Chapter 81: The Extraordinary Within the Ordinary

“In the past, the most common way for ordinary families to prepare hairtail was either in wontons or with noodles. Hairtail wontons were originally a humble snack in Jiangnan; besides hairtail, the filling also included shepherd’s purse and egg, resulting in a delicate texture and an aroma that filled the air.”

“But now, with environmental pollution, their numbers are dwindling. Each hairtail weighing about three taels fetches at least four thousand yuan per jin by mid-March. Who could bear to use such a precious fish in wontons?”

“It’s a pity that the Qingming Festival marks the fate of the hairtail, for around this time they mate, and then their bones begin to harden. Fortunately, with this hardening, the price plummets; the once extravagant delicacy worth thousands per jin suddenly loses its luster, dropping to a mere few dozen per jin.”

“That’s when ordinary folks can finally afford some, to make hairtail wontons. The delicacy, after all its tribulations, returns to its humble origins. Its fate is like a deserted courtyard where carriages no longer visit, or an eldest daughter married off to a merchant—such are the rises and falls of the world, all contained within a single hairtail.”

His words drew laughter from everyone as the hairtail was ready to taste. Indeed, it was exceptionally fresh and melted in the mouth—an entirely different sensation from the firm texture of the reversed fish earlier, each with their own merits.

Zhuang Chen closed his eyes, savoring this rare delicacy, and remarked, “Since ancient times, many poets have praised the hairtail. Lu You wrote: ‘Hairtail and shepherd’s purse are served as needed, a drunken spell before the blossoms.’ And Mei Yaochen said: ‘Already I see willows fluttering like snow, the hairtail in the river fat and fresh.’”

“But the most famous lines are from Su Dongpo, who wrote, ‘With abandon, I watch the nets haul in silver hairtail,’ vividly depicting the scene of fishermen catching hairtail in March, as peach blossoms just begin to open—so lively, so present.”

Chef Liu picked up the thread, saying, “As a chef, I can tell you: authentic river hairtail has small eyes, gills of bright red, yellow whiskers, and a dark tail. But most important is the taste—river hairtail’s flavor is far superior to that of lake hairtail!”

“Before Qingming, the fine bones are as soft as cotton; after Qingming, they harden like needles. Gourmets of the Qing dynasty considered hairtail the finest spring treat—its flavor waits for no one. Once Qingming passes, the flesh toughens, the bones harden, and its deliciousness diminishes.”

“To solve the problem of hairtail’s many bones that easily catch in the throat, Yuan Mei’s ‘Suiyuan Food List’ offers two methods: one, use a very sharp knife to slice the fillet and extract the bones with pliers; two, slice the fish’s back at an angle with a sharp knife, severing the tiny bones, then fry in the pan until golden.”

“When done right, you won’t even notice the bones. As for deep-frying the hairtail to a crisp, Yuan Mei likened it to forcing a hunchback to stand straight—a lifeless result, and a waste of nature’s gift!”

“Common folk have their own ways: one is hairtail rice—nail the fish to a small wooden rack, or simply to a wooden pot lid, then set it in the rice cooker to steam. When the rice is done, the fish is soft and the flesh falls into the rice, while the bones stay stuck to the rack or lid.”

“Another method could be called the ‘skin technique’: first peel off the hairtail’s skin, which brings some bones with it, then scrape off the flesh and lay it back on the underside of the skin. Pat it gently with the back of a knife or a wooden handle, and those troublesome bones embed themselves into the skin. Scrape once more with the knife, and you have boneless hairtail meat.”

He then signaled for the staff to clear the table, and said earnestly, “Please save some room, honored guests. There’s one last dish tonight, the grand finale, my personal favorite!”

Everyone was surprised—both the reversed fish and the river hairtail were rare delicacies, each a masterpiece of freshness.

“There’s something even tastier?” Zhuang Chen put down his chopsticks, teasing, “Chef Liu, don’t set yourself up for disappointment! The last two dishes were already outstanding—could the final one truly surpass them?”

By now, everyone had grown familiar, and conversation flowed easily. Chef Liu just smiled and gestured for the dish to be served. All eyes were fixed on the large clay pot, steaming away, its contents a mystery.

“Could it be…?”

Zhuang Chen took a deep breath, astonished. “Fish soup? I can taste so many different kinds of fish!”

Before everyone’s eyes, Chef Liu slowly lifted the lid to reveal a pot of milky-white fish soup, with an assortment of tiny fish floating on the surface, none longer than two inches.

“This is Thousand Island Lake Mixed Fish Soup,” Chef Liu explained. “Mixed fish, as the name suggests, are small and varied—sometimes called little rough fish or catfish—a vast grassroots class of fish.”

“There are bitterlings, little catfish, baby perch, small ricefish, and minnow that follow boats, even a few shrimp and burrowing loaches mixed in.”

“There’s a special kind of fish, about as thick as a finger, that the fishermen call ‘meat rollers’—tender, plump, with few soft bones and surprisingly firm flesh. Their taste is truly unique.”

“This pot of stewed mixed fish features many members and many flavors; each fish has its own character. With every spoonful, you taste something different—that’s the beauty of mixed fish.”

Everyone suddenly understood, and even Zhuang Chen saw this dish for the first time. Chef Liu sighed, reminiscing, “I remember when I was young, the lake had a tiny fish called bitterling, even shorter than a little finger, resembling a bitterling, with fine, smooth scales, and a transparent body so clear you could see its organs while alive.”

“Though they die as soon as they leave the water, they’re a rare delicacy—so tender you can chew them whole, bones and all. In late spring and early summer, they swim upstream into the lush shallows.”

“On autumn evenings, if you stood by the tranquil lakeshore and saw the surface ripple as if in a light drizzle, that was a school of bitterlings foraging in the shallows.”

“In those days, Thousand Island Lake teemed with little fish—people joked that a handful of lake water would yield a tiny fish in your palm. Washing rice or vegetables with a basket would often net a number of finger-sized fry. In the weeds during spring and summer, the splashes of courting fish would set the water shimmering.”

Zhuang Chen was impressed at Chef Liu’s eloquence, painting a picture of peaceful riverside life with just a few words.

“There were many folding nets along the shore, only four or five meters squared, stretched over crossed bamboo poles with a rope tied at the center. You’d wait quietly, then yank the rope to lift the net from the water.”

“Sometimes you’d have a good catch—a jumble of little fish leaping in the net. Sometimes you’d even net carp, catfish, whitefish, or crabs. Real fishermen would row out to bait-rich eddies, drop a mesh net, and anything that got caught, big or small, was theirs.”

“The little fish hung glinting in the mesh, and sometimes a single net would yield over ten jin of mixed fish. Back then, these fish were so cheap—a handful cost only a few cents.”

“Fishermen would pick out the biggest and best to sell at the market or keep as snacks with their drinks. The rest, especially those about to spoil, were sold to farmers to feed pigs and chickens. Sows with piglets grew strong on them, and ducks and hens laid more eggs after eating them!”

The crowd burst into laughter, fascinated by these stories. Xia Long, who had lived by the river in his youth, couldn’t help but reminisce, “I used to live by the river too—it’s a warm memory. Times have changed, though; many fish have disappeared, unable to survive the polluted waters, like the Chinese shad, once one of the Yangtze’s three treasures.”

Chef Liu sighed helplessly, “And it’s not just shad—even these little mixed fish are now worth their weight in gold, some restaurants even make them their signature dish, charging dozens of yuan per plate. Even loaches, once used to feed ducks, now fetch thirty yuan a jin as long as they’re ‘wild-caught.’”

“Sometimes the menu says ‘mixed fish,’ but when you order, they tell you it’s sold out. And ordering mixed fish at a restaurant isn’t as simple as ‘bring me a bowl’—you have to ask what kinds are in today’s mix. Is it a true mix?”

Suddenly, as if recalling something, he chuckled, “A few years ago, I ate mixed fish at a Yangtze River restaurant—thirty-five yuan a plate! I thought, fine, but I clearly saw several plump, red-tailed meatfish among them. This type is beautiful, meaty, and delicious, so I quickly ordered a plate.”

“But when the dish came, it was all upturned-mouth fish! I called the owner over, and he insisted that those were the best in the mix.”

“I disagreed. Among ‘meatfish,’ there’s white, yellow, and oilfish, but upturned-mouth fish are the worst—little meat, many bones, and if dried, they’re just shells!”

“People say, ‘upturned-mouths are worthless—no one wants them.’ Yet, if upturned-mouths grow big enough, a jin or two, they become prized as whitefish, delicious whether steamed or braised.”

“The owner finally gave me a thumbs-up and said I was a real connoisseur—he didn’t know I’d been catching fish since I could walk, able to judge a fish’s species and weight from a single scale. Ever since, every year I go to that restaurant, the owner greets me with extra courtesy.”

Chef Liu took up a ladle, gently stirring the soup. “Cleaning mixed fish is easy—no need to gut them with a knife. Just take one in hand, use the thumbnail of your other hand to scrape off the scales from tail to head, then pinch at the pectoral fin and squeeze out the innards in one go.”

“If you’re careful, you only remove the guts, leaving the roe inside. The roe of mixed fish is soft and tender—a real delicacy. But if you leave the gallbladder or break it, the meat will taste bitter, and your taste buds won’t thank you.”

“Before serving, sprinkle a bit of cilantro or scallion. If you add a few shrimp, they not only add flavor but also a lovely splash of red. In the depths of winter, let the mixed fish soup cool overnight—it’ll set into a fish jelly, even more delicious!”

Zhuang Chen sighed inwardly, remembering his master’s words: ‘Eating fish jelly can ruin a family—it’s so good with rice you’ll go through extra bowls. If there’s fish jelly on the table, better cook an extra bowl of rice.’

Appetites whetted, everyone ladled up the soup and tasted it. At the first mouthful, the flavors of all the different fish exploded on their palates, and they couldn’t help but exclaim in delight.

In their minds’ eyes, a mighty river appeared, waves rolling endlessly, countless little fish darting in the blue water, glimmering like stars.

Occasionally, one would leap above the surface, sending up a spray, and a unique sweetness would melt on the tongue, elusive and subtle, bringing a smile.

“Bitterlings… catfish… little perch… ricefish… boat-nail minnow and foolfish too?”

Trying to discern each flavor, they were amazed that such a simple soup could contain eight or nine types of fish. The complexity of tastes blended like a harmonious waltz, with highs and lows, twists and turns, utterly captivating.

It was truly a grand finale—worth every moment.

After two bowls, patting their satisfied bellies, they praised, “Only after tasting Chef Liu’s cooking do I understand the magic in simplicity—‘fresh’ is not a word enough to do it justice!”