Chapter Forty-Two: Song Yi’s Cuisine

Song Yi was always reliable in his work, but his passion for culinary innovation was something others found hard to handle. If he simply experimented with new dishes, that would be fine; yet sometimes his ideas were so outlandish, they defied all common sense. Shrimp in desserts, spicy and sour pies—he seemed to pursue the most outrageous combinations possible.

One day, Chen Xin dragged a large box home from the post office. It was filled with wild mountain produce sent by Brother Zhang from his hometown, carefully selected as the best for Chen Xin. She had tried to politely decline before, but now that her café was open and serving workday meals, these mountain goods became a selling point. City folks, flush with money, craved novelty; and the mountain where Zhang’s family lived produced specialties different from those found locally. Silver fungus and black fungus were easy enough to source, but mountain mushrooms and bamboo fungus were impossible to get unless you bought the smoked versions from supermarkets—an incomparable substitute for naturally sun-dried ones.

Dried bamboo shoots from the mountains were another delicacy; they paired perfectly with beef, and the tender tips stewed with cured ribs made you want to devour the whole pot. The evening she received the goods, Chen Xin soaked three pieces of dried bamboo shoots. They needed two or three days of soaking—each day boiling for an hour, then soaking in fresh water for a day and night. After repeating this three times, the shoots would be ready for cooking; otherwise, even in soup, they’d be too tough to eat.

With the shoots soaking, Chen Xin took out a wind-dried mountain chicken. Without Zhang’s family’s crisp, tangy pickles, braised chicken was out, but she could stew it with mushrooms for a unique flavor. She used fresh flower mushrooms, a superior variant of shiitake, rich in nutrients, perfect for soup. The mountain chicken wasn’t an old hen, but a young one-year-old bird, ideal for pairing with flower mushrooms.

Though the chicken was wind-dried, during stewing it absorbed moisture and regained a tender texture—yet it retained a special flavor, a hint of smoky aroma blended with the scent of mountain pines. Because the mushrooms were so nutritious and the chicken so fresh, the soup needed nothing but a pinch of salt.

There were only three employees on the night shift, plus Song Yi and Chen Xin—six people in all. Zhang Zhang, the chubby boy, had a voracious appetite lately and a particular love for meat. Chen Xin braised four chicken wings in cola for him, served on a plate for him to gnaw at leisure.

For the adults, Chen Xin used leftover ingredients from lunch to quickly whip up a pot of assorted dry pot.

“Assorted” meant the leftover chicken wings and ribs were deep-fried, the marinated beef roasted in the oven until medium, the remaining prawns marinated in wine and black pepper for ten minutes, and the broccoli, lotus root, and carrot sliced thick and blanched. Chen Xin prepared the dry pot seasoning herself—fresh chopped chili and bean paste—so the finished dish carried the spicy aroma of chili and the numbing taste of Sichuan pepper. If you paid attention, you could even detect the sweetness of wine.

Hot pot was common enough, but this assorted dry pot was a first. It resembled a stew, but with more layers of flavor—a medley where each bite brought out the taste of the ingredients, spicy and numbing, making you want to eat an extra bowl of rice.

“Hmm, I suddenly have an idea. Are you up for a midnight snack?” Song Yi put down his bowl, tied on an apron, and headed for the kitchen with enthusiasm.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Xiao Jun said, chewing her chopsticks and eyeing the kitchen warily. “Song’s ideas have been super weird lately. Do you know what snack he brought us this morning? Fried pineapple!”

Chen Xin hadn’t been around that morning. Hearing Xiao Jun’s words, she nearly spat out her soup. “How could he come up with something that strange? You guys keep an eye on him, don’t let him get too outlandish. If he starts serving that to customers, we’ll be out of business in no time.”

Oblivious to the chatter outside, Song Yi was absorbed in his culinary creation. After dinner, Chen Xin felt she had to investigate, so she tiptoed to Song Yi’s side to quietly observe.

This time, Song Yi was making a salad. The ingredients—chicken breast, tuna, sweet sausage, potatoes, lettuce, green peas, sweet corn—gave it a mixed vibe, sweet and savory colliding. Without skillful balancing, it could become a culinary disaster.

The ingredients weren’t cheap, but Chen Xin didn’t mind the expense. Song Yi’s salary was modest, his only request to freely experiment with new dishes. Of course, not every creation was allowed on the menu—only those unanimously approved by the café staff could be offered for trial sale.

So far, Song Yi had developed more than twenty dishes, but only three had made it to the menu, two of which were adaptations of traditional foods, not true innovations.

He diced the chicken breast, marinated it with salt, white wine, and crushed black pepper for five minutes, wrapped it in foil, and baked it. Hard-boiled eggs were peeled and diced to match. Sweet sausage was sliced and pan-fried without oil until crisp. Large chunks of tuna, canned in water, were drained and diced.

Potatoes roasted with the chicken were ready at the same time and set aside; green peas and sweet corn had already been prepared and could go directly into the salad.

Song Yi grabbed a handful of spiral pasta, boiled it with a bit of salt, then chilled it in ice water, drained it, and laid it on a bed of lettuce in the salad bowl, sprinkled with salt and black pepper. Then he arranged all the diced ingredients in neat rows in the bowl—roasted potatoes and chicken, sausages, eggs, tuna, peas, and corn. The colors were bright and appealing, making it a visual delight.

The salad dressing was Song Yi’s own recipe, different from Chen Xin’s. Hers was a low-fat version for health-conscious women; his was richer and more robust. The dressing was simple—egg yolk, sugar, vegetable oil, and lemon juice—the key was patience.

Once everything was arranged, Song Yi drizzled the dressing over the salad.

Besides this grand medley of a salad, Song Yi also stir-fried rice with shrimp, peas, and onions, then selected four tomatoes of similar size, sliced off the tops, scooped out the seeds, leaving thick-walled shells. He filled them with the spiced fried rice, topped them with shredded cheese and a sprinkle of rosemary, then baked them.

“Tomatoes baked like that?” Everyone eyed Song Yi suspiciously, wondering if he was about to unleash another culinary catastrophe. Only Chen Xin, biting her finger and eyes shining, thought her café had just gained another exquisite dish to lure in customers.