Chapter 6 — The Sweet Taste After Criticism

At the end of the second week of the cooperation, Banh Nang received a special order - fifty boxes of mini moon cakes for an event company, delivered urgently in two days. Biggest order since the disastrous review, and also a chance to prove that the improvements over the past two weeks really work.

“We have to do it all night long,” Mai said, looking at the pile of ingredients piled up on the kitchen table, her voice both worried and excited.

“I'll stay and help,” Kien said, without hesitation, taking off his coat and hanging it on the hook, rolling up his shirt sleeves as if he had been familiar with this for a long time.

"You don't have to," Mai said, even though secretly she wished he would stay. “This is the shop's job, not your responsibility.”

“My series also needs this scene,” Kien replied, giving an excuse that sounded reasonable but his eyes avoided looking directly at her, a small sign that Mai — after two weeks of observation — had begun to recognize as an expression of rare shyness in the man who was always absolutely confident.

Linh, standing nearby and witnessing the whole thing, just raised her eyebrows at Mai with her familiar "what did I say" look, then quietly retreated home early with the excuse of "letting the two of them do their work", leaving Mai standing there not knowing whether to thank or curse her best friend's excessive observance.

That night, there were only Mai and Kien left in the small kitchen, the yellow light shining down on the trays of dough being meticulously kneaded. There was no camera, no Tung standing next to direct the camera angle, there was only light music coming from the old speaker and the sound of two people chatting in between the baking steps.

"This green bean filling recipe was passed down from my grandmother," Mai said, her hands quickly rolling each ball of filling, "my mother learned it from her, now it's my turn. It's been three generations."

“So who are you going to pass it on to?” Kien asked, his hands were also practicing rolling the kernels according to the instructions, even though the first balls looked distorted and had no shape.

"I don't know," Mai smiled, looked at his misshapen balls and burst out laughing, "maybe I have to wait for you to roll a round ball first, otherwise my family's family recipe will be considered lost because it fell into the hands of a clumsy person."

“I'm not clumsy,” Kien retorted, even though he had to laugh at the pathetic distortion of the result he had just created, “I'm just not used to it yet.”

They continued to work in a rare comfortable atmosphere, mixed with gossip about childhood and memories associated with cuisine - Mai told about the times she skipped school to help her mother sell cakes, Kien told about the days wandering around Paris just to try different types of cakes while studying abroad.

Near midnight, the first batch of moon cakes came out of the oven. Mai trembled, took one, blew it to cool it, and gave it to Kien. “Try it and give your honest opinion.”

Kien held the cake and did not rush to bite it right away as usual, but carefully observed the golden crust and clearly embossed patterns before taking a small bite. He chewed slowly, silently for so long that Mai began to get nervous, her hands clasped together, waiting for the verdict.

“Delicious,” he said, simply but firmly.

"Really?" Mai asked again, not daring to believe her ears, because this was the first time in two weeks that she heard a complete compliment, without any correction suggestions from the mouth of the strict "Vi Giac Tru".

“Really,” Kien nodded, took another bite, "the crust is soft enough, the green bean filling is not too sweet, and has a natural fatty taste, not fatty from industrial butter. This is the best recipe I have ever tasted in the traditional moon cake category."

Mai stood frozen, still holding the tray of cakes, her emotions overflowing to the point that she couldn't control it, causing the entire tray to almost slip out of her hand if Kien didn't quickly catch it in time.

“Be careful,” he said, his hand holding the cake tray, accidentally touching her hand in that moment.

"I'm sorry," Mai stammered, her face turning red, not because of the heat of the oven, "it's... because I was so surprised. This is the first time you've completely complimented me on something without criticism."

"I praise when I deserve praise," Kien replied, his voice much gentler than usual, "this recipe deserves it. You deserve it."

That last sentence, although brief, made Mai's heart beat in a completely different rhythm. She looked at him, the yellow light shining on his face, which was always serious, now exuded a gentleness that she had never seen before.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.

They stood there for a long time, no one said anything, only the sound of the oven still smoldering and the aroma of freshly baked cakes spreading throughout the small kitchen, along with something new and warm that was silently blooming between the two people who started with a stormy review.

They continued working until nearly three o'clock in the morning before completing fifty boxes of moon cakes, neatly stacked in stacks on the shelves, ready for delivery the next morning. Mai sat down on the chair, her whole body exhausted but her heart filled with a rare contentment.

“Are you hungry?” Kien asked, also sitting in the opposite chair, his face was covered with sweat but his eyes were still bright with excitement after a productive night of work.

“I'm starving,” Mai replied, laughing, “but there probably won't be any shops open at this hour.”

“Yes,” Kien said, stood up and went to the corner of the kitchen, rummaged through the bag he had brought with him since the afternoon, and took out a box of instant noodles with a few eggs. “I prepared it from the beginning, in case I worked through the night.”

Mai looked at him and couldn't help but laugh at this unexpected thoughtfulness. "You're so prepared, you probably already planned to stay and help me from the beginning."

“Maybe,” Kien replied, not denying, his hands quickly cooking noodles on the small gas stove in the corner of the kitchen, his movements were so skillful that it made Mai admire him.

"Whoever trained to be a chef in Paris is now cooking instant noodles for me at three in the morning," she teased, sitting cross-legged on the chair to watch him cook.

"Delicious food doesn't discriminate between high and low," Kien replied, his voice serious as if he was stating an important culinary philosophy, making Mai couldn't help but burst out laughing.

They sat and ate instant noodles in the middle of a messy kitchen with the lingering smell of mooncakes, chatting loudly about everything from heaven and earth, from music preferences, favorite childhood movies, to even idle fears such as fear of cockroaches or fear of heights.

“I never thought,” Mai said, sipping a spoonful of noodle soup, “that a tiring all-night work session could be so fun.”

“Me too,” Kien replied, his eyes looking at her gently in the yellow light of the small kitchen. “It's been a long time since I've had a night without thinking about work, about the pressure to maintain a strict public image. they."

Mai looked at him, her heart suddenly filled with deep respect for this rare sincerity. “Well then,” she said, smiling, “you can come here whenever you need a night like that. Sunny Cake always has a place for you.”

Kien looked at her, the corner of his mouth slightly raised into a rare full smile, nodded slightly, did not say anything more, but his eyes said all the things that neither of them were ready to say out loud that quiet night.

Nearly four o'clock in the morning, Kien stood up and prepared to leave, although it was clear that both of them were somewhat reluctant to end this warm moment. He stood at the door, looking back at Mai who was cleaning up the two bowls of noodles she had finished eating.

“Thank you for tonight,” he said, his voice somewhat hesitant.

“Thank you for staying,” Mai replied, smiling, seeing him out the door. “Without you, I would have to stay awake alone, bored to death.”

“Next time you have an urgent order,” Kien said, stopping in the doorway, “just call me.”

“Even without taking videos anymore?” Mai asked, her eyes searching, wanting to know clearly whether this request came from work responsibilities or from something else.

Kien was silent for a second, then replied, his voice firm. “Even if I don't take videos anymore.”

That answer made Mai's heart pound. She stood and watched his shadow disappear in the quiet alley at dawn. The yellow streetlight stretched his shadow far away, until it completely disappeared around the corner at the beginning of the alley.

She closed the shop, leaned her back against the wooden door, let out a long sigh but the corner of her mouth involuntarily raised a smile, clearly feeling that something important had silently changed in her heart after a night of working seemingly purely for work. She looked around the kitchen that had just been tidied up, the smell of mooncakes still lingering in the air, then softly sang an aimless tune while climbing upstairs to sleep, her heart as light as if she had never experienced a tiring sleepless night.