Agent Yi Leng

Chapter 20: Parent-Child Gala

In the Hotel Kitchen Huang Pihuo was brimming with confidence and full of spirit as he took the cigarette offered by his apprentice, launching into an animated discussion about China’s Eight Culinary Traditions. It was an essential foundational lesson for anyone learning the craft, much like his own elective cooking class at the International Relations Academy during his younger years.

"Do you know what the Eight Great Chinese Cuisines are?"

"Sichuan cuisine, Cantonese cuisine, Beijing cuisine, Shanghai cuisine, Hong Kong cuisine, hotpot, barbecue, and mala tang," Zhang Cong said casually without missing a beat, as though the terrifying memory of being trapped in a freezer had completely vanished from his mind.

Huang Pihuo laughed and said, "I really like the way you can spout nonsense so seriously. You’ve got talent, kid."

Unexpectedly, those words made Zhang Cong blush. His master’s teasing seemed like a joke, but for Zhang Cong, they weren’t. He had never received even a word of praise from anyone throughout his life—neither his parents nor teachers. He had grown up in a cycle of criticism, harsh reprimands, shame, and insults. To adults, he was seen as an unteachable failure, a criminal’s son, a subpar student, and a gamer addicted to online games. Over time, this caused him to give up on himself, to stop trying to be a "good child."

It was this disillusioned and cynical attitude that drove Zhang Cong to spend so much time in internet cafes and take risks, such as risking everything for an iPhone. After all, life wasn’t worth much to him anymore.

Now that someone was complimenting him as having "talent," Zhang Cong found himself unprepared for such praise and didn’t know how to respond.

Huang Pihuo noticed his apprentice’s reaction and continued, "The Eight Great Cuisines are Shandong cuisine, Sichuan cuisine, Cantonese cuisine, Fujian cuisine, Hunan cuisine, Zhejiang cuisine, Jiangsu cuisine, and Anhui cuisine. But you’re not entirely wrong either. There is Beijing cuisine, Shanghai cuisine, and Hong Kong cuisine, though hotpot and barbecue fall outside the traditional Eight Great Cuisines. The idea of these eight regional cuisines only emerged much later in history. The connection between humans and food, on the other hand, dates back hundreds of thousands of years. From primitive humans eating raw flesh to cooking with fire, it was more important to learn food preparation than dividing it into specific culinary schools. You’ve got potential, having survived fire and ice. Surviving fire and a freezer means your life has a purpose. You’ve got a future in this profession, kid."

Zhang Cong was touched by his master’s sincerity. Though part of what was said might have been a light-hearted joke, there was a clear truth beneath. Zhang Cong swore, "Master, I’ll become the best chef! Starting now, this is my dream!"

Huang Pihuo smiled, saying, "Having a dream is a good thing, but simply having dreams isn’t enough. You need passion for your dreams to make them come true. Why do you want to become a chef?"

Zhang Cong hesitated, unsure how to respond. His master, understanding his thoughts, said, "Speak from your heart. Honestly, you won’t be scolded for that. I’m not your school teacher or your father. Think of me as your buddy."

This was a new kind of teaching for Zhang Cong. His entire life had revolved around being taught strict, predetermined answers: Learning was for building the nation, and any deviation from this reasoning was met with scolding. Speaking the truth was punishable.

Today, however, Zhang Cong admitted his reality. He stammered, "I’ll need to eat in the future. I’ll need a stable job that can support me."

His master laughed and said, "That’s not a dream; that’s a choice made out of necessity. But you’re lucky to have me as your teacher. Being a chef is one of the oldest professions in human history—a very respectable profession. Do you know how ancient humans made hotpot?"

Zhang Cong thought for a moment and said, "Did they use a hot spring for hotpot? The kind with bubbling water and meat dropped in until it cooked in seconds?"

His master replied, "You’re clever. People living near hot springs could do that, but most people would dig large pits in the ground instead. They’d line the pits with animal skins to prevent water from seeping out, fill the pits with water, and light a fire. They would heat hundreds of goose eggs until they were boiling, then toss food into the pit to cook it. Once the water cooled, they’d add more red-hot stones."

Zhang Cong shrugged, "That’s silly. You could just roast the food directly over a fire, hang it up to cook, or place it on heated stones. It would cook just fine without needing to dig a pit."

His master laughed, "You’re quick on the uptake. Ancient humans did exactly that. Even today, in Iran, people use heated goose eggs to make flatbreads—a technique that dates back to prehistoric times."

Zhang Cong began to feel proud. Rarely had he received this kind of praise before, and his confidence grew. "I’m not stupid. If I had a teacher like you growing up, I would have gotten into Peking University long ago. I really enjoy listening to you talk about all these things, Master."

His master continued, "Humans transitioned from using fire pits for boiling food to using clay pots. In ancient civilizations, noble families used bronze cauldrons to cook. That’s where the idiom ‘zhong ming ding shi’ (literally 'the ringing of bells and cauldrons') came from, symbolizing the lives of nobles. Eventually, iron pots became common, and during the Southern and Northern Dynasties period, stir-frying became a common practice. During the Song Dynasty, food culture became even more refined. Food became a symbol of sophistication and attention to detail—chefs specialized in specific roles, with entire households having workers whose sole task was to peel onions for decades."

Zhang Cong interrupted, "Isn’t that Yu Qian’s father?"

Yin Bingsong was currently at a rural guesthouse, avoiding certain troubles. By all logic, his safety should have come first, and he should not have shown his face. But, due to his love for his daughter, he only hesitated for a few seconds before agreeing to her request.

"Don’t worry, Dad will give you face," he promised.

Back in Apartment 17, Shipyard New Village, Yi Nuan-Nuan was also preparing for the gathering performance. Initially, she didn’t want to participate in such a lively event, but after Ms. Ali's arrival, she slowly started to bond with her classmates and became willing to contribute to group activities. Uncle Huang was right—she was excellent in vocal music and drawing. But what about the parent-child performance?

Her grandfather wouldn’t come, but her grandmother could dance folk dances. However, those dances wouldn’t really "shine" on stage. After much thought, she considered her aunt. Her aunt was young, pretty, energetic, and could sing well.

Coincidentally, her grandmother was on the phone with her aunt, asking if she would return home for the New Year's holiday. Her aunt said she had just finished her interview with a new company and would only begin work after the New Year. She could indeed come home for the holidays. Yi Nuan-Nuan explained the parent-child gathering to her aunt, and she immediately agreed to participate.

Nuan-Nuan suppressed the urge to tell her aunt a secret—that her father was alive and was a secret agent. The "real-life True Lies" in their family was a fantasy no normal child could resist, let alone someone like her, who had endured the pain of losing parents. On sleepless nights, Nuan-Nuan had created countless fairy tales in her mind. She kept a diary full of drawings and stories about her parents and herself. Before Uncle Huang appeared in her life, it was this diary and a family photo that had kept her alive.

Yi Leng was the last to join. When Yi Nuan-Nuan was little, he had missed many parent meetings. This time, he didn’t want to leave any regrets. Ms. Ali asked him to assist with the dining arrangements, so he naturally stepped in without hesitation.

The days passed quickly, and soon it was the final weekend of the year—the last day of the year. Both schools and workplaces had no motivation for learning or work anymore. Schools were preparing parent-child gatherings, and workplaces were hosting similar events. The morning classes ended early, and students were dismissed to gather supplies in preparation for the afternoon event at 3 PM.

This was the time for parents to show off their creativity. Mothers were busy dressing and putting on makeup at home, while fathers drove their cars, transporting supplies. Making dumplings would require electric stoves, boiled water, meat fillings, and pre-made dumpling skins. These were minor inconveniences compared to the real spectacle—the performances in the school auditorium.

Mei Xin’s father, Mei Yuliang, was the deputy director of the company’s Administrative Propaganda Department. Using his resources, he arranged for a set of large display screens and sound equipment to be provided to the school. His daughter would be the center of attention at the event.

The most impressive effort, however, came from Feng Xiaoxiao's family. His father, Ma Xiaowei, arranged a truck, recruited eight workers, and brought in a Steinway grand piano.

The students from Class 2-5 leaned against the corridor railing, watching the workers unload the piano. One of them remarked: "Class monitor, is your dad going to perform a piano solo?"

Feng Xiaoxiao had never heard his father play the piano. Nor did he know if his father played any musical instrument. Nevertheless, assuming his father was a Tsinghua University graduate, he felt confident that piano playing wouldn’t be difficult for him. He said casually: "My dad's piano skills are average. He’s just the 'Piano Prince' of Tsinghua."

He enjoyed using this modest tone while saying the most impressive things. His classmates were amazed and envious.

Ma Xiaowei oversaw the workers as they unloaded the piano. The Steinway grand piano was expensive and delicate, requiring careful handling. He wiped the sweat from his brow as he removed his Chesterfield cashmere coat, revealing his formal evening attire—a red and blue striped bow tie and satin jacket—his performance outfit for showing off in front of Ms. Ali.

However, Ma Xiaowei didn’t know how to play the piano. He came from a working-class background, had no musical talent, and could only recite poetry well.

A Wuling minivan arrived with stoves and food supplies for Class 2-5. Yi Leng stepped out, smoke in his hair, wearing a dirty cotton jacket and black leather pants with white socks. He looked at the Steinway piano and paused, turning his prayer beads absentmindedly.

"Wow, a Steinway A188. Who would spend that much money?" he muttered.

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