Instead of answering my question about her sister ruining everything, my mother had handed me the glass of water and said, “There you go. Now get back to bed. We got to be up early tomorrow to make all of Mama’s arrangements.”
I’d gone back to bed, but I wondered about the sister who wasn’t invited to either of her parents’ funerals for days afterward.
“Yes, I’ll have some, thank you.”
The Fine Prince’s acceptance of my invitation drew me out of my memory. And took me by complete surprise.
If that fireman I dated for a few seconds had only eaten dinner at steakhouses, Dr. Prince struck me as someone who wouldn’t let anything that wasn’t presented on fine china pass his lips. He had an air of refinement about him that you really didn’t see often in St. Louis, even with the visiting fellows.
But okay…
I grabbed one of the paper bowls from the cabinet and used a spoon to put half my Chinese food in a bowl.
He took it, but his face fell when he saw what was in the Styrofoam dish. “Ah, I thought you were having Chinese food.”
“That is Chinese food,” I answer.
“Then why is it covered in gravy?” he asks.
I laughed. “Welcome to Black St. Louis, Dr. Prince. Our version of Chinese food is a mashup of the basic boring kind you find in most places and Black soul food. So that’s basically pork fried rice smothered in Egg Foo Young gravy.”
“Oh, I see.” Dr. Prince nods as if he understands. But then he asks, “And could you explain to me what Egg Foo Young gravy is?”
Once again I found myself trying not to laugh. “They don’t have that in England?”
“No, they don’t have this particular dish where I come from.”
“Well Egg Foo Young’s kind of like this fried egg pancakey omelet sort of dish. We also make a sandwich called the St. Paul with it—it’s pretty famous, at least around here. But anyway when you have egg foo young alone, this is the gravy they put over it. And if you’re real St. Louis like my roommate, you order pork fried rice and gravy off menu. St. Louis Style Chinese food is like a whole Food Network documentary. So, why don’t you just try it and tell me what you think?”
I sat down at the table and beckoned him forward. Like I did with my junior-high-school-age twin stepsiblings when I was encouraging them to try new things.
“Do you at least have chopsticks?”
“Man, you are not in London anymore,” I answered. “Sit your butt down and try this on already.”
He sat down across from me with the bowl I’d given him. And I had to suppress a smile at the way he hesitantly dipped the spoon into the dish, lifted it slowly, then finally gave it the smallest of nibbles.
I took back what I said about him being like the twins. He was even worse.
But then his eyes widened. “It’s good,” he exclaimed. “It’s actually good!”
I laughed, loving his reaction to the comfort food that had gotten me through so many twelve-hour shifts. “When I came to St. Louis for nursing school after growing up in Guadalajara, I wanted to slap my mama for never telling me Chinese food could taste so good. She grew up here.”
He raises his eyebrows. “So you grew up in Mexico, but your mother is from St. Louis?”
“No, I grew up in Guadalajara, Missouri. It’s a small town, a couple hours west of here. Missouri also has towns called Paris, Amsterdam, and Cairo. My mom went to high school in a city called Normandy and lived in a neighborhood called Beverly Hills. Missouri loves borrowing names like that.”
He finishes his bite before responding with, “You’re naming conventions are certainly more interesting than the ones in England. For most of my formative years, I attended a very English boarding school in a very English town. No whimsy about it.”
“Wow, that sounds boring.”
“It was actually,” he agreed with a laugh.
God, he’s handsome when he laughs. The thought comes without warning. And suddenly it feels like I’m in high school again. Back when I was still capable of things like crushes and being surprised when a boy I thought was cute turned out to like me too.
We continued eating in comfortable silence after that. But then he asked, “The Fine Prince? Is that truly what they call me behind my back.”
“Yup,” I answered. “But not me. I just call you plain old Dr. Prince.”
“You also have a nickname if you didn’t know already,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “And a reputation.”
I raised both my eyebrows right on back at him. “For real?”
“Yes, for real,” he said. His tone stayed casual, but I was pretty sure I detected an underlying note of petty glee. “If you’re wondering about my cool attitude toward you, it’s because I’ve been warned by quite a few of your spurned admirers not to pursue anything with Nurse America.”