Title: A Dinner with the Mei Family
"Boss, from now on, you need to worry about your personal income tax," Aria said with a smirk, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
Charlie Lee stared at her, his mind processing the gravity of what she just said. "What are you talking about?"
Aria, always playful, casually revealed, "You'll have to pay nearly one hundred million dollars in personal income tax next year."
Charlie's chest tightened, and he struggled to breathe for a moment.
"You should be thankful it wasn't ten years ago. You know, the highest tax rate was 67% in 1917, and 77% in 1918," she added, trying to lighten the mood, though she knew the truth would hurt him.
Charlie's mind spiraled. "77% tax? That's just insane! How did men like Morgan and Rockefeller survive back then? Was it a conspiracy? Racial discrimination? Legal injustice? Or the decay of morality?" His thoughts turned darker, and a sense of despair washed over him. The idea of living in that era was unimaginable. It would have felt more like hell than heaven.
Aria, unfazed, took a moment before she spoke again. "Morgan, Rockefeller, and so many wealthy families accumulated their fortunes over decades. You, on the other hand…" Her voice trailed off as she watched Charlie's expression shift.
From humble beginnings to more than $100 million in just five months—that was Charlie's story. It was nothing short of a miracle in the American landscape.
"You're a miracle, boss," Aria said, her voice filled with awe.
"Let's go. I need a drink to calm my nerves." Charlie pushed open the car door, raising his arm to signal Aria to follow. They headed toward a three-story red-brick Chinese restaurant nearby.
"Welcome! Do you have a reservation?" The host greeted them warmly, though his eyes lingered for a moment at the sight of Aria accompanying Charlie. In that era, a white woman with a Chinese man was an unusual combination, and their entrance certainly raised eyebrows.
"Charlie Lee, I have a reservation," Charlie replied, following the host up to the third floor. He couldn't help but observe the décor of the restaurant—everything exuded the familiar charm of his homeland. The Mei family, a well-known Chinese family in the city, ran this restaurant, and Charlie had chosen this place specifically to meet Grant.
The Mei family, despite their long history, had turned down various business proposals from Charlie's people, even after he brought Paul into the fold. He was curious about their stubborn refusal, wondering if their traditional Confucian values were in conflict with his more radical approach.
"Hi, Mr. Lee," the waiter greeted them as they reached their table.
"Call me Charlie," he said with a smile, motioning toward Aria. "This is my friend, Aria. And this is Grant, the chief of the Chicago police."
Grant, standing with a slight bow, nodded. "It's a pleasure to meet you, beautiful lady." His charm was evident, and Aria returned his smile, teasingly leaning in.
"Pleasure's mine, Director Grant," she replied smoothly. She wasn't in a dress today, so no need for the formalities of removing her hat or curtsying.
The waiter presented the menu—two versions, one for Western food and one for Chinese food. Charlie, with a casual glance, asked, "Do you have any wine from China?"
"Yes, we have ten-year-old Daughter Hong and sorghum wine. The sorghum has a higher alcohol content," the waiter replied, lowering his voice slightly, likely aware that it was a more potent drink.
Charlie nodded. "We'll take both." He closed the menu and handed it back to the waiter.
As the others made their orders, with Aria opting for Boston lobster and Grant choosing a steak, Charlie waited for the drinks. The waiter returned shortly with two large jars of wine, covered with straw and sealed with mud.
"Interesting method of serving," Aria remarked, intrigued by the setup. "Is this really from the East?"
"It is," Charlie confirmed, his fingers pricking at the mud seal with a practiced motion. He winced slightly when his hands were covered in wine, realizing that TV shows had exaggerated the process.
Aria and Grant both tried the wine, and Charlie followed suit, though he was less enthusiastic about the taste. The Daughter Hong wine was mild but overly sweet for his liking. He quickly opened the sorghum wine for a stronger kick.
"Charlie, this Oriental wine is great!" Grant exclaimed, clearly enjoying the Daughter Hong. Aria was equally impressed and mentioned she'd buy a few jars to take home.
As they continued drinking, the food arrived. The fragrant aroma of sweet and sour fish, spicy crayfish, mutton stew, and clear soup noodles filled the air. Charlie grinned, recognizing his favorite dishes from home.
"I haven't had food like this in a long time," he said, satisfied as he tasted each dish. The sour and spicy flavors were comforting in a way only home-cooked food could be.
Grant, who had been listening intently, shared his frustrations. "Charlie, the problem is Capone. No one dares to stand up to that madman. He's been a real pain for us."
Charlie, having heard the name "Capone" many times before, understood the gravity of the situation. He didn't need to be told why no one dared challenge the notorious gangster—anyone who did either disappeared or ended up six feet under. However, Grant's situation was different. As the chief of police, he was untouchable in many ways.
"Well, Grant, it's time to eat," Charlie said, noticing the next round of food arriving. He gestured to the waitress, who set down a steaming bowl of sweet and sour fish, some spicy crayfish, and mutton stew. Each dish was a vivid burst of flavor—an authentic representation of his homeland.
"Mr. Lee, you've lost your welcome!" A familiar voice interrupted, and a middle-aged man in a black Tang suit and white apron appeared at their table.
"This is our chef and boss, Mr. Mei," the waiter introduced with pride.
"Call me Meier," the chef said with a welcoming smile. He pulled up a chair and sat down at a slight distance from the table, as if respecting the presence of the distinguished guests.
Charlie, amused by the formal atmosphere, responded, "It seems business is going well here. You've built quite an empire, Mr. Mei."
Mr. Mei laughed softly. "It's nothing extraordinary. Business is taken care of by some old friends."
Charlie, knowing the Mei family's deep history in Chicago, took a moment to appreciate the significance of their legacy. They were one of the first Chinese families to settle in the city in the 1870s, and over the years, they had built a robust network of contacts and businesses. Their restaurant had become a hub for the Chinese community, where families would gather to celebrate and relax.
"Ah, the Jews," Charlie said casually, looking around the room, intrigued by the subtle nods of recognition from the staff.
"They are regulars," Mr. Mei replied, his voice filled with pride. "The fathers bring their children, and then the children bring their own families. It's a long-standing tradition."
Charlie nodded, impressed by the Mei family's rich connections. In a city like Chicago, where power and influence were everything, the Mei family had made their mark. Even with the pressures of the Chinese Exclusion Act and other challenges, they had thrived, continuing to dominate the restaurant scene.
The atmosphere shifted slightly when Charlie mentioned the Anliang Chamber of Commerce. "I heard you've been advising against allowing any members from Area 22 to come here."
Mr. Mei's smile faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered. "Who said that? The Chamber is simply a place for people to communicate and share ideas. It's not about controlling who can come and go."
Charlie raised an eyebrow, sensing some underlying tension. The Mei family's wealth was undeniable, but their alliances—and rivalries—were just as powerful. "We'll see how things unfold," Charlie said cryptically, taking another sip of sorghum wine.