He suddenly remembered that before his daughter fell into the river, she had once cautiously asked, "Dad, can I learn how to chop vegetables?" He was busy at the time and casually replied, "What does a girl need to learn that for? Marrying into a good family in the future is enough."
His daughter lowered her head then and said nothing more.
Su Dashan’s heart softened, but his words remained firm: "We’ll talk about it after you’ve fully recovered."
Just then, a customer’s voice came from the front hall: "Boss Su, the bill!"
Su Dashan responded, lifted the curtain, and went out. Zhou Yunniang pulled her daughter aside and whispered, "Nian He, your father is worried about you. You’ve just been given a second chance at life—focus on recovering properly. The kitchen work is for your parents."
Su Nianhe said nothing, only looked at the pot of porridge.
In her past life, one of her signature dishes was "Boiled Cabbage"—using the simplest ingredients to create the most complex flavors. And in this life, perhaps her first dish should be a bowl of porridge.
A bowl of porridge that would let her parents see and acknowledge her abilities.
A bowl of porridge that could bring change to this small, struggling eatery.
Outside the window, the Linshui River flowed quietly. The distant calls of boatmen could be faintly heard, along with the sound of women beating laundry by the riverbank and children’s laughter.
This was an entirely unfamiliar era, an entirely unfamiliar place.
But standing in this small, grease-scented back kitchen, Su Mo suddenly felt that perhaps everything wasn’t so bad after all.
"Mom," Su Mo said softly, "first thing tomorrow, I’ll go buy a fresh fish."
"What do you need a fish for?"
"To make porridge. I want fish slice porridge."
"If you want fish slice porridge, I’ll have your dad make it for you tomorrow."
Zhou Yunniang wanted to say more, but seeing the calm determination in her daughter’s eyes, she only sighed in the end. "Fine… alright, I’ll go with you."
In the front hall, Su Dashan saw off the customer and looked at the half-finished plate of vegetables left on the table, recalling his daughter’s earlier words.
"Too much oil…"
He picked up a bite with his chopsticks and tasted it. Indeed, it was oily, the vegetables were overcooked, and the saltiness was heavy. After eating it for so many years, he hadn’t even noticed. No, it wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed—he’d simply thought it was supposed to be that way.
But how would his daughter… know?
He turned to look toward the back kitchen. The cloth curtain hung down, blocking the view inside, but he could hear his wife and daughter speaking softly.
Su Dashan rubbed the iron ladle he had used for twenty years, suddenly feeling a vague premonition.
In the back kitchen, Su Nianhe was looking at the knives hanging on the wall, silently planning in her mind.
Tomorrow, first buy the fish. The rice should be short-grain japonica. Ginger should be old ginger, and scallions should be small fragrant ones. Without modern tools, she would use the most primitive methods.
She would make this bowl of fish slice porridge her first cry in this world.
At this time, fish was cheap, and since the eatery was close to the river, steamed fish and braised fish were signature dishes, along with braised pork and stir-fried seasonal vegetables.
It was mealtime, and a familiar regular customer entered the shop, ordering braised fish and a plate of stir-fried greens.
Her father, Su Dashan, was already busy in the back kitchen.
Su Mo didn’t make a sound, only quietly moved to the side of the cloth curtain separating the back kitchen and lifted a corner. From this angle, she could see most of her father’s back and a corner of the stove. The sea bass on the cutting board was still faintly moving its gills. Su Dashan gripped the kitchen knife, and with a "thud," the back of the blade struck the fish’s head, and it went still. He worked quickly—scaling, removing the gills, gutting—all in one smooth motion. Yet, Su Mo watched with a slight frown.
He only gave the black membrane inside the fish belly a cursory scrape, leaving some residue behind. The "throat bone" near the gills—the most pungent part—was not removed. The "fishy lines" along both sides of the fish were completely untouched. After a quick rinse under running water, he considered it clean, placed it in an earthenware bowl, and sprinkled it with coarse salt and ginger slices to marinate. Next, he began preparing the vegetables—a bunch of fresh, tender bok choy. He only removed the obviously wilted yellow leaves, then dunked the roots, still caked with mud, into water. When he pulled them out, tiny grains of sand were still visible between the overlapping leaves.
Once the iron wok was heated, he scooped a spoonful of lard—homemade, solidified in a jar, white with a hint of yellow. After the oil melted, he slid the fish into the wok with a sizzle, causing oil droplets to splatter. When both sides were lightly browned, he added water until it just covered the fish. Then came the seasoning: first, a large spoonful of salt, followed by soy sauce—dark in color and heavy on saltiness—poured in nearly half a bowl. He then smashed a piece of ginger and tossed it in, sprinkled a handful of chopped scallions, and after a moment’s thought, pinched a small amount of sugar.
Throughout the process, there was no rice wine to remove the fishy taste, no vinegar to enhance freshness, and no spices like pepper. Only one type of sauce was used, making the flavor predictably simple—salty, savory, and slightly sweet, with no further complexity.
The fish simmered in the wok. Su Dashan covered it with a wooden lid and turned to chop the bok choy. There were no timers, no observation of how much the sauce had reduced, and no awareness of adjusting the stove’s heat. The firewood in the stove crackled as it burned, the flames fluctuating in intensity depending on the dryness and arrangement of the wood. After chopping the vegetables, he went to peel garlic, only lifting the lid once to gently nudge the fish with a spatula—a practiced motion, but the timing relied entirely on experience.
When it was time to turn up the heat to reduce the sauce, he was busy mincing ginger. By the time he remembered, the sauce in the wok had thickened excessively, risking scorching at the bottom. He hurriedly plated the fish, poured the sauce over it—a deep brown, slightly murky liquid.
Next came stir-frying the vegetables. With the wok piping hot, he tossed in the greens, stirring with broad, vigorous movements that carried a certain flair. Yet Su Mo noticed that while the stems were still undercooked, the leaves had already gone limp. He should have stir-fried the stems first for a moment before adding the leaves. Moreover, he kept the heat high throughout, causing the leaves to lose moisture rapidly. By the time they were plated, they had lost their vibrant green color, lying wilted in a heap on the dish.
These two dishes were the signature offerings of Su Ji Eatery, flavors patrons had tasted for twenty years.
It seemed she finally understood why the small eatery only retained its regulars.
Her father’s cooking skills were typical of "family-taught craftsmanship"—solid foundational techniques, smooth movements, and decent efficiency. Yet they lacked meticulous handling, relied on conservative seasoning, and depended on vague experience for heat control. Such dishes were edible, even better than what ordinary households could make, but that was all. They could keep nostalgic neighbors coming back but failed to attract new customers, let alone leave diners with a sense of "wow."
Su Dashan cooked with focus, even a kind of reverence. When scooping salt, he would pinch a bit with his fingers, weigh it in his palm, and only then sprinkle it in. When plating, he would position the fish head in a fixed direction and garnish the braised fish with a sprig of cilantro—even if the cilantro was slightly wilted.
Looking at it this way, it wasn’t that he wasn’t putting in effort; he simply didn’t know there were better methods.
Su Dashan carried the two dishes out just as Zhou Yunniang entered from the front.