“Mee makhuea mai khrab?” asked Tinman.
“Eh?”
Tinman grumbled. He knew he was using the right Thai words and tones because he had been taught how to say it by a Thai person—the same person who was now staring at him like he was speaking Kurdish.
“Makhuea!” declared Tinman forcibly.
“Who?” asked the Thai grocer with a devious smile.
Tinman sighed. He knew he was being messed with. This was a common revenge for people with English as a second language. As payback for the torture of learning such a beast, they lambaste native speakers who attempt to speak a foreign tongue.
Usually, he would have muscled on, forcing the grocer to admit that he was asking the question correctly, but he was in a hurry. It was Tek’s birthday, and he planned to surprise him with a special meal.
“Fine, be that way,” he said. “Thai eggplant. Where the hell did you hide it this time?”
“Oh! Thai eggplant! Why not you say so? Thai people have to have the makhuea! Over here, come, come, come.”
Tinman eyed the little green and white orbs, ranging from the size of a ping pong ball to a golf ball, and noticed there were no brown splotches or discoloring. Perfect. He picked out ten and headed for the counter. He already had the other ingredients, including a can of coconut milk, curry paste, kafir lime leaves, red bell pepper, and Thai basil.
“Why do you always insist on making me feel stupid?” he asked the grocer as he tallied the bill.
“You no very stupid! You cooking Thai food. Very smart. Geng maak!”
“Uh-huh. Just give me my change.”
The grocer, giggling at his sadistic, private joke, handed over the coins, and Tinman marched out.
Back at his apartment, he got his jasmine rice going.
It would only be three for dinner because Bones and Catfish were on the whiz, picking pockets from unsuspecting bowlers who had come to Reno for the National Tournaments.
Therefore, he only planned on making a small batch of his famous Thai green curry. If the makhuea had not been available, he would have switched to yellow chicken curry with potatoes. He was glad, however, to have found the magic ingredient for the green version because he wanted to make as authentic a Thai curry as he could for Tek—who was half-Thai.
Ever since Tek learned to drive the year before, he had been functioning as the wheelman for Peach and Tinman when they were pulling a heist. He had proven to be an eager accomplice and unflappable, and Tinman wanted to show his appreciation on his 17th birthday.
Tek was born with thieves’ blood, having acquired it from his unscrupulous Caucasian father, who went to prison for white-collar crimes, and his Thai mother, a hustler from Bangkok, who conned his father into marrying her and bringing her to the States. After Tek’s father went to jail, his mother absconded with all his ill-gotten gains and moved to Reno, where she now worked as a stripper at the Wild Orchid Cabaret.
The Posse decided Tek needed direction, so they took it upon themselves to teach him a dishonest trade. He was a ready learner and had quickly been adopted into the small cadre of professional thieves.
Tinman’s hope for tonight was to help Tek discover his Thai roots. And he knew there was not a Thai alive who could resist green curry with Thai eggplant.
The rice water was happily bubbling, so he turned it to low and began his other preparations. He stripped the skin and removed the meat from four chicken thighs. After cutting the meat into bite-size pieces, he set it aside.
He was beginning to quarter the Thai eggplants when Tek bopped inside.
“Hey, Tinman! Did you hear about the new Data Initiative Plan the cops have set up?”
“No. But it doesn’t sound promising.”
“But it is! Because of recent police abuses, they’ve set up this online public access site. It gives real-time updates on all police activities, including arrests, ongoing investigations, and even reports on cops under suspicion of being dirty. What a resource for us, no? We’ll be able to locate and steer away from hot neighborhoods the cops are watching and in general, keep an eye on what they’re up to.”
“You’re right. That does sound promising.”
Tek wandered over to the counter and peered at the little green balls now being split open to reveal white interiors with little brown seeds, similar to regular eggplant. “Ugh. What the hell are those?”
Tinman rolled his eyes and kept cutting. “This is your special birthday dinner.”
Tek wrinkled his nose and grimaced. “Aw, man, I thought you would make your famous Calbolis.”
“They’re Stromzones, a cross between a Stromboli and a Calzone.”
“I know, but Peach thinks it should be called a Calboli.”
“He’s wrong,” said Tinman flatly as he turned on the heat under his wok. “I’m the cook. I should know.”
“True. But what possessed you to make this slop?”
Tinman plopped the knife on the cutting board and turned to face him. “This is not slop. It’s your heritage. You’re part Thai. You should know about this stuff.”
“Why? My mom never cooks. And I’ve never been to Thailand.”
“What difference does that make? You have Thai blood. You can’t escape it.”
“Maybe not. But I wish I could escape this dinner.”
“Well, you can’t. And you’re going to help. About time you learned to cook.”
“Hey, I can do cereal. And sandwiches!”
“Open this,” said Tinman, handing him a can of coconut milk. “And don’t shake it up.”
Tek opened the can and held it out. Tinman handed him a spoon. “Scoop out half and put it in the wok. Try to only get the thick white stuff on top rather than the thin liquid at the bottom.”
Tek groaned and followed instructions. Tinman handed him a wooden spatula and said, “Stir.”
As Tek stirred, Tinman retrieved a small bucket of green curry paste from the refrigerator and mixed two tablespoons with the coconut milk. “I want you to keep stirring until you see little bubbles of green oil start popping.”
In about five minutes, the promised green bubbles appeared, and Tinman threw in the chicken, including the bones, for added flavor. He also tossed in some red peppers. “Why aren’t you stirring?”
“My arm hurts.”
“Poor baby.”
When the chicken was cooked halfway, Tinman dropped in the quartered eggplants and turned up the heat. When the mix was sizzling, he poured in the rest of the coconut milk and a cup of water.
“Okay, now we wait.”
“Something kind of smells good,” said Tek, grudgingly.
“It’s the jasmine rice.”
“I don’t like rice.”
“Shaddup.”
The door opened, and Peach strode in carrying a small gift-wrapped package. “Heya, heya. Let the party begin.”
“Did you see what he’s going to feed us?!” cried Tek.
“No, but I can smell it. And we are in for a real treat!” said Peach.
“Aw, geez. I’m alone in the world,” groaned Tek.
“We all are, little man. That’s what they call exhibitionalism.”
“Existentialism,” corrected Tinman.
“Same difference. So, Tek, you want your present now or after dinner?”
“Now. I may not survive dinner.”
Tinman shook his head, wondering how the world would survive with the new, homogenized generation in charge. He added the rest of his ingredients and then tested the eggplants to be sure they were softening.
Peach made a big to-do of presenting the birthday package, and Tek greedily ripped it open. “Oh, wow! My very own pick set!”
“In my humble opinion,” said Peach, “the best pick set in the world. It’s the Fall Pick Set made exclusively in England. They’re all handmade from stainless steel, and the tension wrenches are the quill. They designed them to grab the cylinder at both the top and the bottom, so there are no obstructions for the pick. And they spread the torque evenly throughout the cylinder. Better yet, they’re adjustable to fit different size locks.”
Tinman sighed. He and Tek had attended burglary school together under Peach’s tutelage, and only Tek had graduated. Tinman flunked out after he screwed up in various ways, including snapping the teacher’s favorite diamond pick trying to open a cheap Kwikset lock. After that, he became the brains of the mob, primarily responsible for planning the heists.
“This is killer, Peach!” cried Tek. “I want to go out right now and break into a warehouse or something!”
“After dinner, you can play,” ordered Tinman.
“But I’m not hungry!” argued Tek.
“Tough. Now, get the plates ready. We’re almost there.”
Peach and Tek set the table while Tinman did the final touch to the curry by adding a few sprigs of Thai basil. The eggplant had softened completely and was slowly dissolving into the curry, acting as a natural thickener.
When the aroma was perfect—he cooked by scent rather than timing—he put a mound of rice on each person’s plate and ladled the curry into a large bowl, placing it in the center of the small card table.
“Brother, that smells divine! This might be your best batch ever,” said Peach.
“Let’s hope. Wouldn’t want the birthday boy to get sick and die.”
Peach and Tinman dove into the food, each scooping a heaping spoonful of the curry mixture onto the rice. Tek watched, leery, waiting to see how the others fared.
When they didn’t immediately keel over—or throw up—he tentatively put some of the curry onto his plate, mixed it in with a little rice, and took a leap of faith.
The manna slid into his palette, and something miraculous happened. He closed his eyes as the exotic taste and smell overwhelmed his senses, triggering memories of a world he had never known. He was in a rice paddy, with water buffaloes milling around. He took another bite and found himself under a coconut tree, gazing at the crystal blue waters of the Gulf of Thailand. Beads of happy sweat formed under his lip and on his forehead.
He opened his eyes, threw back his head, and cried, “Aroi maak maak!”
Peach and Tinman froze, forks halfway to their mouths. Peach said, “What does that mean?”
Tek said, “I’m not sure. I guess it must mean delicious. Cause that’s what I wanted to say.”
“It didn’t sound like delicious,” said Peach.
“I think you just spoke Thai,” said Tinman.
“But how? I guess I could have heard it from my mom, but she never speaks Thai. This is too weird.”
Tinman smiled, his goal realized. “Not at all. You can’t escape who you are.”
There was a moment of silence as this sank in. Then Tek said, “Whatever. All I know is the rest of this stuff is mine!”
He launched into the curry, devouring it with a vengeance as Peach and Tinman looked on.
“I think he discovered his roots,” said Peach.
“Great,” said Tinman. “But now, what are we going to eat?”
