Verwandte Artikel zu Fake Dates and Mooncakes (Underlined)

Fake Dates and Mooncakes (Underlined) - Softcover

Lee, Sher

 
9780593569955: Fake Dates and Mooncakes (Underlined)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0593569954 ISBN 13: 9780593569955
Verlag: Random House Children's Books, 2023

Inhaltsangabe

Heartstopper meets Crazy Rich Asians in this heartfelt, joyful paperback original rom-com that follows an aspiring chef who discovers the recipe for love is more complicated than it seems when he starts fake-dating a handsome new customer.

Dylan Tang wants to win a Mid-Autumn Festival mooncake-making competition for teen chefs—in memory of his mom, and to bring much-needed publicity to his aunt’s struggling Chinese takeout in Brooklyn.

Enter Theo Somers: charming, wealthy, with a smile that makes Dylan’s stomach do backflips. AKA a distraction. Their worlds are sun-and-moon apart, but Theo keeps showing up. He even convinces Dylan to be his fake date at a family wedding in the Hamptons.

In Theo’s glittering world of pomp, privilege, and crazy rich drama, their romance is supposed to be just pretend . . . but Dylan finds himself falling for Theo. For real. Then Theo’s relatives reveal their true colors—but with the mooncake contest looming, Dylan can’t risk being sidetracked by rich-people problems.

Can Dylan save his family’s business and follow his heart—or will he fail to do both?

Die Inhaltsangabe kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

SHER LEE writes rom-coms and fantasy novels for teens. Fake Dates and Mooncakes is her debut. Like the main character, she has made mooncakes with her favorite aunt and has an abiding love for local street food (including an incredible weakness for xiao long bao). She lives in Singapore with her husband and two adorable corgis, Spade and Clover.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter 1


Something’s burning. Aunt Jade says if the smoke’s white, it’s all good. But if the smoke is yellow, I’m in trouble. Which means I have to decide whether I should save the fried radish and egg pancake I forgot to flip or the five sticks of pork satay blackening on the grill.

As the charred scent wafts through the kitchen, I dive for the sticks of skewered pork cubes. The fat on the meat burns with a ton of smoke, and if the fire alarm goes off and the sprinklers kick in, we’re all screwed.

Megan snatches the pan with the sizzling pancake off the fire. She shoots me a look. “Dylan, weren’t you supposed to be watching the chye tow kuay?”

“T-minus three on order number thirty-eight, sixteen xiao long bao!” Tim calls through the serving window. He’s eleven, so he’s not allowed into the war zone, but he’s handling the counter like a boss, taking orders online and from walk-ins. Tim wrote an algorithm to crunch data and determine T, the time hangry customers detonate and cancel their orders. “And Auntie Heng’s still waiting for her Hokkien prawn mee!”

“I’m on the xiao long bao!” I snatch the cover off the steamer basket and carefully scoop the soup dumplings into a box lined with waxed paper. Like an unstable element, a xiao long bao has a core of minced pork surrounded by a volatile mixture of soup and wrapped inside a thin layer of dough. If the dough breaks, the soup will leak out. One of us will still eat the ruined dumpling, but we should be selling food, not putting it into our stomachs.

Chinese people believe names have a powerful effect on how something or someone will turn out, which is why most restaurants are called some variation of Happy, Lucky, or Golden. Something serene, positive . . . nonviolent. When Aunt Jade set up her Singaporean Chinese takeout here in Brooklyn, New York, she should’ve known better than to call it Wok Warriors.

But maybe there’s more truth to our takeout’s name than meets the eye. Aunt Jade’s a warrior at the stove, tuned out to the chaos and completely focused on conquering her signature stir-fried egg fried rice. The cast-iron wok can burn as hot as the sun, but she doesn’t flinch as flames roar up around it. She grips the handle and uses the curved side of the wok to flip the fried rice into the air. Tossing the food nonstop is the secret to capturing the elusive wok hei--the “breath of the wok,” a deliciously smoky, flame-singed aroma that lingers on your tongue.

Tim sticks his head through the window again. “Chung called--he’s got a flat tire! What should we do about these orders that’re ready to go?”

Shit. Our delivery radius in Brooklyn covers Sunset Park and Bay Ridge, and we usually have two guys on motorbikes handling deliveries. But Uncle Bo’s sick--we call anyone around our parents’ age Uncle or Auntie, though we aren’t related--so Chung’s flying solo tonight. It’s Labor Day weekend, and we’re slammed with orders.

I look at Aunt Jade and my cousins. Aunt Jade has a splash of soy sauce on her sleeve. Megan’s using a pizza wheel instead of a knife to chop spring onions more quickly. Tim’s frowning as he checks the timestamp on five orders waiting to be delivered.

There’s a Cantonese phrase Aunt Jade likes to use: “Sup gor cha wu, gau gor goi.” Ten teapots, but only nine lids to cover them.

“I’ll do it.” I yank off my apron and hang it up. “I’ve got my bike.”

We try not to stack more than three orders in each run so the food won’t arrive cold, but we don’t have a choice. Tim and I load the boxes of food into a gigantic warmer bag, which is so bulky and full it threatens to throw off the balance of my bike. Hopefully I won’t wobble into a dumpster or clip one of the cars double-parked along the avenues. Which will give our takeout’s name a whole new meaning, since I’ll have to wok back. Megan hates my bad puns.

I strap my helmet on and ride along the side of the road, avoiding puddles in gutters clogged with litter and dead leaves. This is the first weekend of September, and even after the sun has gone down, the city’s still a giant oven. A thunderstorm drenched the streets earlier, and now the air is not only hot but also unbearably humid. Before I arrive at the first destination, my T-shirt’s soaked with sweat.

I make four deliveries, apologizing for the delay each time. My last stop is a Bay Ridge condo on 74th Street. I enter the lobby and show the doorman the slip Tim always staples neatly onto the corner of the paper bag. The order’s for “Adrian R.” I hope he’ll tell me to leave the food at the front desk so I can get out of here.

The doorman picks up the phone and dials. “Good evening, Mr. Rogers? There’s a rider with a meal delivery for you. Certainly, I’ll send him right up.”

Tonight’s really not my night.

I’m headed to the penthouse. When the elevator opens, a guy in his late teens stands in the doorway. He’s wearing an oversized Fendi T-shirt over his shorts. With his platinum-blond hair and hollow cheekbones, he could be on the runway at New York Fashion Week. But he’s not my type, especially when he’s glaring at me like I’m a piece of gum stuck to the sole of his calfskin loafers.

“Adrian R.?” I ask, walking briskly toward him.

“About time,” Adrian snaps. “I don’t care how good your fried rice is, it shouldn’t take over an hour to get here. People need to eat, you know.”

My lips are parched from thirst. My fingers are raw from shredding ginger. My feet are sore from rushing around the kitchen and pedaling my bike faster than ever. But sure. People need to eat.

“Sorry for the long wait.” I hand him the paper bag. Over his shoulder is a stunning view of the Brooklyn skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Enjoy the food.”

I’m about five feet to the elevator when an outburst makes me spin around.

“What the hell is this?” Adrian holds up the box of fried rice, his face contorted with disgust. “This isn’t what I ordered!”

I warily retrace my steps. Tim rarely messes up the instructions. “Ten sticks of pork satay and two boxes of egg fried rice with shrimp?”

“AND NO SPRING ONIONS!” Adrian rips the slip from the bag and thrusts the piece of paper in my face. “The note is right here! So why is my dinner covered with clumps of gross green stuff?”

Tim even highlighted the special instructions in yellow. But in the chaos, we all missed it. The spring onions are sprinkled on top and can be scraped off. But I get the feeling that suggestion may make our angry customer go nuclear.

“I’m sorry, this is our fault,” I say. “Your food was paid for online, and the refund will go back to the credit card you--”

“I don’t want a refund. I want what I ORDERED!” Adrian explodes. Road rage is bad, but food delivery rage is on a whole other level. “Am I supposed to be happy to have MY OWN money returned for dinner I PAID FOR but didn’t GET after waiting for over AN HOUR? What kind of moron do you think I am?”

“Come on, baby.” Another male voice drifts from inside. “Let’s order pizza, okay?”

The guy who comes into view makes my train of thought jump the tracks. He’s around my age...

„Über diesen Titel“ kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.

Verlag
Random House Children's Books
Erscheinungsdatum
2023
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593569954
ISBN 13 
9780593569955
Einband
Taschenbuch
Auflage
1
Anzahl der Seiten
272
Kontakt zum Hersteller
preigu GmbH & Co. KG
mail@preigu.de

Lengericher Landstr. 19
Osnabrück
Niedersachsen
49078
Deutschland