He loved other items like sticky rice wrapped in lotus leaf and steamed pork ribs. And he had instantly relished the local green vegetables, particularly seasonal dao miu stir-fried snow pea shoots served plain or with crabmeat. Growing up in England, his mother had boiled green vegetables into a soggy mulch.

Mitchell noticed Zane eyeing nearby dishes with suspicion. He glowered at Mitchell when Harold plucked a dumpling from a steamer and dropped the item into Zane’s bowl, like a parent feeding a child. But such was the custom in Hong Kong. Mitchell realised too late that he should have warned Zane. While conversation continued around the table, Zane picked at his food, pushing a few of the things Harold had served him onto his side plate.

“Have you had dim sum before?” asked Harold during a lull.

“Course I have,” said Zane. “Many times. Chinatown in London. Just not like this.”

“I admit, some of these more local dishes are an acquired taste. Tell us then, what’s your favourite dim sum dish back home?”

“Satay chicken.”

William laughed aloud.

“What?” asked Zane, glaring daggers at him.

“Satay is Indonesian,” said William, as blunt as ever. “Dim sum is Chinese. We don’t mix and match here. No curry and chips in Hong Kong.”

The two other friends at the table had the decency to laugh behind their napkins.

“William,” said Mitchell, “lay off. He’s just arrived—”

“Don’t apologise for me, Uncle Mitchell. I know what fucking dim sum is.”

“Ooh, feisty,” said William.

“William, hush, dearest. How about I order us some stir-fried chicken with cashew nuts? And something sweet and sour?” asked Harold, trying to soften the mood.

Harold flashed Mitchell a sympathetic smile before diverting the conversation to something he had read in a media magazine about a closeted celebrity. While waiting for the extra dishes to arrive, Zane pushed half a fried spring roll around his plate but refused prawn dumplings, fried turnip cake or green vegetables. Even with Harold’s extra choices getting Zane’s grumbled approval, the meal ended on a frosty note, with Zane ignoring Harold and his guests as they left the restaurant.

“Is everybody in Hong Kong gay?” asked Zane, the only words he spoke in the taxi on the way back home.

Mitchell didn’t dignify the question with an answer. As soon as they arrived home, Zane went straight to his room and closed the door. Seconds later, the air conditioner started running. Mitchell lay back on the settee and sent a text message to let Ellie know Zane had arrived safely, then stared up at the ceiling fan, taking a few breaths. Maybe introducing Harold and William immediately had been a mistake. However much he enjoyed their company, he realised they were a bit like the exotic dim sum—an acquired taste.

He had planned to take Zane to a restaurant famous for Peking duck that evening but wondered if Zane might be put off by too much Chinese cuisine. Ellie had informed him that her son had no food allergies, but he had not asked her about his preferences. If they were going to survive the month, Mitchellwould need reinforcements. He pulled the phone display to his face and tapped out a text message. Around fifteen minutes later, instead of getting a return text, his phone rang.

“I take it your nephew’s arrived?” came Tommy’s voice.

“That’s why I messaged you. Sorry, I didn’t want to take up your time. But I could do with your advice. Any suggestions for where I can take him to dinner tonight?”

Tommy’s laughter broke the tension inside Mitchell.

“Surely someone like you has a plan?”

“I do. Well, I did. Beijing Garden. But now I’m not so sure. Where would you suggest taking a nineteen-year-old English kid who just turned his nose up at authentic dim sum?”

The line went quiet for a few seconds.

“I’ll answer that question,” said Tommy. “If you answer one of mine first.”

“Go on.”

“What beats a gay ménage à trois?”

“I’m being serious, Tommy.”

“So am I. Answer the question.”

“I have no idea. What beats a gay ménage à trois?”

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