Chapter Thirty-Eight: Kindred Spirits

Chen Xin made a few more sandwiches cut into small pieces and arranged them on three plates. She felt that was about enough. Cheng Jie had told her earlier that today was just a casual gathering, and later, after four o'clock in the afternoon, she would take a few friends out for hotpot with Teacher Song as a way to thank them.

But just as Chen Xin was about to sit down, one of the gentlemen cautiously asked if she could make two more dishes, as he wasn’t full yet and being half-satiated felt particularly uncomfortable. Hearing this, the others chimed in, suggesting she prepare a bit more to eat. They said it didn’t need to be so exquisite—just something simple would do.

But even if they called it simple, could Chen Xin really just toss something together? After a moment’s thought, she decided it wouldn’t be appropriate to trouble Uncle Tie again. Instead, she would quickly make a curry chicken rice and an okra and minced meat soup herself.

There was plenty of chicken breast prepared, which had already been set out to thaw in the cold storage earlier. She fetched it straightaway, cut it into two-centimeter cubes, and marinated it with salt, cooking wine, and pepper. On the side, she used potatoes and carrots, cutting them into matching-sized cubes and boiling them until cooked.

Since it was fried rice rather than curry stew, she used curry powder instead of slow-cooking the sauce. She stir-fried the chicken pieces in oil until they changed color, added diced onions, then tossed in the drained potatoes and carrots, sautéing everything together. Once the aroma rose, she added some soy sauce for color and a pinch of sugar for flavor. Then she mixed in the rice, stirring over high heat until the grains loosened, and finally sprinkled in the curry powder.

Thanks to the oil in the rice, the curry powder quickly became moist, coating the rice and all the ingredients. Once the curry fragrance permeated and everything was well mixed, she turned off the heat.

Meanwhile, Uncle Tie had prepared the okra and minced meat soup under Chen Xin's direction, thickening it with a slurry of cornstarch for a nice consistency.

This time, the rice she fried was more than before—enough to fill seven plates, and she didn’t bother with the previous delicate presentation. She simply scooped the rice onto plates with a spoon. Each serving came with a small dish of pickled radish and a bowl of soup. It was substantial and respectable, far from just a perfunctory fried rice.

“Chen Xin’s cooking is really impressive. Honestly, with her around, you don’t even need to hire a chef,” someone remarked.

“That’s not going to work,” Cheng Jie replied between quick bites of rice. “Chen Xin has classes to attend, a child to take care of, and other work to do—she doesn’t have time to be stuck in the shop all day. And besides, she doesn’t have a chef’s license. If someone wanted to make a fuss, we wouldn’t want the hassle. So hiring a chef is a must, but it has to be someone reliable, unlike the last one…”

Cheng Jie fell silent, shaking her head—the expression on her face said it all.

“There are plenty of people like that,” one of the men sighed. “Not just here, even at our workplace we’ve had similar issues. Everything’s agreed upon, then when the time comes, the person doesn’t show up or call. When you track him down, he just says he’s working somewhere else now. Ask why he didn’t give notice, and he argues he had no obligation to do so. You just want to reason with someone like that.”

They were intellectuals, after all. Even when faced with such things, their instinct was to reason it out. If the same happened to someone more hot-tempered, they might have just gone straight to the person’s door for a confrontation.

Chen Xin herself didn’t think she was the forgiving type. She was just a woman—a petty, grudge-holding woman. If she had the chance to get even, she most certainly would. Especially since that person had almost turned her shop’s opening into a joke—if she didn’t get her revenge, she’d be too much of a pushover.

Of course, the others’ suggestion that she become the chef herself wasn’t very realistic either. Cheng Jie had a point, but more importantly, Chen Xin herself didn’t want to be tied to the kitchen. She loved to cook, but she didn’t enjoy repetitive, monotonous work.

Many people came in for coffee, but not so many for meals. Outside of their own group of friends, only seven portions were sold. Perhaps it was because the prices were on the higher side. After all, their Indonesian fried rice was priced at eighteen yuan per serving, while outside it was only seven.

Not everyone puts themselves in the shopkeeper’s shoes. Chen Xin used quality ingredients—chicken, beef, and shrimp, all of which weren’t cheap. The outside fried rice, aside from a fried egg on top, had not a shred of meat in it. Different costs, different prices—but many didn’t understand that. All they saw was: yours is eighteen, theirs is seven; you’re gouging them.

Chen Xin never intended to explain. Those who could accept it would, and those who couldn’t would only accuse her of arguing if she tried.

Cheng Jie thought the same, which was why they didn’t care how much food they sold today. All they hoped for was that the customers who ordered would leave a review.

Anyone willing to spend that much on a plate of rice wasn’t short on cash. They’d tasted plenty of good things, but such delicious food wasn’t common. One of them had been to Indonesia; in his memory, the fried rice there wasn’t as good as this.

“Actually, it’s all about local tastes. When I cook, I always adapt to local preferences—using spicier sauces and less sweet soy. So the flavor is tailored more to local palates. But in the coastal regions, they’d use less sauce, choose milder varieties, and actually increase the sweet soy and sugar.”

At this, Chen Xin’s interest was piqued, and she struck up a conversation with that clearly fellow food enthusiast. They discussed at length—though not too deeply—about which sauces paired best, what sauces were suitable for fried rice, and so on.

Indeed, the man had a discerning palate but not the hands for the kitchen. Most of the time, he ate out, and as a journalist, he traveled often, always hunting for local delicacies wherever he went.

The only problem was, he was a financial reporter.

“What’s the point of making money if not to improve your quality of life? I’m not worried about my lack of cooking skills—I hardly eat at home anyway. My dream is to try every local specialty across the country in my lifetime, and when I’m old, write a memoir about all the unique foods I’ve tasted.”

It was a down-to-earth ambition, but judging by his age, retirement was more than thirty years off, so the dream might be hard to realize.

“Many of the authentic regional snacks are already hard to find nowadays. For instance, I once had a shrimp fritter in a small town—now, no one makes it. It requires river shrimp from clean, cool waters. You need two to three ounces of small shrimp for each fritter, and sometimes you can’t even catch a pound in a day. The cost is too high and too unpredictable, so that delicacy has faded away.”

The journalist sighed, but he understood—this was simply the law of the market. What couldn’t adapt or meet demand would be eliminated.

“That’s why I want to do what I can to find these disappearing skills. Even if I can’t preserve or revive them, at least people will know that such delicacies once existed.”

“Like minds think alike. Let’s exchange contacts. If I ever come across such food, I’ll let you know. Whether you can learn to make it yourself is up to you.”

The greatest reward from the opening day wasn’t the revenue, but meeting a kindred spirit. For Chen Xin, that was worth everything.