Free The Last Chinese Chef by Nicole Mones Page B

undesirable to be removed and thrown away, not in China. We have a lot of dishes that actually focus on fat and make it delectable. Bring pork belly to the table, when it’s done right, and Chinese diners will groan with happiness.”
    “ That’s different,” she said, scribbling. “What else?”
    “That’s just flavor. We have texture. There are ideals of texture, too — three main ones. Cui is dry and crispy, nen is when you take something fibrous like shark’s fin and make it smooth and yielding, and ruan is perfect softness — velveted chicken, a soft-boiled egg. I think it’s fair to say we control texture more than any other cuisine does. In fact some dishes we cook have nothing at all to do with flavor. Only texture; that is all they attempt. Think of bêche-demer. Or wood ear.”
    Maggie considered this. As a concept, texture was not new to her. Many of the greatest dishes she had experienced on the road delivered their pleasure through texture: fried oysters, with their dazzling contrast of inside and out; the silk of corn chowder; the crunch of the perfect beach fry. But all of these relied on flavor too. “You must do something to give them a taste, surely?”
    “Yes — we dress them with sauces. But plain sauces, way in the background. Anything more would distract. The gourmet is eating for texture.
    “Once you understand the ideal flavors and textures, the idea is to mix and match them. That’s an art in itself, called tiaowei. Then we match the dishes in their cycles. Then there is the meal as a whole — the menu — which is a sort of narrative of rhythms and meanings and moods.”
    “My God,” she said, writing rapidly.
    “Everything plays in. The room. The plates. The poetry.” He plucked up another shrimp with his chopsticks and chewed it thoughtfully. “The problem is, this shrimp falls short of true xian. Xian is the natural flavor. If it doesn’t taste natural, the chef has failed to create it.”
    “So you’re saying, it’s the natural flavor, but it’s concocted.”
    “And there’s the paradox,” he said.
    She smiled and wrote it down. “You concoct it how?”
    “By adding supporting flavors, mostly. Every flavor has a specific effect on every other flavor. But all this must be invisible. Believe me, a Chinese panel will know this. And this shrimp — right now — is not quite there.”
    “So are you going to use it in the banquet?”
    “Not unless I get it perfect.”
    She ate another. “I think it’s pretty great.” There was a silence while they both ate and her eyes wandered to the prologue. “Could I borrow this?” she said, touching it. “I’d like to read it again.”
    “Take it. I printed it out for you.”
    “Thank you.”
    “I’ll give you more of the book later, if you want.”
    “I do. But right now I’m going to clear out and let you work.” She packed everything up into her bag.
    “I hope you’ll come again,” he said. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”
    They pushed through the door and crossed the large, darkened dining room, him moving a few steps ahead to hold open the wood-and-etched-glass door out to the courtyard. “You know?” he said. “We’ve been talking about food all this time. I didn’t ask you — what’s the other thing you’re doing here, in Beijing?”
    She turned, halfway down the steps. The raw sadness of the last year came back over her, the sudden slam that could never be undone, the frantic constriction, the struggle to get control. Sometimes even the ministrations of her friends couldn’t get through to her. It was in her job that she’d found a small tunnel of light, especially during the weeks of each month she spent away, writing about other people’s lives. There’d been the kindness of the Malcolms, the retired Maryland couple on the Eastern Shore who worked six commercial crab pots and consumed their entire catch, eating crab at every meal through the season. There was Mr. Loeb, the stout pastrami