Chapter 10 — Cooking for you for the rest of your life

“For my mother, this reason is enough.” She bowed her head and ate the wonton, adding another sentence incomprehensibly. “What she worries about most is that I don't eat well.”
I don't say anymore. Bow your head and eat all the remaining wontons in the bowl. The wonton filling is normal, the skin is a bit thick. But whatever I eat tonight, I feel it tastes quite delicious. Maybe because of the person sitting opposite. Saturday. Ten o'clock in the morning. I'm busy in the kitchen from six to nine thirty. Eight dishes. Add a dessert. Sweet and sour tenderloin, Coca chicken wings, steamed sea bass, braised ribs, stir-fried vermicelli shrimp with garlic, braised chicken with chestnuts, dried fried string beans, tomato beef brisket soup. Dessert is caramel pudding, makes six cups. Pack carefully. Three layers of thermal boxes, plus two cooler bags. I wore a newly purchased dark blue shirt. Rarely comb your hair back. The self in the mirror is still normal, nothing outstanding. But at least—clean. At half past ten, Kieu Mong came to pick me up. Not Maybach. It was the car she drove herself—a small white SUV that didn't look cheap.
“Since when do you have a car?” I sat in the passenger seat.
"It's been around for a long time. I usually go to work by subway because I'm too lazy to find parking."
“…”
Another piece of evidence that I once classified as "poor" has been overturned. The car runs for forty minutes. From the city center to a villa area in the north of the city. This is the type of residential area with a security guard at the door. If you want to enter, you have to swipe your card. Villa. Isolated. In the garden there is a ginkgo tree. In front of the door were parked two cars, including the Maybach that came downstairs from the company last time. My throat moved slightly.
“Tense?” She stopped the car and tilted her head to look at me.
“I told you it was stressful.”
"My father is a very good person. And my mother—you met me last time."
“Your mother looked at me like she was evaluating the ingredients of a dish.”
“That proves she is assessing your worth.” Kieu Mong opened the car door. “Let's go, today all your value is in those three layers of thermal boxes.”
I carried the thermos box down to the car. When entering that villa, I admit my palms were sweaty. The door opens. The person who opened the door was her father. A tall middle-aged man, short hair, gentle face, wearing home clothes and cotton slippers. Completely unlike the real estate tycoon in my imagination.
“Already here.” He smiled. “Come in, come in.”
The living room is very large, but not ostentatious and lavish. Warm tones, a wall full of books, and a pot of freshly brewed tea on the tea table. Her mother sat on the sofa. When she saw me, she didn't stand up. Just sitting like that, looking up at me. Eyes— How should I say it? Not unfriendly. It's evaluating.
"Hello, aunt. Hello, uncle." I put down the cooler. “I made some dishes to bring.”
"Cook?" Her father was immediately interested. “I heard Mong Mong say you cook very well?”
“It's okay.”
“He's especially delicious.” Kieu Mong was next to complement.
“It's 'the rice he cooks' is delicious.” I corrected it.
Finally her mother spoke up.
“It's you, cooking for my daughter every day?”
"Yes."
“How long has it been cooking?”
“Eight months.”
"Why?"
The answer to this question has changed from “because she is poor” to another version.
“Because she wants to eat.” I said.
Five very simple words. Her mother looked at me for two seconds. Then shine My eyes fell on the thermos box.
“Open it and see.”
I squatted down and opened each layer of the thermos box one by one. Eight dishes are presented. Still radiating heat. The layer of sugar on the sweet and sour tenderloin is shiny. Coca chicken wings are dark and oily. Onion strings on fresh green steamed sea bass. The stewed ribs are so soft that the moment the chopsticks touch them, they fall off the bone. Finally take out the caramel pudding. Six cups. The pudding in the transparent glass cup shook slightly. The aroma of food immediately spread throughout the living room. Her father stopped to look, took a breath.
“This form is truly professional level.”
Her mother said nothing. But my eyes stayed on the dishes for a long time.
“Serve it on the table.” She finally said.
Lunch. Four people in a family sit around the dining table. I sat next to Kieu Mong. Opposite are her parents. Her mother picked it up first. Pick up a piece of sweet and sour tenderloin. Put it in your mouth. Chew. Her expression didn't change much. But stop a little bit. Then pick up another piece. Her father was more direct. As soon as I ate a chicken wing, my eyebrows raised.
“You are Ky Hoan, right?”
"Yes."
“How did you learn this skill?”
"My mother taught me. From the age of fifteen or sixteen, I started cooking for myself."
“Ten years already?”
“Almost.”
“What do you say?” He nodded. Eat three chicken wings at once.
Her mother still doesn't show too much emotion. But I noticed—her chopsticks never stopped. From tenderloin to ribs, from vermicelli shrimp to chestnut chicken. Taste every dish. Some dishes are picked a second time. Eat half a meal. Her mother put down her chopsticks and looked at me.
“Tieu Ky.”
“Here I am.”
“My daughter's card has not been used for eight months.”
“I know.”
“Do you know what the limit of that card is?”
"Don't know."
“No limit.”
"Yes."