He handed Rachel a still-warm banana-leaf packet tied with string. “Try Malaysia’s most popular dish—nasi lemak,” he said. Rachel undid the string and the glossy banana leaf unfolded to reveal a neatly composed mound of rice surrounded by sliced cucumbers, tiny fried anchovies, roasted peanuts, and a hard-boiled egg.
“Pass me a fork,” Rachel said.
“There’s no fork. You get to go native on this—use your fingers!” Nick grinned.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope, that’s the traditional way. Malays believe the food actually tastes better when you eat with your hands. They only use the right hand to eat, of course. The left hand is used for purposes better left unmentioned.”
“But I haven’t washed my hands, Nick. I don’t think I can eat like this,” Rachel said, sounding a little alarmed.
“Come on, Miss OCD. Tough it out,” Nick teased. He scooped some of the rice into his fingers and began eating the nasi lemak with gusto.
Rachel gingerly scooped some of the rice into her mouth, instantly breaking into a smile. “Mmmm … it’s coconut rice!”
“Yes, but you haven’t even gotten to the good part yet. Dig a little deeper!”
Rachel dug into her rice and discovered a curry sauce oozing out from the middle along with big chunks of chicken. “Oh my God,” she said. “Does it taste this good because of all the different flavors or because we’re sitting on this gorgeous beach eating it?”
“Oh, I think it’s your hands. Your grotty hands are giving the food all the added flavor,” Nick said.
“I’m about to slap you with my grotty curry hands!” Rachel scowled at him. Just as she was finishing her last bite, the little boy from earlier ran up with two clear-plastic drinking bags filled with rough chunks of ice and freshly squeezed sugarcane juice. Nick took the drinks from the boy and handed him a ten-dollar bill. “Kamu anak yang baik,”* he said, patting the boy on the shoulder. The boy’s eyes widened in delight. He tucked the money into the elastic band of his soccer shorts and scrambled off to tell his mother about his windfall.
“You never cease to amaze me, Nicholas Young. Why didn’t I know you spoke Malay?” Rachel said.
“Only a few rudimentary words—enough to order food,” Nick replied modestly.
“That conversation you had earlier didn’t sound rudimentary to me,” Rachel countered, sipping the icy sweet sugarcane through a thin pink straw tucked into the corner of the plastic bag.
“Trust me, I’m sure that lady was cringing at my grammar.” Nick shrugged.
“You’re doing it again, Nick,” Rachel said.
“Doing what?
“You’re doing that annoying self-deprecating thing.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
Rachel sighed in exasperation. “You say you don’t speak Malay when I hear you yapping away. You say, ‘Oh, this old house,’ when we’re in a friggin’ palace. You downplay everything, Nick!”
“I don’t even realize when I’m doing it,” Nick said.
“Why? I mean, you downplay things to the point that your parents don’t even have a clue how well you’re doing in New York.”
“It’s just the way I was brought up, I guess
.”
“Do you think it’s because your family is so wealthy and you had to overcompensate by being super-modest?” Rachel suggested.
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. I was just trained to speak precisely and never to be boastful. Also, we’re not that wealthy.”
“Well then, what are you exactly? Are you guys worth hundreds of millions or billions?”
Nick’s face began to redden, but Rachel wouldn’t let up.
“I know it makes you uncomfortable, Nick, but that’s why I’m prodding you. You’re telling me one thing, but then I hear other people speaking as if the entire economy of Asia revolves around your family, and you’re, like, the heir to the throne. I’m an economist, for crying out loud, and if I’m going to be accused of being a gold digger, I’d like to know what I’m supposedly digging for,” Rachel said bluntly.