Night 20: Hoshiguma, Stir-Fried Rice Noodle with Cystbeast Meat (Beef) with Red Bean Paste Bread
The Late Night Diner is a part of Rhodes Island's canteen. That goes without saying – to whom had anyone ever heard of a diner in the boiler room?
As the name implies, it opens around midnight. There are only a handful of customers at a time.
Operators off their night shift could take an order and bring back to their quarters. Night owls could sit dining-in while leeching off the Diner's wi-fi. The Doctor would come for instant noodles from time to time.
Drinks are in the cooler. Anyone burdened by their own thoughts could take one and chug it down, anytime.
Menu? No such thing exists. What the Chef prepares is what you get. It all depends on his mood of the day.
Welcome to the Rhodes Island Late Night Diner. In here, you might even meet a familiar face or two.
"Hoshi-sir, getting off work a bit later than usual." The Chef said, greeting his customer in awkward Lungmenese, "Coming for a late night meal?"
"Yeah, just done my shift and I'm starving. Boss, got stir-fried rice noodles with meat?" Speaking in fluent Lungmenese, the towering Oni operator sat down in front of the counter. Even sitting down, her imposing figure was still plenty taller than the counter itself. She casually took a bottle of beer of her favourite brand from the cooler, and pried off the cap with a chopstick. She chugged down a large gulp.
"I only know that you wanted rice noodles." The Chef chuckled and produced a small plate of ready-boiled rice noodles. "I swear, sometimes Lungmenese is harder to understand than Sargonian tribal languages."
The wok was warmed up with high heat. The Chef poured in cold oil and put shredded ginger and slices of cystbeast meat into the wok. When the meat was half cooked, he leaned the wok forward, and swiftly sprinkled in some rice wine. Flames instantly lit up the inside of the wok, and moisture on the meat slices quickly evaporated and created a beautiful charred layer, at the same time bringing out their alluring fragrance. Chemists named it the Maillard reaction, yet the chefs of Yan called it "Spirit of the Wok". Bean sprouts, onion and scallions were then cooked using the same method, stir-fried till half done then placed aside for later use.
The Chef leaned the wok and turned up the heat once again. This time the rice noodles were put into the wok. They were left to fry for a few seconds. When the slightly burnt smell of fried rice noodles came out and the noodles had took on a sheen of gold, the Chef broke the noodle clump apart. Instead of the usual, familiar ladle he had used thousands of times before, the Chef chose a pair of long chopsticks to stir the noodles. Then he added in meat slices, chopped fresh yellow garlic chive shoots, and the rest of the half-done vegetables. Finally he poured in the sauce mix. After only a few rounds of stir-frying he plated the dish. Everything was done within two minutes.
Swiftly done with extravagant style – that was the tenet for cooking Lungmen-style stir-fried rice noodles. Yet above all else, the only golden standard for the taste of the dish was the "Spirit of the Wok".
"Smells really good," Hoshiguma said, taking a pair of chopsticks and stired the plate of noodles in front her, "Looks just like the ones I had in Lungmen."
The rice noodles were coated in shiny amber-coloured sauce, yet there was not a single drop of liquid in the plate. Hoshiguma picked up a few strips with her chopsticks and sent them into her mouth. The savoury noodles were chewy and smooth, and the brown-red meat was tender just in the right way. One bite was enough to break the slice in half, and release the salty juice locked within the meat. The bean sprouts were not withered in the heat of the wok, but instead stayed firm and crunchy. She could feel the burst of moisture in her mouth with every crunch. The garlic chive shoots were also crispy to the taste, and carried with it a slight hint of spiciness. It complimented the salty and savoury taste of the meat and noodles perfectly.
Swallowing a mouthful of rice noodles, Hoshiguma raised her bottle and downed another large gulp. By the time she slammed the bottle on the table, there had been a plate of snack pastries waiting before her.
"Is this.." She said, prying one open and saw the maroon red bean paste filling inside. "...red bean paste bread?"
"Yes. It's July the seventh in Yan calendar today." the Chef wiped his hands on the apron, "Prepared some as gifts for the customers."
The Chef often used pre-packaged type when it came to red bean paste. Today was a special occasion, so he made a batch by himself from scratch. The red beans were boiled and mashed into paste and put into a wok to stir-fried with lard, while regular sugar and brown sugar were added in for the taste until the moisture had mostly gone. By then the bean paste would take on a snowy-smooth texture. Then it could be left to cool and used for pastries. The Chef spent nearly two hours just to make the bean paste. It was exhausting enough that he could barely stood upright afterwards.
The red bean paste had an unique, sweet yet refreshing taste. A small bite into it, Hoshiguma felt its smooth texture and the sweet taste spreading out at the tip of her tongue. It was not a profound, overwhelming sweetness, yet it easily reached into her heart and left an impression. Like a veil of clouds around the pale blue moon, even if it looked vague and shifting, the bright moonlight still shined through and all was basked in the light of serenity.
Higashi did not celebrate July the seventh. Hoshiguma only knew about this custom of Yan once she settled down in Lungmen. She put down the rest half of the bread in the plate, and gazed towards the night sky through the side hull window. It was said in July the seventh, fowlbeast would make a bridge for the Celestial Lovers to meet in the heavens. In the mortal realm people would put out offerings of fruits for the Lovers and prepare for needlework and sewing, in hopes for blessings of ingenuity for their young maidens. The red bean paste bread, though not tied to July the seventh, carried a similar sentiment. After all, in Yan culture the red beans were a lovelorn symbol – the shape of the heart, the colour of blood. When the beads of red falling down like tears and hit the white porcelain plate, in the clear yet heart-rending clicks would sing a tale of loneliness and longing.
It was sweet, yet for Hoshiguma it felt like a knife slicing her throat.
When she drained her sixth bottle of beer, another customer came and sat down beside her.
"Boss, a plate of rice noodle with meat please."
Hoshiguma turned towards the sound with slight tipsiness in her eyes. It was a painfully familiar face.
"Che-Ch'en?"
"Good evening, Hoshi." Chen said, patting her on the shoulder.
Dice exquisite and the red beans clicked, bone-deep lovelorn did she know.