Chapter 152: The Reason a Man Strives, a Man's Growth
Twice Cooked Pork.
In the realm of Sichuan cuisine, this dish holds a position that is as unpretentious as it is legendary. It does not require the elaborate rituals of French fine dining, nor does it demand the intricate etiquette of a traditional Kaiseki meal. It is a dish born of the hearth, a dish of the people.
It isn't complicated. In fact, it commands a simple, primal instruction: Just eat.
Do not overthink the layers of flavor. Do not try to dissect the spices with a critical mind. Just surrender to the sensation. Whether it is an explosion of savory richness or a comforting warmth that spreads through your chest, that is exactly how it is supposed to be.
Unlike the aggressive, tongue-numbing assault of the Mapo Tofu or the explosive heat of the Spicy Chicken they had just sampled, the Twice Cooked Pork before the Hori family sang a different melody. It wasn't about the numbing ma or the scorching la.
Everything about this dish was concentrated into a single, evocative word: Fragrance.
It was the fragrance of the wok hei, the breath of the fire that had seared the meat; the savory aroma of the fermented broad bean paste; and the fresh, verdant scent of the garlic sprouts that cut through the richness.
No matter which element touched your tongue first, it was a surprise wrapped in oil and heat.
Kyosuke picked up a slice of the pork with his chopsticks. The meat was sliced to a perfect thickness—neither too thin to lose its texture nor too thick to be chewy. Under the warm, ambient light of the restaurant, the slice of pork seemed to tremble slightly, the translucent fat glistening like amber, exuding a warmth that seemed to waft directly into his soul.
The red sheen of the chili oil coated the meat, making it quiver gently as he lifted it. He placed it atop a mound of steaming, fragrant white rice. The contrast was visually arresting—the vibrant, oily red of the pork against the pristine, fluffy white of the grains. This pairing was not just a choice; it was an inevitability.
He took a bite.
Rich but not greasy.
That was the first sensation. The fat rendered out during the "twice-cooking" process had left the meat tender and succulent, dissolving on the tongue without leaving that heavy, coating sensation of inferior pork dishes.
Savory and salty, spicy but not numbing.
The fermented bean paste provided a deep, earthy saltiness that anchored the dish, while the chili offered a gentle heat that warmed rather than burned. And at the very end, a subtle, lingering sweetness—the tianmianjiang (sweet bean sauce)—rounded off the profile, making the next bite mandatory rather than optional.
One bite, and the mouth was filled with an overwhelming, satisfying fragrance.
While spiciness is often touted as the ultimate appetite stimulant, this aromatic savoriness was the true champion when it came to pairing with rice.
"Hah..." Kyosuke let out a breath, his eyes widening as he chewed.
When you eat this bright red, intensely fragrant Twice Cooked Pork, the only danger is biting your own tongue in your haste to swallow it.
For a dish to be considered truly "good," it doesn't need rare ingredients or avant-garde techniques. If it can whet a person's appetite, make them forget their troubles for a moment, and leave them feeling utterly satisfied and full, then it is a masterpiece.
Humans are visual creatures. This truth applies as much to food as it does to romance.
When you see a dish with such a beautiful, glistening color, an attractive presentation where the green garlic sprouts contrast with the red meat, and a tempting aroma that grabs you by the nose, there is no denying the impulse. A normal person would choose to taste it first, logic be damned.
Both the Twice Cooked Pork and the Spicy Chicken shared this trait: first, they seduced you with their aroma, piquing a hunger you didn't know you had. Then, they enslaved your palate with their texture—the springy skin of the chicken, the melting fat of the pork—and their complex flavor profiles.
This was the power of popular Sichuan Cuisine. It was a well-deserved reputation. It was delicious food that made you sweat, made your heart race, and yet, kept your hand firmly gripping your rice bowl, refusing to let go as you stimulated your already excited taste buds with every successive bite.
At this moment, the Hori family—Kyoko, Yuriko, and even little Souta—were completely entranced.
Beads of sweat had formed on their foreheads, glistening in the soft light. Their faces were flushed a healthy, vibrant red, a testament to the heat of the chilies and the warmth of the food. They were panting slightly, their lips slightly swollen and crimson, but their chopsticks did not stop.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The rhythm of chopsticks hitting bowls was the only sound for a long while.
The specks of red chili oil clinging to the white rice were not a blemish; they were a badge of honor. If there was a color that truly belonged on white rice, aside from the stark black of sesame seeds or the dark savoriness of soy sauce, it was most certainly this enticing, fiery red.
Whether it was from the accumulation of heat in their bodies or the unbearable yet addictive spice, the breaking point finally came.
Almost in unison, they reached for their glasses.
Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.
Iced water, cold tea, or perhaps a soft drink—it didn't matter. They downed the cold liquids, feeling the chill extinguish the fire in their throats, a sensation of pure, contrasting ecstasy.
There was no need to worry about appearances here. Hori Kyoko didn't care about looking ladylike; Yuriko didn't worry about her elegance; Kyosuke certainly didn't care about his dignity. After all, it wasn't strangers sitting around them. It was family.
Just drink heartily. Eat freely. Greedily savor the deliciousness before them without reservation.
Only those who have truly tasted this combination of fragrance and spice can understand its magic. It is a flavor so tempting that even when your tongue is throbbing and almost numb, your brain screams for another bite. It is a deliciousness that makes your lips tingle, yet you open them wide to welcome more.
Ren, observing from the side with a faint smile, understood the trajectory of such a meal perfectly. Before they had even realized they needed them, he had quietly placed a pack of soft tissues on the table.
It proved to be a strategic masterstroke.
Whether it was for wiping away the spicy-induced sniffles, dabbing the sweat from their foreheads, or cleaning the oily sheen from the corners of their mouths, the tissues were essential.
Normally, a family dinner should be lively. It should be filled with questions about school, discussions about work, and the hum of conversation. But tonight, the food commanded silence.
If you can't stop eating, what is there to talk about? Words seemed superfluous when the flavor spoke so loudly.
Just eat. The atmosphere—the shared sweating, the synchronized reaching for water, the collective sighs of satisfaction—communicated everything that needed to be said.
"Phew! That's refreshing!"
Kyosuke slammed his beer mug down onto the table, a look of pure bliss on his face. He must have bitten into a hidden cluster of Sichuan peppercorns and chili peppers. Even though the dish wasn't designed to be intensely spicy, the concentrated burst of numbing ma was still a shock to the system.
He grabbed the beer Ren had provided and gulped it down. The carbonation fizzed against his throat, scrubbing away the oil and cooling the heat.
Haaah...
His tongue cooled down. His internal temperature dropped.
Only now, with the fire momentarily subdued, could he probably manage a proper conversation.
Hori Kyosuke looked around the table. He saw his daughter, Kyoko, dabbing her nose with a tissue, her eyes watering but sparkling with delight. He saw his wife, Yuriko, whose cheeks were flushed pink, looking years younger in the warm light. He smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile.
Whether Souta was finally full or simply overwhelmed by the spice, the young boy was the first to break the cycle of meat and rice. His gaze drifted to the side, landing on the large, verdant object sitting quietly at the center of the table.
"Wow! Onee-chan! Mom! Dad! This winter melon soup is so delicious!" Souta exclaimed, his voice cutting through the heavy, spicy air.
Hearing this, the three adults finally turned their attention to the third dish.
It was a Winter Melon Soup, but the presentation was striking. Ren had used the hollowed-out winter melon itself as the soup bowl, carving the edges decoratively. The steam rising from it carried a completely different scent—clean, vegetal, and pure.
Souta's enthusiastic endorsement piqued their interest. One by one, they picked up their ceramic spoons and scooped up the broth.
After the heavy bombardment of spicy oil and rich savory meat, the body naturally craved balance. Something light was always the perfect counterpoint.
Compared to the Spicy Chicken with its mountain of red chilies, or the Twice Cooked Pork with its glistening oil, this soup had far less visual impact. It looked almost too plain. It promised no stimulation, no excitement.
Subconsciously, after eating the first two heavy-hitters, one might assume the flavor of this soup would be weak, washed out, perhaps even bland.
They brought the spoons to their lips, expecting nothing more than hot water to rinse their palates.
Sip.
But with that one sip, they mentally apologized for their prejudice. They realized how incredibly wrong they were.
Winter Melon Soup.
At first glance, it looks like an ordinary vegetable soup served in a fancy melon bowl. There is nothing particularly enticing about the clear liquid. But, much like a perfectly executed Chawanmushi, when you break the surface, you get a feeling of having discovered hidden treasure.
This was a perfect vegetarian dish, a masterpiece that even a strict vegetarian would weep over, yet it possessed a depth that meat-eaters craved.
It was like a treasure chest. Like mixed rice or a deluxe rice bowl, the soup was a gathering place for various ingredients. This characteristic—inclusiveness—is the magic of soup, and specifically, the magic of this Winter Melon Soup.
It embraces all ingredients. It harmonizes all flavors. It unifies all textures.
During the slow simmering process, the winter melon flesh, scraped from the sides of the "bowl," had melted into the broth, exuding a pleasant, subtle sweetness. Because Ren had likely given the melon a cold bath or blanched it precisely midway through cooking, the melon cubes themselves retained a slight firmness. They resisted the teeth for a fraction of a second before succumbing, melting away with a gentle press of the tongue.
Rich ingredients. Fresh, savory taste.
These were the only descriptions suitable for this soup.
Inside the clear broth, they found treasures: versatile shiitake mushrooms that had soaked up the essence of the liquid; crisp bamboo shoots that provided a refreshing crunch; powdery, sweet yam that crumbled softly; and soft, delicious lotus seeds that added a nutty undertone.
To describe it as exquisitely delicious was an understatement.
As mentioned, it looked like a simple vegetable soup. And the feeling was correct—it was simple.
The soup base likely needed only a pinch of MSG or natural umami boosters, a little fine salt, a clear vegetable stock, and perhaps a drop of cooked soybean oil for richness. That was it. It was that simple.
But it is precisely this simplicity that brings out an exceptionally delicious flavor. When you don't mask ingredients with heavy spices, the ingredients themselves must sing.
The most magical thing about eating this Winter Melon Soup was the ambiguity. You couldn't tell if the ingredients were making the soup fresh, or if the soup was making the ingredients smooth.
It was unclear, a blur of flavor and texture, but that wasn't important. For the diner, the technicalities didn't matter. It was all about the enjoyment.
When eating spicy or greasy food, you usually don't get tired of it immediately. You keep eating because the Twice Cooked Pork is fragrant and not greasy, or because the Spicy Chicken is spicy, savory, and sweet.
But there comes a limit. A point of saturation where the tongue says, "Enough oil. Enough fire."
That is when you take a sip of Winter Melon Soup.
You understand then that spicy is always spicy, and oil is always oil. They are taxing on the body.
The fresh, refreshing Winter Melon Soup is the ultimate antidote. It is the healer.
One bowl extinguishes the fire raging in your stomach. It cools the heat in your blood. Your taste buds, previously screaming from the stimulation, calm down, reset, and relax.
When you've eaten heavily oiled and spicy food, try a serving of Winter Melon Soup. That refreshing taste will never disappoint you.
One sip, and it feels like drinking a bowl of cool herbal tea on a scorching hot summer day. It is salvation in liquid form.
Yuriko and Kyoko drank the soup, their faces relaxing into expressions of pure, unadulterated comfort. The tension from the spice evaporated. Surprised smiles bloomed on their faces as they began to chat calmly about everyday things—school gossip, neighborhood news. Souta occasionally chimed in to show off a bit, seeking praise.
It was a harmonious scene. A picture-perfect moment of domestic bliss.
Hori Kyosuke watched quietly from the side, his beer halfway to his mouth.
He looked at his wife, laughing softly at something their daughter said. He looked at his son, slurping the soup with gusto. He looked at his daughter, relaxed and happy.
This... this was probably the best scene every man strives and works hard to see.
A man grows up three times in his life.
The first is when he becomes a man—learning to stand on his own two feet.
The second is when he becomes a husband—learning to share his life and support another.
The third is when he becomes a father—learning to protect and nurture a life he helped create.
This growth is called responsibility.
It is a heavy word, often associated with burden and sacrifice. But looking at his family in such harmony, eating a meal that brought them joy, Kyosuke felt the weight of that word transform into something warm and grounding.
This is what every man, every person, most wants to see at the end of a long day, at the end of a long struggle.
Dinner should be this lively. The family should be together.
Kyosuke felt a lump in his throat that had nothing to do with the spicy chicken. He set his glass down gently.
"Kyosuke!"
"Husband!"
"Dad!"
Three voices called out to him simultaneously, breaking his reverie. They were looking at him, waiting for him to rejoin the moment, to be part of the circle rather than just an observer.
Kyosuke blinked, the moisture in his eyes masked by the steam of the soup. He smiled, a wide, slightly goofy grin that matched his daughter's.
"Hmm! I'm here!" he replied, picking up his chopsticks again.
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