Romancing the Scone

A few months ago, I had taken advantage of my wife and children’s visit during my longer-than-planned Japanese trip (the purpose of which I may go into… someday) to take a “long belated-birthday celebration weekend” getaway to Hokkaido. It was there we had visited the farm that produced the lovely lavender honey my Auntie gave me earlier in the year, which I had enjoyed on my actual birthday.

We purchased quite a few jars. And since she had tasted the first sample, Namiko wanted to eat the honey with scones, confiding to me that she almost couldn’t wait until our holiday was over and we would return to the small rental flat in Kokubunji where I can bake her up a batch.

I thought to myself, why wait? And we were fortunate that the lovely Japanese couple running the bed and breakfast at which we were staying granted our unorthodox request to borrow their kitchen for an hour in the afternoon to make scones, which they at the time did not serve. We of course purchased all of the ingredients for our spontaneous baking endeavour, and invited the couple to our afternoon tea as a small “thank you” for their generosity.

Suffice to say, the couple felt that they were well-rewarded, with the elder man paying a very fine complement in Japanese for my “flaky golden treasures” that were “befitting for the Emperor himself.”

“In other words,” my wife said in response to my translation, “your scones are ‘fit for a king’… or should that be queen?” Namiko’s eyes flickered as she shared my knowing smile that told me that we were both thinking about the now-no-longer-secret origin of the recipe.

Four years prior, one of my old college mates from London was making his first trip to the states, and was planning to visit my family in Daly City during the first and last leg of his week-long stint in California. Since he would be spending a few weeks with friends in Boston and New York before he would trek out west, Namiko thought it would be fun to surprise him with a British tea on that Sunday afternoon. So we planned a spread with fresh strawberries, finger sandwiches and, of course, scones with clotted cream. Not happy with the American version of scones from our favorite Bay Area bakery, I decided to make them from scratch following the guidance of an old British cookbook I had acquired during my early-college years (and that I had still retained mainly for the shepherd’s pie recipe, which is spot-on). The instructions made the scones seem relatively easy to make, which I planned to do on Sunday so they would be freshly baked upon my mate’s arrival. Best laid plans…

In short, the scones didn’t turn out. Long version: Namiko actually tossed one of them out onto the small veranda outside of the dining room window of our second-storey flat, and we watched it bounce into the dumpster beside the parking lot below. If the dumpster was empty, I’m sure we would have heard it bounce a few more times.

So we had a sconeless tea to start off my mate’s visit, but a lovely time was still had by all… even if my so-called “friend” divulged to my family embarrassing stories of a few of our college-day misadventures with the same cheek Namiko used when she related our recent mishap with the “rubber biscuits” I planned to serve with the tea.

“I was wondering about that,” he remarked, noting the obvious deficiency. Then, to Namiko, “I’m surprised you let 'im have a go at baking.”

“Oh, I can’t bake to save my life,” Namiko laughed, “Xum is really quite good at it, when he isn’t making scones, of course…”

“Maybe I can help you out with that, X-Man,” my mate barely annunciated between mouthfuls of cucumber finger sandwiches. He then explained with a grin of admiration that his girlfriend back home made an excellent scone.  In fact, she used a recipe given to her by a friend who had a friend who had a cousin who worked at Buckingham Palace, and was thus privy to how they made the scones served at their “royal tea.” I admit I was skeptical of my mate’s claim ( as I am sure you were upon reading the previous sentence), but I did welcome the recipe that he arranged with “his bird” to have delivered to my e-mail later that evening (when morning would hit the U.K.). In return I promised a proper tea with scones when he returned back to the Bay Area after his week-long excursion to L.A. and San Diego.

No longer wanting to leave anything to chance (and perhaps to quickly salvage my once-spotless baking reputation with my wife), I decided to wake up early Monday morning and try out the “royal scone” recipe for breakfast, which the entire family enjoyed with leftover clotted cream and some Shropshire honey my mate brought for us from Fortnum and Mason. Well, “enjoyed" may not be the appropriate word, though it was a definitive improvement over the previous day’s hockey pucks. They did have a good flavor, yet they were a bit dry and crumbly, and not too unlike the passable-but-lackluster scones from the Bay Area bakery (maybe they had "connections" at Buckingham Palace as well?).  What was the point of taking the time and trouble to bake scones from scratch if we end up with the same ones from a shop? That would not do. These scones needed to be better.

Driven by a passion that I now admit bordered on the irrational, I spent the next few nights baking five batches of scones with a slightly tweaked recipe (inspired by my years of successfully making various types of pastries): less baking powder in batch one; more butter in batch two; shortening in batch three (big mistake!), exchanging one of the eggs and some of the milk with full cream in batch four; eliminating the eggs and milk altogether in favor of cream in batch five. Namiko was very tolerant of my current obsession (even during batch three), and both of our workplaces were in what they thought was “breakfast scone heaven” as we shared the overnight leftovers (except for batch three, which we had tossed). And the scones were getting fluffier, tastier, (in a word, better) with each batch (except for batch three), but I wasn’t quite… “there.” For with my first bite of these five batches I immediately had an idea on how to make the scone even better in the next go-round (especially with batch… well, you know).

Surprisingly, no ideas for improvement came to me with the sixth batch, which was rich and dense, but not too heavy -- and had just the right amount of crumble without being dry. However, I couldn’t rule out the possibility of my judgement being affected by possible “baking fatigue.” Then the definitely baking-fatigued Namiko bit through the crisp crust and into the moist tender layers (that I imagine must have melted into the same sweet buttery heaven that I had just experienced), and exclaimed with a mouth full of scone:

"I don’t think I can possibly love you any more than I do right now!”

That was when I knew I had finally perfected the recipe.

That night, my baking efforts were rewarded with a different kind of passion.

And we didn’t share the leftovers with our workmates.

When my British mate returned that Saturday, he was completely awestruck at tea time.

“My god, X-Man!” he exclaimed with the same jovial theatrics he had exhibited for as long as I had known him. “My bird never made her scones taste like that. What the hell did you do?”

Of course, I immediately sent the recipe back to him and his “bird” with my final adjustments; they were the only ones outside my immediate family that I had shared this recipe with… at least at that time. For I had also shared the recipe with the kind Japanese couple at the Hokkaido bed and breakfast as further gratitude for their extra hospitality. The couple in turn offered a significant discount on our stay and on future stays for my allowing them to add the scones as an item on their rotating breakfast menu.

And, as you may have guessed, I am sharing the recipe with you now, to give back for your time spent wading through my latest batch of self-serving claptrap this week. Enjoy.

Scones Daisuki!

(Makes about 16 2-inch scones)

300g (2 cups) flour, plus a little extra for working the dough

55g (1/4 cup) sugar

1 tablespoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon salt

80 g (about 1/3 cup) of cold butter (do not use margarine and heaven forbid put the shortening away!), cut into small cubes

250 ml (1 cup) heavy whipping cream 

1. In a medium-sized  mixing bowl, combine flour, sugar, baking powder and salt.
2. Cut in the cold butter (pastry cutter is best; fingers work too, as long as you work quickly so you don’t melt the butter), the mixture should look like cornmeal when you are done.
3. Add whipping cream, and stir until just moistened (be careful not to overmix).
4. Turn dough out onto a slightly floured surface and lightly knead it a half-dozen or so times to smooth it out.
5. Use a rolling pin to flatten it to a ½-inch thickness, and cut with a 2-inch round cookie cutter (a flour-coated drinking glass works in a pinch).
6. Place cut dough on a lightly greased or parchment-paper-covered cookie sheet, spaced 5 cm apart.
7. Bake in a 190 degree C (375 degree F) oven for about 13-15 minutes or until golden.
8. Serve warm with preserves, clotted cream, or our favorite, lavender honey.

I should warn you that these scones are very rich and should be enjoyed occasionally. In fact, the next time I had seen my British mate he was about 10 kilos heavier, and I’m sure it was not due to his long-time penchant for crisp sandwiches. There was a reason the royals allegedly used eggs and milk instead of all this cream and butter, after all. Oh, and the scones' effect on human libido may vary.

That’s My Boy!

A few of you reading this blog had already pointed out to me that the timelines between when my son Isamu was born and when I had met Namiko didn’t quite match up. And while I have eventually explained the discrepancy, some people are still asking me why I referred to Isamu as “my” son when I blogged about the reality of Santa Claus, when it is clear that I am not his biological father.

This question reminded me of one of my first da—outings with both Namiko and Isamu in 2005. We were taking advantage of the “Indian Summer” in the Bay Area to go kite flying in Crissy Field. Namiko was deftly handling the kite string while I sat on the grass watching. Isamu was next to me, strapped in his shaded stroller, gurgling and laughing as his tiny hands reached out and tried to follow the movement of the kite as it swooped and danced in the Saturday afternoon sky.

Then it happened. Most likely a combination of a very strong Pacific wind and my selection of a very old kite string. Suffice to say, the kite broke free from its restraint and pinwheeled off to the far side of the field.

I was momentarily distracted by the sight of Namiko’s shapely form running after the errant kite, until I was reminded of a special ability that is likely inherent in most 11-month-olds: the power to sense the nearby presence of the mother, as well as a built-in alarm system that activates when the mother is physically out of range.

I quickly unstrapped the crying child and brought him to my shoulder in a feeble attempt to comfort him, and to my surprise he calmed down immediately. Isamu then turned towards the kite, still in the air. He pointed and giggled at it while it continued its slow spinning freefall.

It was then that a pair of older women paused in their powerwalk to admire Isamu. They approached us and made cute faces and waves, all to the child’s delight.

“Your son is beautiful,” one of the women said.

And in some Schrödinger-inspired parallel universe, I responded with: “Oh, he’s not really my son. He belongs to a woman I’m dating. Well, she wouldn’t exactly say we were dating, but we go out often. And we have kissed a few times. So we are more than friends. Um… she’s not here right now…” And most likely I was faced with some perplexed stares, with one of the women perhaps reaching for her mobile to report what she perceived to be a kidnapping in progress.

But in the world we know as ours, I simply replied, “Thank you.”

Now, one of the reasons I said that was because it was easier (and I didn’t want to be hauled off to jail). But another, more important reason, is that I actually did feel very proud of Isamu at that moment. The way he smiled, and laughed, and made the women gush as they resumed their exercise with a cute little “bye-bye” wave. I had to admit, I used to have an indifferent attitude towards children, but ever since he first snatched my finger, Isamu had stolen my heart.

A short while later, Namiko returned with the stringless kite.

“Everything okay here?” she asked. Isamu was still in my arms, playfully tugging at my hair.

“Just fine,” I said. “He cried a little when you ran off, but…”

“Oh, yeah. He does that when I leave him at day care. Usually takes him an hour to calm down…” her voice cut off as surprise immediately surfaced on her face. “Wow, he must really like you. He’s not even reaching out for me to take him.” Her voice had a slight hint of disappointment lining the amazement.

“Well, the feeling’s mutual.” I said. “Do you want to take him while I restring the kite?”

“And interrupt this big male-bonding moment? No way!” she smiled.

I’d like to believe that’s when Isamu first considered me as a father to him. It’s definitely when Isamu first felt like a son to me. As Isamu grew, he’s always known the truth about his parentage, but we don’t see a need to diminish the importance of our relationship with more technically accurate terms like “step-father” or “step-son”.  While I may not be his father, I am Isamu’s dad.

And while Isamu may not be my flesh-and-blood, he is my son.

First Dance

October 2005

“Namiko? Wake up.”

She had dozed off in the car as I was driving her to the Caltrain station after our seventh date (and I considered all of our outings together as dates, even though she would not). She had been yawning from the moment I picked her up at the Ferry Building earlier that evening, apologizing with an explanation that she hasn’t had enough sleep. I was content with cancelling our plans so she could get some rest, but she insisted she wanted to spend time with me that Friday evening. So we continued the drive to the Kabuto restaurant in Richmond.

Tired as she was, it was up to me to keep up the lion’s share of the conversation through dinner, and I had done my best — even though I knew she was paying as much attention to me as she was to her entree, eating only a small amount of the sashimi teishoku in front of her and gently prodding the rest of it with her chopsticks. While I always enjoyed Namiko’s company, and was glad about how much she wanted to be with me, I could see her struggling to smile as she half-listened to my monologue of recent life events, and I felt a twinge of guilt with each listless look she gave me with her very dark eyes.

This was a mistake.

Namiko reluctantly agreed. We decided to forgo our plans for dessert at Joe’s Ice Cream and call it an evening.

“Please wake up.”

Namiko's lovely body arched as she stretched herself awake in the passenger seat. Then she immediately sat bolt upright when she realized that we weren’t at the Castro station, but in front of her home.

“Wait. How did you…?” She suddenly seemed more alert than she had been all evening; I wasn’t sure if it was due more to her surprise or to the fact that she had slept soundly through the hour-long drive to Mountain View.

“People Search. MapQuest. Luckily you weren’t unlisted.” I helped her out of my car, reassuring myself that my research into her home address a few weeks prior was not an act of obsession, but preparation for a situation such as this. There was no way I would allow Namiko to travel alone by train when she was more than half-asleep. Nor was I going to let her drive home from the Evelyn Avenue station. “I trust you can get your car from the carpark in the morning?”

Namiko’s beautiful eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Yeah. I can manage that. Thought of everything, didn’t you?” She looked at me intently. “You know, I’d invite you in, except…”

“It is all right, Namiko. You are tired. And I didn’t expect…”

She shook her dark, wispy hair. “It’s not that. I want to invite you in, but… well, I should tell you something first.” She glanced quickly to the narrow walkway to the door. “You see, I have a baby. A son. He’s almost a year old. His father was… well, he was a big mistake.” Her voice was suddenly faraway.

My heart was beating a little faster, yet I didn’t seem too surprised by the revelation. Perhaps I had unconsciously suspected it when she first mentioned her inability to travel. At the moment, I was more astonished by my inability to respond. All I could do was quietly look at the beautiful face that was still turned from me. I was suddenly filled with wonder about what it was like to raise a child, alone, while still maintaining her professional career. It made me respect — and love — Namiko all the more.

“This would be the part where the guy would turn tail and run,” she commented flatly, as if speaking from experience.

I finally found my voice. “I’m not going anywhere.” I said, pulling her close in an embrace. She stiffened.

“What are you doing?”

Surprised, I loosened my grip. Was I being too forward? “Sorry. I was only…” my heart seemed to catch in my throat as I saw Namiko’s rich chocolate eyes lock on mine. Our lips met… and danced together as time seemed to slide away.

Upon release, her gaze followed her finger that she playfully ran down the center of my chest. She looked up and smiled fetchingly at me. “So, was that like biting on foil?”

“That’s me all right…”

“Far from it,” I replied.

“…the ‘Tinfoil Girl.”’

“Good manners,” she said with a playful smirk. Her smile widened. “Well, I was right about you. You do…”

“And you, I bet you…”

“…melt in the mouth.” She immediately giggled at that, just like she did at the Tadich Grill weeks ago when she kept that phrase to herself.

Her laugh was infectious.  “So, when do I meet the man of the house?” I grinned.

My arm was suddenly locked in Namiko’s elbow. “How about right now?”

She was even more awake and alert now, and excited. She literally pulled me by the arm through her front door, through a breezy introduction to the babysitter, and into a modest nursery.

Her baby boy was in his crib, but still awake, and squealed and kicked with delight upon seeing his mother.  He had Namiko’s eyes, which locked right on me with such stark familiarity, as if he had known me for all of his then-short life.

“So this is what has been keeping you up at night,” I mused. I reached down toward his swinging hands, one of which suddenly became a tight tiny fist around my extended finger. He giggled appreciatively.

“He’s beautiful,” I said. “He’ll be quite the heartbreaker someday.”

Namiko’s smile failed to stifle a yawn, indicating her fatigue had returned.

The teenaged babysitter poked her head in the doorway. “I guess I should be heading out since you are home early,” she began.

“If I may,” I interrupted. “I don’t suppose you could stay as planned to watch over this little guy so Namiko can get some much-needed sleep?”

The teenager eyed me carefully in response to what I then realized was a very presumptive question, then looked at Namiko quizzically.

She nodded. “It is a good idea,” she said, “if you don’t mind…”

“Oh, no. No,” the babysitter reassured with a warm smile. “It’s fine.” The babysitter disappeared down the hall.

I turned to Namiko. “Her extra hours are on me, okay? You rest.”

“It’s all right. I was ready to pay her in full anyway. I should at least see you out.”

Namiko noticed that her son hadn’t let my finger go. “He likes you,” she said, her face shining with relief at my smile toward the boy. “So what do you think about being a dad? Because that’s what’s going to happen if we keep going forward with this.”

“I’m not really thinking about that,” I responded slowly, “but more about the three of us being a family.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean it?”

“I do. We can start by bringing this little guy along on our da—outings… if that’s all right with you.”

Namiko almost laughed. “If that’s all right?” she smirked.

“Have any plans for tomorrow?” I asked immediately.

She looked at her son tugging on my finger. “We do,” she sighed in mock-disappointment. “Guess you’ll just have to just come along.”

Namiko leaned her very warm body against me, as her son released my hand so I could envelop her in my arms. Our lips danced together again, while the baby boy in the crib below gurgled with approval.


Not the end.

Still Got It

Thunderous music crashed in his ears as the man tried to make his way through the swarming throng of nightclub patrons. His dark eyes roved around the room, his spectacled vision searching past the colored strobes that exploded around him, until he saw the reason for him being here.

The woman.

He arrived in this place with the woman a few hours before, for a much quieter corporate event hosted by her organization. She had a plus-one, and thus invited him to be her… well, not her date. Oh, no. She had made that quite clear. Their afternoon of kite flying in Crissy Field and Joe’s mocha chip ice cream in Richmond, as well as that lovely Sunday Dim Sum in the Financial District weeks later, were not dates either. Nor did the man and woman consider themselves a “couple.” They were just two friends, “hanging out”, and getting to know each other better.

And that was perfectly fine with the man, even as he saw her on the dance floor, and those sensuous curves that were swinging and undulating to the hard bass beat that threatened to rock the entire building. His gaze wandered to the wisps of her long dark hair that bounced with each movement, then studied her silken face carefully. Her eyes locked with his across the room, catching hold of his gaze almost… seductively.

God, she was lovely.

After her company event, the woman wanted to stay on as the venue prepared to open to the public for the evening, stating that she hadn’t “gone clubbing in years.” The man hadn’t ever “gone clubbing” per se, though he has visited a dance club or three in his lifetime (usually for business reasons). The last time was at the Buddha Bar in Paris, almost a decade before, but he wouldn’t tell the woman that. He knew how much she longed to travel the world, and tried to conceal her envy of him having lived in various “exotic” far-off places whenever their conversation turned to his past.

But now the man was envious of her. She was at least 10 years older than most of the people dancing around her, but she mingled with the crowd as if she were their college mate. The man was about 15 years the woman’s senior, and he couldn’t help but feel so out of place. It didn’t help that his business suit, which was appropriate for the function hours before, made him appear as an undertaker among the youthful crowd.

The man abruptly snapped out of his reverie as he saw another, younger man boldly brush up against the back of the woman. She tried to step away to politely give him room, but then discovered that his contact was no accident as he got uncomfortably closer to her.

The man’s eyes narrowed as he pushed his way toward the dance floor. He didn’t like what the brazen animal’s hands were doing. Neither did the woman; the crack of her sharp slap across the lecher’s face seemed to transcend the booming music.

The woman quickly slipped through the standing crowd, stepped up to the man, and surprisingly threw her arms around his neck. The man swallowed — hard — as his heart leapt to his throat. This was the first sign of physical affection she had ever displayed to him. “Now I remember why I haven’t gone clubbing in so long,” she said tersely, pulling the man by the arm toward the cloak room.  “Let’s get outta here.”

Once outside, the woman immediately unlocked her arm from the man’s elbow as they started the five-block walk to the man’s car. The man realized that her brief display of ardor in the club was solely meant to dissuade the lecher on the dance floor from further pursuit. But the man didn’t begrudge her for what might have been construed as a cruel tease. While he did have secret hopes of a romantic relationship with his strikingly beautiful companion, he was also very patient. This was only their third… not-date, after all. The man didn’t want to rush things, and he was more than happy to be used in this way to help get her out of that harassing situation.

However, a block later, they discovered that her ploy did not work.

“Hey, baby… what’s your hurry?”

The coupl… pair turned toward the hoarse drawl to see the lecher lumbering down the sidewalk toward them. He gave the woman a lascivious leer. His gaze turned sour as it disentangled from the woman’s breasts to her escort’s face. “And you… where do you think yer going with my girl?”

The woman was about to shout a protest — and rightfully so — but the man held up a hand as if to say, “He’s not worth it.”

The woman nodded and understood. They silently agreed to ignore the stranger and continue their way to the parking garage. From there, he would drive her to the Caltrain station, where she…

The lecher’s left hand snaked out and grabbed the shoulder of the man’s coat, as his free hand drew back into a fist aimed at the man’s head. “I said, where do you think yer…?”

Perhaps the lecher’s movement was dulled by the alcohol he consumed earlier that evening. Or possibly the man’s reflexes, honed from several youthful years of martial arts training, remained sharp despite the almost equal number of years of non-practice. Whatever the reason, the man dodged the attack effortlessly while his thin fingers immediately locked around the lecher’s wrist, and twisted.

With a howl of pain the lecher crumpled to the concrete, all the fight he had fled from his body.

“She is not your girl.” The guttural whisper hissed through the man’s clenched teeth as the lecher writhed in pain. The would-be-attacker’s wide, cornflower-blue eyes, ringed with red, could only gawk at the man’s dark steel irises that flickered with calm anger. “She doesn’t belong to anyone. She is her own person. Do you understand?”

The lecher could only grunt and nod hastily in acknowledgment, but the man didn’t release his grip. For a brief moment, the man actually thought about how easy it would be to twist his fingers just a little more and dislocate a few bones.  He almost gave in to that chilling temptation, as he thought with terror what this person would have done to his companion if the careless punch had managed to connect.

Almost.

“Hey, man… ease up.”

The man turned to see two young men approaching him from the direction of the club. One was a scarecrow compared to the other, who was a living mountain of muscle. The man’s compact body tensed at the prospect of further conflict. “Is this man a friend of yours?”

The hulking newcomer surprisingly held up a reassuring hand as he slowly walked forward. “He’s just had a bit too much to drink… really. He…”

The man felt a sigh searching to escape from within his chest. The adrenalin coursing through his body suppressed it. “Take him home,” the man said, managing to keep his voice even, “and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

The man let go of the wrist, and waited patiently for the other men to haul their rag doll friend on his feet and lead him away without another word.

The woman’s rich brown eyes lit up as the man approached her. “Whoa,” she started, impressed. “You went all Miyagi on that guy! I had no idea you could…”

The man shrugged with indifference. He put his hands in his pockets as they continued the walk toward the carpark. He was disgusted with both the attacker and his reaction — his excitement — to the altercation.

The woman almost seemed to divine his thoughts. “Hey… I know we haven’t known each other for very long,” she began, “but I always saw you as a gentle soul. I’ll bet you’re…” she hesitated a second. “Well, I can see how what you did back there could be a little… unsettling for you. And you did that for me.”

The man thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, but he also felt his heart jump. There were already so many things he had admired about this woman in the few weeks he had known her — and now there was one more. “I would have done it for anyone,” he began ruefully, “if I had to.”

The woman’s eyes widened at the honesty of the man’s voice. “I believe you really would. But tonight, you did it for me. Thank you, Xum.”

Her smile was a flood of sunshine in the dark evening. The man lifted his chin to return it. “You are quite welcome, Namiko.”

He suddenly felt the woman’s slim arm slide under his coat and around the back of his not-so-slim waist. She seemed to snuggle up to him as they walked. “So,” the woman sighed, “can I expect more of our dates to be this exciting?”

“I wouldn’t know,” the man replied drily. “This isn’t a date, remember?”

The man’s right hand snapped up to immediately catch the woman’s fist before it could playfully jab him in the left shoulder. She looked at him with astonishment — not at the action, but at his slight smile of satisfaction. His reaction time hadn’t slowed in the least.

Not one bit.


To be continued.

The Tinfoil Girl

August 2005.

One warm Friday evening, I was finishing up a client dinner meeting at the Tadich Grill in downtown San Francisco. The client, pleased with our discussion, already said his goodbyes and left while I was waiting for an adjustment to the bill (they miscounted the drinks, assuming I had two; all I had was water).

Among the “school cafeteria” din of the restaurant, I noticed a feminine voice floating in the air above me. “Xum?”

I looked up. Standing before my table was a cute Japanese woman that I should have recognized immediately, but didn’t. She was as dressed down as I was dressed up: an oversized thin fleece sweater, jeans, sneakers, a simple handbag, and glasses. It must have been the glasses; that Clark Kent convention actually worked with her. She removed them and used a pinch of her sleeve cuff to wipe a smudge from the lens, and that’s when I saw her eyes.

Those rich chocolate eyes.

“Namiko. Hello.”

She smiled warmly. “I thought it was you, Xum. Hold on.” She pulled back a strand of her long straight hair – which, liberated from her clasp, fell beautifully over her shoulders – to put her glasses back on. She then turned toward the door, waving to two departing women who must have been her company for the evening. “Mind if I join you?”

“Please.” I responded, rising to my feet to offer her a chair.

“Still the gentleman, I see.”

The waiter arrived with the corrected bill; he would have to take it back to include two extra drinks.

As the drinks arrived, Namiko and I were already engaged in idle chatter, each informing the other of our current state of employment (she was working at a different tech firm and had recently made Vice President; good for her). She also apologized for my not getting a callback from the interview where we last met, but of course that wasn’t her call. I reassured her that everything seemed to work out fine, regardless.

After a few sips of her drink, she admitted, “You know, I came across your business card the other week and was actually tempted to call you… but I didn’t want you to think I was some kind of psycho hose beast.”

I blinked, stunned.

“Oh, you’ve probably never seen Wayne’s World, have you?”

“Actually, I have. I just haven’t heard that phrase since I did.” I sipped some water. “But isn’t a ‘psycho hose beast’ supposed to be an obsessive ex-girlfriend?” I asked cheekily.

She tossed me a look, which was quickly averted as she feigned interest in the plant cascading over the partition wall beside the table. “Well, I meant an obsessive stalker, which I am not.” She started to sound a little bolder, that calm confidence she had during our brief interview several months back -- and that’s when it hit me. The Namiko I had met during those 45 minutes was… well, I wouldn’t say icy, but “strictly professional.” Seeing her here, with her hair down (figuratively and literally) was…

…alluring.

“What is it?”

“Hmm?” I saw that Namiko had her head cocked to one side, as if trying to fathom the look I didn’t realize I was giving her. “Oh, it’s just that, when we last talked, you were ‘all business.’ It’s nice to see your, um…” (My mind struggled to find the right word.) “…softer side.” (That wasn’t it.)

She looked at me intently. “You thought I was a hard@ss?”

I was taken aback by the word, yet coming from Namiko it sounded… natural. “Um… Let’s just say there is a hard streak in you. It probably got you where you are today.”

It was only after I said that when I realized I was quoting a line from a book I was reading at the time: Stephen King’s The Stand, when Wayne Stukey was describing the character of Larry Underwood. Namiko caught the reference too. She glowered at me. “Oh, so I am like ‘biting on tinfoil,’ am I?”

I could feel hot blood rushing to my face. Obviously this conversation was going in a dangerous direction. Namiko let me squirm for a few more agonizing seconds before releasing me with a puckish grin.

“’Whatever it takes to make success, [I] got it,’” she said, continuing the quote. She smiled with approval. “That’s me all right, the ‘Tinfoil Girl.’ And you, Xum, I bet you…” she stopped herself, her eyes seemed to be pondering some wicked thought in the right lobe of her brain, then she burst out in a giggle that left me curious (at least for a little while).

With her moment of mock-aggressiveness abated, I decided to take control of the conversation. “So… you wanted to call me?”

Namiko’s eyes wandered to her drink, her slender finger was slowly circling the rim of the glass. “Oh. Yes, well… I must admit I found you to be very… fascinating when I met you…” her voice trailed off, as if ashamed of the thought.

“Fascinating? Me?” I suppressed a smile. I was honestly startled by her statement, but I must admit that I was also enjoying it. It’s not every day a beautiful woman finds me fascinating. It was hardly any day, in fact. Not since I was 16.

“Well, all the places you’ve lived. The work you had done…” she looked wistfully toward me.

“You still haven’t taken any travels? Go farther than Colorado, at least?” I asked.

“Did I tell you about that? I don’t remember…” She paused. “But you do.” Her eyes seemed to widen at the realization. I also realized that I could remember quite a number of details from our first meeting (as you well know). Namiko must have made quite an impression on me then.

She was also making quite an impression on me now. I was feeling that same sense of immediate comfort and familiarity with Namiko at that restaurant table as I did with my dear friend Dan back in that London-area library. My heart ached a little at the brief reminder, as well as at the possibility that this feeling I had may be attributed less to the stunning woman talking with me and more to a faint desperation stemmed from being too long alone.

Namiko continued. “But no, no. I haven’t ‘taken any travels.’ Especially now that… well, never mind.” There was a lukewarm tone to her voice, but there was… something else. Almost a flicker of pride in her eyes. I could tell this mysterious reason for her entrenchment was at least a good one.

“Oh, God. I have to go. Thank you for this.” She pushed her unfinished drink a few inches toward me before grabbing her handbag that lay on the empty chair beside her.

She was already on her feet before I could stand. “Do you need a lift?” I offered. “I drove in from Daly City. Just give me a few minutes to settle the bill…”

“No. it’s okay. Stay.” She eyed my untouched cocktail. “Finish your drink. BART and Caltrain are my friends.”

“I don’t drink, actually, I just…” I paused, unsure as to how to explain the second drink on the table. 

She eyed me suspiciously. “Um…” she started, “it’s okay. Really. It… was good seeing you again.”

“Call me,” I said, realizing that this line actually sounded better in movies and on TV than in real life.

“What?”

“Um… you can call me, if you’d like. The number on my card is my mobile. It’s still good.”

“Ah,” she replied. She smiled faintly. “Well, goodbye.”

I stood in awkward silence for a moment after her hasty departure. Then I sat down, deflated. Yukinori, you have been too long alone.

I was signing the credit card receipt when my mobile rang. The number was “unknown”, but something told me I should pick up.

“Hello?”

“Okay, maybe I was a little rude,” Namiko’s lovely voice began, amid the phone static and whirring clatter as her BART train hurtled underground.

Hope started to flicker in my heart. She had my old business card on her person. “No. You were in a hurry. And besides, I must have looked like quite the…”

“Psycho?” she finished, almost slyly. “Was that second drink for me? Trying to get me liquored up and…”

I gasped at the notion. “Oh, no. No. I’m not that kind of…” I stopped to collect the right words. I had a second chance and didn’t want to blow it. “Namiko, I do not drink alcohol. At all. I don’t see the need for it. But I had found that, in social situations, my refusal to drink usually makes other people… uncomfortable with having their own… Well, I have no right to spoil their…” I paused, still not sure how to explain it. Fortunately, the relaxed laugh over the mobile indicated that she had caught my meaning.

“Always the gentleman, aren’t you? Still, that’s an expensive way to be polite.” Her tone suddenly became very serious. “You don’t have to waste good money and good booze like that on my account, okay?”

“Okay,” I replied with relief. Hope was burning stronger now. “Do you have any plans for tomorrow? It’s supposed to be great weather for kite flying in the Marina. And I can take you to this great ice cream place in Richmond…”

“Ooh. Mitchell’s?”

“Perish the thought. It’s called Joe’s… but it’s run by this cute elderly Japanese couple. You’ll love it.”

“Sounds great, but… um… I can’t do it this weekend. How about next? Weather permitting?”

“Works for me. Where shall I pick you up?”

“I’m in Mountain View, but why don’t you pick me up at the Caltrain station at Castro. I’ll call you next week to confirm the time.”

“That sounds good.”  I exhaled with excitement. “Namiko?”

“Yeah?”

“It was good to see you again, too.”

I clicked my mobile closed and sat back in the chair. The hope in my heart was ablaze. I had a date.

A date with a tinfoil girl.

To be continued.

Making a First Impression

April 2004.

I was waiting very patiently in the very warm reception area of the main office of a new tech start-up firm near San Mateo, California. I had been living in the Bay Area for a few years now, getting by on some contract jobs that paid very well. But the span of unemployment between the previous two contract jobs was uncomfortably long — reaching a point where I had to take an interim telephonic customer service job that was essentially a more professional version of “would you like fries with that?” (Just replace “fries” with “free credit card balance transfer with 0% APR”.) So when a new contract assignment came through, I had resolved to start looking for full-time employment before that contract ended. This San Mateo firm was looking for a Marketing Coordinator, and this was one of the few available “Marketing” job openings in Silicon Valley that didn’t seem like a glorified Sales job, so I had high expectations for this interview.

I shifted in my chair. I can feel drops of sweat rolling down my side under my suit, more from the office heat than nervousness — but the sweating was making me more uneasy with each passing moment.

 “Ex… um… Mr. Yukinori?”

I stood up and turned my head toward the distinct Californian accent struggling to pronounce my name, and was surprised to see a petite Japanese-American woman approaching me. Everything about her denoted the word “businesswoman” — grey business suit, silk stockings, low heels. Her long dark hair was tied back at the nape of her neck with a simple clasp. The only exception to her professional look was her necklace, a cobalt blue sea glass pendant dangling from a braided black leather rope.

“Mr. Yukinori?” the woman asked tentatively, and in a slightly accusing manner. I was staring at the pendant, and she thought I was looking at something else.

“Oh, sorry.” I stammered, immediately looking up into the woman’s eyes — rich chocolate-brown eyes that were very intent on mine. “I couldn’t help but notice your necklace. Okinawan?”

She smiled. “You have a good eye. A gift from my grandparents. That’s where they lived.” She held out her hand and introduced herself, then vocalized her pleasant surprise that I knew how to shake a woman’s hand “properly.” She (and I) had my British education to thank for that.

The tension of the previous moment now evaporated, the woman led me to her office for the job interview. “Have you been to Okinawa?”

“A few times, on family vacations,” I said. “I spent most of my youth trips to Japan in Kokubunji...”

“Koku…?” She obviously didn’t know what I was talking about.

“Sorry. It’s right outside Tokyo.” I was speaking to her as if she had been from Japan herself, I should have realized from her accent that that wasn’t the case.

“I see you are quite the world traveler,” she said, perusing my educational and work history on my résumé. “How lucky. The farthest I’ve been from here is Colorado.” She paused. “So why don’t you connect some dots for me, and explain how some of your past work ties into what we do.”

For the next 45 minutes we had a fairly pleasant yet professional discussion about the marketing and advertising work I had done over the past decade (she did eye me askance as I showed her the advert comps for “Cell-Koh-Koh’s”  NCOFTyM product, asking me if I was “essentially selling a refrigerator to an Eskimo”), as well as what the Marketing Coordinator position would have entailed (and I was right, it wasn’t a “glorified Sales job”). We both agreed that I would be a good candidate for the position, but there would have to be a “finalist round” of interviews at the executive level first.

We ended the interview with the business card exchange ritual. She seemed touched as I presented my card with both hands and a slight bow (a common Asian practice), which I’m sure helped make up for the fact that my Kinko’s-manufactured cards couldn’t hold a candle to hers, which were expensively produced with raised lettering on eggshell-white stock. The name of the organization and the woman’s first name took prominence — conveying a friendly personality to this otherwise professional organization.

Another “proper” handshake and goodbye later, I was walking back to my car feeling very confident. Of course, I didn’t know at the time that there would be no second interview for me... at least not with the organization. And I was completely unaware that I had actually just left the most important first interview in my life.

I started the car and looked at the business card one last time before I slipped it into my wallet.

“Namiko. What a pretty name,” I thought.

To be continued.