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Authors: Jan-Philipp Sendker
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VII
Zhang diced the eggplant with deft movements, put it in a bowl, and sprinkled salt on it liberally. He took a smaller knife and chopped fresh ginger and garlic into tiny pieces, sliced two bunches of spring onions, cored the bitter gourd with a few twists of his hand, cut the tofu into small pieces, and fetched several jars containing pickled chili, chili paste, and fermented black beans from the cupboard. He was dry frying some Sichuan peppercorns in a pan on the side. Once they were done, he ground them to a fine powder in a mortar with slow, rhythmic strokes of the pestle. Paul set out a folding table and three stools in a corner of the tiny kitchen, sat down, and watched Zhangâs every movement.
Many, many years ago, on his list of Things That Make Life Worth Living, âWatching Zhang Cook and Having the Meal Afterwardâ had been in one of the top spots. He had never seen anyone else prepare food with such love and dedication.
Zhang barely spoke in the kitchen. He did not reply to any questions; he didnât even hear them. Guests who arrived didnât get a look from him; he was deep in a world of smells and spices, of herbs, oils, and pastes, of steaming, slicing, and woks. Mei and Paul thought that cooking was another form of meditation for him and he had let them believe this for over twenty years. There were things in his life that he could not talk about, not even more than thirty years later. Neither with his best friend nor with his wife. How could they understand that food was never just a simple meal for him?That he envied everyone for whom it was so simple. That he could never put a piece of tofu, a chickenâs foot, no, not even a single, tiny grain of rice into his mouth without thinking of Li, Wu, Hong, and all the others in his work brigade who, like him, had been sent into the mountains as children during the Cultural Revolution to help the farmers with the harvest, where they had been forced to labor for six long godforsaken years. Six years in which they thought they had been forgotten by their parents and by the rest of the world, in which they had almost nothing but rice to eat, and, when that was not enough, because the inexperienced city folk were a burden rather than a help during the harvest, they ate grass, leaves, and bark. Six years in which not one summer or winter passed without oneâweakened by starvation though surrounded by a natural world that had more than enough for everyone if only it were properly managedâsuccumbing. Six years in which he could think about nothing for days at a time but the dumplings his mother used to make. Not about his mother; Zhang thought about the dumplings.
For him, every meal was a celebration. A small, quiet triumph of life over death. Of love over hate. Of beauty over ugliness. Of good over evil. And the more effort he made, the better it tasted, the more the taste buds were stimulated or the nose pleasured, the more the stomach was filled, the sweeter the triumph. Who said a pinch of pepper was just a matter of taste? Who said coriander, chili, aniseed, caraway, ginger, and cloves were only spices? Who said life was so simple? He had seen how the Red Guards had shouted at Old Hu just because he had tried to give his watery broth a little taste with some of the pepper he had secretly stored away. The peppercorns were said to be proof of his decadent bourgeois past and of the impossibility of reforming him. The soup had to taste the same for everyone. Who did he think he was? He had better not dare think of trying that again. And what did the mad old fellow do? What did this fool, who had worked as a chef in a French restaurant in Shanghai before the Revolution, do? He seasoned his food. He seasoned it again, he seasoned it without showing any remorse.As though pepper were a form of resistance against barbarism. The Red Guards had been watching him; they beat him until he no longer moved. The whole village watched:
VII
Zhang diced the eggplant with deft movements, put it in a bowl, and sprinkled salt on it liberally. He took a smaller knife and chopped fresh ginger and garlic into tiny pieces, sliced two bunches of spring onions, cored the bitter gourd with a few twists of his hand, cut the tofu into small pieces, and fetched several jars containing pickled chili, chili paste, and fermented black beans from the cupboard. He was dry frying some Sichuan peppercorns in a pan on the side. Once they were done, he ground them to a fine powder in a mortar with slow, rhythmic strokes of the pestle. Paul set out a folding table and three stools in a corner of the tiny kitchen, sat down, and watched Zhangâs every movement.
Many, many years ago, on his list of Things That Make Life Worth Living, âWatching Zhang Cook and Having the Meal Afterwardâ had been in one of the top spots. He had never seen anyone else prepare food with such love and dedication.
Zhang barely spoke in the kitchen. He did not reply to any questions; he didnât even hear them. Guests who arrived didnât get a look from him; he was deep in a world of smells and spices, of herbs, oils, and pastes, of steaming, slicing, and woks. Mei and Paul thought that cooking was another form of meditation for him and he had let them believe this for over twenty years. There were things in his life that he could not talk about, not even more than thirty years later. Neither with his best friend nor with his wife. How could they understand that food was never just a simple meal for him?That he envied everyone for whom it was so simple. That he could never put a piece of tofu, a chickenâs foot, no, not even a single, tiny grain of rice into his mouth without thinking of Li, Wu, Hong, and all the others in his work brigade who, like him, had been sent into the mountains as children during the Cultural Revolution to help the farmers with the harvest, where they had been forced to labor for six long godforsaken years. Six years in which they thought they had been forgotten by their parents and by the rest of the world, in which they had almost nothing but rice to eat, and, when that was not enough, because the inexperienced city folk were a burden rather than a help during the harvest, they ate grass, leaves, and bark. Six years in which not one summer or winter passed without oneâweakened by starvation though surrounded by a natural world that had more than enough for everyone if only it were properly managedâsuccumbing. Six years in which he could think about nothing for days at a time but the dumplings his mother used to make. Not about his mother; Zhang thought about the dumplings.
For him, every meal was a celebration. A small, quiet triumph of life over death. Of love over hate. Of beauty over ugliness. Of good over evil. And the more effort he made, the better it tasted, the more the taste buds were stimulated or the nose pleasured, the more the stomach was filled, the sweeter the triumph. Who said a pinch of pepper was just a matter of taste? Who said coriander, chili, aniseed, caraway, ginger, and cloves were only spices? Who said life was so simple? He had seen how the Red Guards had shouted at Old Hu just because he had tried to give his watery broth a little taste with some of the pepper he had secretly stored away. The peppercorns were said to be proof of his decadent bourgeois past and of the impossibility of reforming him. The soup had to taste the same for everyone. Who did he think he was? He had better not dare think of trying that again. And what did the mad old fellow do? What did this fool, who had worked as a chef in a French restaurant in Shanghai before the Revolution, do? He seasoned his food. He seasoned it again, he seasoned it without showing any remorse.As though pepper were a form of resistance against barbarism. The Red Guards had been watching him; they beat him until he no longer moved. The whole village watched:
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