The Great Dinner

At the beginning of November, we got a new intern named Sakari. She was an American girl who wore a low-cut vintage tee, a tight denim skirt, and leather boots on her first day. I went around her desk three times. The following day, I asked Sakari to join me for lunch, but she said she ate earlier with Clarence, the head of her department. I pictured him chewing with his mouth open, and Sakari shaking her head. I giggled from the inside.

The following weekend was Single’s Day, a commercial gimmick in China to take advantage of people who are not in a relationship. The date, 11 November (11/11), was chosen because the numeral 1 resembles a bare stick, which is Chinese Internet slang for an unmarried man who does not add 'branches' to the family tree. For me, it was the perfect opportunity to ask her out.

“I rather do online shopping,” Sakari said. I felt tears inside my heart. Now, what do I do? I wondered. Then the perfect idea came to my mind. I decided to throw a Thanksgiving dinner at my place.

In Canada, we celebrate Thanksgiving in October. But Sakari was American, so throwing an American Thanksgiving dinner was my one-way ticket to love. At least that’s what I thought. I went to her office, invited a bunch of her colleagues, and then looked at her. “Sakari,” I said, “would you like to come?” She scanned the office. They all smiled. “Sure,” she said with a straight face.

I asked everyone to come to my place around 6:00 PM. At 5:45 PM, the food got delivered from Bunco, a local Expat restaurant. The receipt was attached to the large bag, I took out everything and then dumped the empty bag in the cabinet under the sink. I put aluminum-wrapped roasted Turkey in the preheated oven, poured the cranberry whipped feta dip into a bowl, and transferred the mashed potatoes into a casserole. I Googled, “how long does it take to cook a Turkey?” and memorized the ingredients and the procedure. The doorbell rang.

I ran to the door, and touched the video panel, the security guard came on the screen and my colleagues stood behind him. “Hey hey,” I tapped the green icon on the panel, and the glass door downstairs unlocked. “Take the elevator to the 44th floor. I’ll leave my door open,” I said on the speaker, opened my apartment door, and walked back to the kitchen. I carried two bottles of wine, plates, and utensils to the dining table. I lit the cranberry candles, turned on the speakers, and put on the song, I’ve Got Plenty to Be Thankful For by Bing Crosby.

“We are here,” they knocked on the door. “Come on in,” I said, “I’m just setting up the table.”

I snuck my head towards the door, there were only four people. Each person came with a bottle. So now we had four bottles of wine, one Japanese whisky, and one Moutai (the most expensive Chinese spirit, also responsible for many horrendous stories in my life.) “Let’s keep this for the end,” I picked up the bottle of Moutai, and put it in the kitchen. Everyone laughed.

I looked at my phone, but there were no messages. I went to the door panel and tapped on the screen. The security guard was smoking and there were no people at the entrance. “Let’s have some drinks before the others arrive,” I grabbed the wine opener and uncorked the first bottle. “I already texted your apartment number to Sakari,” someone said, “Celinda is not feeling well, and Martin had an emergency. So I guess we’re only waiting for…”

“Me,” Sakari walked into my apartment. “Hey you,” I gave her a hug. She smelled of fresh linens. “What are you wearing?” I asked. She looked at her dark magenta low-cut mini dress and raised her eyebrows. “I meant your perfume,” I laughed. “Oh,” she smiled, “it’s called Lazy Sunday Morning,” she passed me a box. “You didn’t have to,” I said. “It’s just dessert,” she said, “bought it from Emily’s. Love that bakery.”

“What would you like to drink?” I looked at Sakari. “I’m good,” she said. “In that case, you can help me get the food,” I winked at her. She followed me to the kitchen. I passed her the green oven mitts and pulled the oven door open. She took the turkey out and placed it on the dining table. I passed the casserole to one of her colleagues and took the cranberry whipped feta dip to the table.

Sakari unwrapped the turkey. “Wow,” everyone said in sync. “How long did it take you to make all this?” someone asked.

“Turkey took almost three hours,” I said. “not including the marinating time of course.”

“Impressive,” someone said, “and how did you make this dip?”

I recalled the Google search I did earlier and presented my case. They all nodded and smiled.

“I think we need a few forks,” someone said. “I’ll get it,” Sakari got up and went to the kitchen.

I followed her with my eyes and then thought about our future together. I imagined Sakari in the latest Victoria's Secret lingerie, chilling in my apartment on a lazy Sunday morning.

“This is the best Thanksgiving dinner ever,” someone said, “you really know how to cook.”

I looked at Sakari. She looked at me, lowered her eyes, and smiled.

We devoured the food, drank three bottles of wine, and cleared up the dessert Sakari brought for us. At a certain point during the evening, she sat closer to me and took a sip from my glass. And I took a sip from hers. After a few hours, most of them left. The only ones around were Sakari who sat next to me and Clarence who stood on the balcony and smoked skinny Chinese cigarettes.

“I will help you clean up,” Sakari said, “but I gotta use the bathroom first.”

I walked up to the balcony, and slid the glass door open, “hey man,” I said. “What up,” Clarence exhaled the smoke. “Did you do the COVID test today?” I asked. He shook his head. “The test center across from the street will close in 10 minutes,” I lied. “Oh, shit,” he threw his cigarette on the floor, stepped on it, and then picked it up, “I guess I should leave,” he said and went straight to the door. Yes, you should, I nodded with a smile. “Good luck,” I said and closed the door behind him.

Sakari came out of the bathroom and looked out the balcony,“ where’s Clarence?”

“He had to go,” I said.

“I guess we’ll need some bags for the trash,” she said.

“There’s no rush,” I said, “how about we find a movie on Netflix?”

“I like that,” she said and her cheeks turned red, “but let’s clean up first.”

“There are some trash bags under the sink,” I said.

“Such a good evening,” she touched my arm and walked into the kitchen. My heart expanded.

After 30 seconds or so, Sakari walked out of the kitchen and put her hands on her waist. “How much did it cost you to throw this party?” she asked.

WTF, why would she ask that? I thought. “C’mon, it’s Thanksgiving,” I laughed.

“How much?” she asked.

My heart pounded hard. I shoved my hands in my pockets and raised my shoulders.

Sakari pulled Bunco restaurant’s receipt off the bag, and read out loud, “869 RMB,” she said, “why did you lie?”

Fuck me, I thought. “It’s just that…,” I looked out the balcony, “I’m sorry, I know I fucked up.”

“It’s okay,” she said, “I’m not any better.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“That dessert…”

“What about it?”

“I baked it.”

“But I thought it was from.”

“I wasn’t sure if you guys would like it or not,” she covered her face with her hands, “so I lied.”

I guess we’re made for each other, I thought and imagined Sakari and me in our PJs, baking brownies, and watching Netflix on a lazy Sunday morning.