The Game of Life

Jiang Weiming led Jiang Yong into the kitchen and introduced him to Jiang Weiguo, “This is my second son, Jiang Yong.”

“Hello, Uncle Qi,” greeted Jiang Yong, his tone carrying a hint of estrangement. “No luggage?” Jiang Weiguo asked, choosing a rather peculiar point of entry.

“He’s not staying. He has a flight tonight; I’m making him a dish. Feng, help me get five eggs and two bags of sugar,” said Jiang Weiming, going to wash his hands first.

Jiang Weiming took the five egg yolks, added a little more than one bag of sugar, mung bean starch, and water, scattered it, stirred to mix. The mixture of sugar, egg yolks, and starch was hard to mix. Jiang Feng wanted to help, but Jiang Weiming insisted on doing it himself from start to finish.

After mixing well, he added some more water and stirred again before straining it twice. He poured it into the pot, heated it, and added lard, constantly stirring with a ladle.

The ladle must not leave the fire, the fire must not leave the ladle, and one cannot be distracted for a moment.

Jiang Feng vaguely realized what Jiang Weiming was making.

Sanbuchan.

Sanbuchan is a famous snack from Anyang, Henan, but is often linked with Northeastern cuisine. It is said that an emperor who favored visiting the South was greatly pleased after eating it, though Jiang Feng had never tasted it.

This dish, heavy on oil and sugar, was extremely labor-intensive. Jiankang couldn’t make it, and Sir could but didn’t. Most importantly, to make an authentic Sanbuchan that doesn’t stick to the plate, teeth, orchopsticks, required a chef with very high skill in fire control. The surface had to be smooth, even, and rounded. If the fire control was inadequate, it would leak oil and sugar, stick to the pan, and discolour.

For Jiang Weiming, a man in his nineties, the difficulty of this dish was exponentially greater.

The egg mixture in the pot had turned into a pasty consistency, and Jiang Weiming added another spoonful of lard, continuing to stir.

He still had to stir vigorously for seven or eight more minutes, then flip the ladle. His hands had to move three or four hundred times to produce a result, and in the meantime, he had to add lard several times and adjust the heat until the Sanbuchan in the pot became smooth, rounded, and well-formed.

Jiang Weiming had been stirring for three minutes already.

If Jiang Feng had to stir like that for three minutes, with such high-speed and non-stop stirring, he would have been tired too; his arms might even feel sore and numb. Jiang Weiming was obviously feeling the same, as his arm holding the iron ladle began to tremble, fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and the stirring speed noticeably slowed down.

“Enough, I’ve eaten Sanbuchan before. Stop, I have a plane to catch. I m leaving,” said Jiang Yong, unwilling to watch or wait any longer.

“Wait a minute, it’s almost done, just five more minutes, five minutes and it’ll be ready,” Jiang Weiming said, looking at the pot, his hands never ceasing to move.

Jiang Yong wanted to leave but his feet were as if nailed to the ground, unable to pull away or step forward.

Jiang Feng looked at the pot.

The Sanbuchan in the pot was near completion, and Jiang Weiming was flipping the ladle.

This wasn’t like flipping the ladle a few times to even out the sauce when stir- frying as usual. Making Sanbuchan required continuous ladle flipping to ensure even heating, preventing sticking to the pan and achieving a rounded shape without any angles or protrusions.

In some ways, Sanbuchan was also a blessing for those with obsessive- compulsive disorder.

It was ready to come out of the pot.

The formed Sanbuchan slid directly from the pot into the dish, even bouncing slightly upon landing, as if it were frozen.

The bounciness of jelly is due to gelatin, which is rich in fibrous protein. Sanbuchan, a traditional dessert made entirely of egg yolks, sugar, oil, and mung bean starch, could indeed rival the texture of industrialized jelly.

“Give it a try,” Jiang Weiming was indeed tired, as this dish was too physically demanding for a chef his age, “Feng, you try it too.”

Jiang Yong did not move.

Seeing that Jiang Yong remained still, Jiang Feng initially didn’t want to take the first scoop either, but then thought it would be awkward for Jiang Weiming if neither of them ate, so he took a spoon and scooped out a small piece. Sanbuchan was like sponge cake, easy to scoop out a small piece with a gentle touch of the spoon.

At first bite, the taste was somewhat like jelly – delicate, sweet, smooth, with the fragrance of egg.

Even though it was a dessert heavy in sugar and oil, it wasn’t greasy at all. Jiang Weiming had added so much oil, but neither the pot nor the dish could tell; it was all wrapped up in the Sanbuchan. Yet, when eating it, there wasn’t an oily sensation.

“It’s good,” Jiang Feng originally wanted to praise the dessert with some sophisticated four-character idiom.

But he wasn’t well-educated, so a simple “good” had to suffice.

Indeed, it didn’t stick to the spoon.

A blessing for dishwashers.

Jiang Yong looked at the Sanbuchan in the dish, now missing one bite.

It was the dish he wanted most before he turned 19.

He had known since he was a child that his father played favorites. His older brother was a full ten years his senior, and his father had already become accustomed to loving him. There was no spare love for Jiang Yong.

Because Jiang Weiming was a chef at a state-owned hotel, their home never lacked food supplies, yet sugar still was a rare commodity. Jiang Wei loved Sanbuchan, and every year on his birthday, his father would cook it for him – a small portion, and none for Jiang Yong.

Every year on his birthday, Jiang Yong would ask for Sanbuchan, not because he had a sweet tooth, but because he just wanted to be treated and loved the same way as his brother. However, his father never took it seriously and never cooked it for him.

The year Jiang Yong got into university, his older brother was getting married. The family had no money, so they borrowed a lot. His father only provided his tuition and a train ticket. His living expenses were a mere ten yuan. Jiang Yong found ways to work part-time and save money, eating corn bread for an entire semester; he even refrained from buying pickles so he could afford a ticket home.

In the first year of his job, he used nearly half a year’s salary to go to Beiping, to the shop reputed to make the most authentic Sanbuchan. He ate it for half a month until he vomited, until the sight of eggs and sugar made him sick.

His father had raised him for 19 years, and he had repaid his father for 19 years. For the past decade and more, they were even.

“When you were little, you’d always clamor for this dish on your birthday,” Jiang Weiming suddenly said.

“You loved spicy food, and I always thought you were just trying to compete with your brother on purpose, so I never took it to heart.”

“Now that I’m old, I can see just how biased my heart was.”

“I don’t mean anything else by it, I just wanted to make it for you while I still had the strength, now that I’ve seen you.”

Jiang Yong took a bite.

It wasn’t the best, but it was what he had wanted.

“Dad, when Ran gets married, I’ll bring you over for the wedding. I have to catch’a flight now. I’m leaving,” said Jiang Yong, hurriedly leaving.

Jiang Weiming smiled.

He knew his son would not forgive him.

But at least he acknowledged him.

And was finally willing to call him “dad” again.