Chapter Forty-Five: Mapo Tofu

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“Sister Kou! If you don’t come forward soon, the reputation of Sichuan cuisine will be completely ruined!” The manager of Celestial Banquet Hall was earnestly pleading with an old woman tending to her flowers. Despite her age, traces of her former beauty lingered in her features, leaving one to imagine how stunning she must have been in her youth. This was none other than the Lady Ma Po whom Zhou Qian and Zhang Fu had gone to such lengths to find, her true name Kou Jingyue.

“Old Tang, it’s not that I don’t want to help you. With our years of friendship, if it were anything else, I would step out of my courtyard once more. But this time you’ve gone too far—losing to two youngsters! How am I supposed to handle that? Do you want me to put my old face on the line and compete with them myself? The honor of Sichuan cuisine isn’t earned that way.” Ma Po shook her head dismissively and continued, “Losing face isn’t all bad. With humiliation comes the burden to bear, and from shame comes renewed courage. With true substance, regaining reputation is never a worry.”

“That’s sound reasoning, but the world won’t see it that way! Sichuan cuisine has always been one of the three great flavors of the Imperial Kitchen. If its reputation is destroyed, who will care about the truth? They’ll cast us aside like worn shoes. Once we lose our ranking, Sichuan cuisine’s standing among the eight great culinary traditions will be wiped away!” Old Tang exclaimed anxiously.

“If it’s lost, so be it. What’s there to regret?” Ma Po smiled faintly. “Food is made for others to enjoy. If people like what you make, they’ll come to you. If you can’t match others, you can’t blame them for being more skilled.”

“But…” Old Tang was about to continue when the main gate banged open and Huang San, the head chef of Fragrant Residence, strode in. His face was grim as he muttered, “Amazing, amazing—three-year-olds knocking seventy-year-olds off their feet!”

“Huang San, what brings you here today?” Ma Po asked in surprise. “Isn’t your Taibai Pavilion always bustling with business? How did you find the time?”

“Don’t bring it up!” Huang San replied with a wry smile. “I was defeated by two kids. My reputation didn’t just fall within Chengdu, it went out beyond its borders. How could I still have the face to stay at Taibai Pavilion? I came here to catch my breath.”

“You lost too?” Old Tang’s sympathy was mixed with a trace of schadenfreude. “How did it happen?”

“I competed with those two brats in eighteen dishes. The first seventeen were neck and neck. The trouble came with the last dish—Full Moon Soup. Although the soup is a Sichuan dish, its knife work and delicate sweetness are more in line with Jiangsu cuisine. The tofu crescent in the soup is meant to evoke the image of the moon reflected in water. My tofu crescent, done in Sichuan fashion, had a unique flavor, but it lost the ethereal beauty of a full moon on water. Those two are extraordinary—their sculpted tofu full moon even created a halo effect. I admit defeat without complaint!”

“For a halo to appear in Full Moon Soup, the broth must be exceptional and the tofu carving masterful. Who are these two children to be so skilled? How do they compare to those of the past…” Ma Po shook her head. “Describe to me their cooking.”

“Zhang Fu’s cooking is seasoned and full of depth—clearly the product of true tutelage and ample experience. His foundation is equal to ours, the old guard. The other, Zhou Qian, is a prodigy! When it comes to ingredients and seasoning, he’s on par with the most humble street stalls, but his knife work and creativity—no one today can match him. If it were just one of them, I wouldn’t be concerned, but together? With Zhang Fu’s technique and Zhou Qian’s cutting-edge ideas, only you and Master Yi Shan of Tranquil Fragrance House could compare.”

“Who are their teachers?” Ma Po asked with interest.

“We’ve found out. Zhang Fu is a disciple of Yi Shan, an heir to Jiangsu cuisine. As for Zhou Qian, he’s apparently just a servant at Tranquil Fragrance House. That place is truly full of hidden talents. If a mere servant has such gifts, he’ll one day rival Zhang Fu’s achievements,” Huang San sighed.

“Hmph!” For the first time, a scowl clouded Ma Po’s usually kind face. “Yi Shan is a man who shirks responsibility. What good could come from his disciples? Even if he didn’t orchestrate this, he’s certainly involved. Still so hypocritical after all these years. I saw through him long ago. If it weren’t for him, my eldest sister would never have died!”

“Then, Sister Kou, what if those two boys keep going?” Old Tang asked cautiously, unaware of the feud between “Sister Xiang” and Master Yi Shan.

“Send them a message: Stop stirring up trouble everywhere. If they truly want to see me, let them…”

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“…create the ninth flavor of Ma Po Tofu. Only then will I personally take them to see where Ma Po is in seclusion. Do you two have any questions?” Huang San relayed the message to the duo upon returning to Taibai Pavilion.

Zhang Fu and Zhou Qian exchanged bewildered glances. Was Ma Po clairvoyant?

Zhang Fu frowned. “There are only eight flavors in Ma Po Tofu—numbing, spicy, hot, fragrant, crisp, tender, fresh, and lively. What ninth flavor?”

Huang San laughed. “That’s not for me to say. Whenever you can craft that ninth flavor, I’ll take you to see Ma Po. Until then, the kitchen at Taibai Pavilion is at your disposal.”

After Huang San left, Zhang Fu grumbled, “There are only eight flavors—where’s this ninth coming from? That old woman is just making things hard for us, not wanting to meet!”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re bound to make Ma Po Tofu anyway—let’s cook a batch and study it,” Zhou Qian consoled him.

They entered the kitchen, where Zhang Fu skillfully selected ingredients, explaining as he did, “The eight flavors of Ma Po Tofu are the benchmark for a Sichuan chef. The numbing comes from Hanyuan tribute pepper, the spicy from red chili bean paste, the heat from the tofu’s texture, the crispness from stir-frying, the tenderness from frying technique, the freshness from the complementary ingredients, and the liveliness from the spring onion garnish—each is a mark of mastery!”

Satisfied with his ingredients, Zhang Fu said, “Old Huang has some heart, these are the finest materials—just a notch below Tranquil Fragrance House’s.”

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, Li Sanshan—second brother Li—was wearing a mournful expression. “Master, do we really have to wait ten years before returning to the Central Plains? My three brothers—eldest and youngest must be frantic by now. Can’t you let me go visit them first?”

The divine vessel was exquisitely crafted, adorned with carved beams and painted rafters, shrouded in a mist of purple energy that formed and dissolved into palace after palace—mysterious and otherworldly. At this moment, the vessel was flying west at incredible speed, the air around it bursting with sonic booms.

Inside, Li Sanshan was frowning and pleading with a sly-faced, green-robed old man with a thin mustache. The old man chuckled, setting aside the small turtle he’d been playing with—a creature Li Sanshan dared not underestimate, for it had turned into a hundred-foot monster only the day before.

“If you’re leaving, there’s a reason. The coming decade will see fierce strife between good and evil; no cultivator can escape this maelstrom. Your Dao is unrefined—you could be captured and have your soul refined by some evil practitioner at any moment. I’ve just passed my second tribulation and need time to recuperate. I don’t have the energy to raise another successor, so just focus on your journey. There are thousands of islands and countless small countries overseas—plenty to keep you entertained, don’t worry!”

“But my two brothers still don’t know where I am! If they find out the ship was destroyed, they’ll probably cry in secret somewhere—especially the youngest, he can’t handle blows. Master, you have to help me! Everyone knows how wise and heroic you are, unmatched in elegance…” Li’s flattery flowed unceasingly, making the sly old Daoist beam with delight.

“Good lad—insightful, talented, clever. You’re just my kind of disciple! Fine, I’ll help you one more time!” The old Daoist spat out a brilliant sword light, which shot off to the east. “With my flying sword message, you can rest easy!”

Li Sanshan breathed a sigh of relief and launched into a new round of flattery, ending with, “Master, what immortal arts will you teach me next?”

The Grandmaster of the Wilds laughed heartily. “Our lineage is the true inheritance of the ancient immortals, no less than the seven great sects or five demonic cults. There are two fundamental techniques: one called the Art of Celestial Soldiers and Generals, the other the Hundred Treasures Diagram…”

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Zhang Fu’s hands moved skillfully—boiling, frying, stir-frying, and sautéing. Soon, a plate of Ma Po Tofu, glistening with red oil and fragrant steam, was set before them. Zhou Qian took a bite and exclaimed, “So spicy, so smooth, so delicious!” But Zhang Fu wore a troubled look. “You taste it, don’t you? These eight flavors already capture the essence of this dish. Any more would be too much, any less not enough. So where is this ninth flavor supposed to come from?”

Zhang Fu looked up to see Zhou Qian eating with relish. Before long, the whole plate was wiped clean. Zhou Qian wiped his mouth and sighed, “Delicious! Truly amazing! Ma Po is quite the character!”

Catching Zhang Fu’s look of indignation, Zhou Qian shrugged helplessly. “How else can you taste all eight flavors if you don’t eat? And how can you think of the ninth flavor without first experiencing the eight?”

Zhang Fu retorted, “So have you thought of what the ninth flavor is?”

Zhou Qian shrugged again and sighed. “No.”

“Alas!” Both men sighed in unison.

In the days that followed, they ate and slept in the kitchen, wracking their brains to uncover the ninth flavor. Yet the answer eluded them. Zhou Qian compared it to sword practice: the manual contained only eight moves, yet they were being pressed to invent a ninth, driving them nearly mad.

“If there is no ninth flavor, why don’t we create one ourselves?” Zhou Qian mused one day, lying amid a field of tofu scraps.

“Create a ninth flavor?” Zhang Fu was startled. “Is that possible?”

“Why not?” Zhou Qian shot back.

“Yes! Why not?” Zhang Fu muttered to himself. “It’s possible—entirely possible!” Excitement lit up his face.

“But how do we do it?” Zhou Qian scratched his head. The two exchanged glances, each seeing only confusion in the other’s eyes.