James Brooks squatted down sullenly, looking at a basin of small fish about an inch long—most likely caught by one of Dad’s drinking buddies. He fumbled around on himself, unhooked a curved little knife from his keychain—a homemade knife, one finger wide and over three inches long, the blade sharpened from a steel saw blade. Three strokes to scale, one stroke to gut, his technique was incredibly deft. He’d loved doing these kitchen chores since he was a kid, and before long, the pile of small fish in the big basin grew higher and higher.

  “Hey, son, this little knife you made works great!” Dad glanced back casually and praised him.

  “Dad, you know your stuff. I’ll make you one tomorrow. I invented it myself—a fish gutting knife, see?” James Brooks grinned, spinning the knife in his hand as he explained, “One side is a blade, the other is serrated. One stroke to gut the fish, three strokes to scale it. Watch…”

  James Brooks demonstrated with a bit of swagger. Dad was amused too, rubbing his son’s head and laughing, “My son is really smart! Heh, I’ve been a cook for so many years and never thought of this trick.”

  James Brooks chuckled awkwardly and lowered his head to keep busy. He was thinking about the exam, glancing at Dad, who didn’t mention it, but his heart was pounding guiltily like a thief. Every time he did badly on a test or made a mistake, he’d work extra hard here—partly to ease his guilt, partly so that if Mom saw, it might shut her up. No matter how mischievous or wild he was outside, at home he was always the good boy!

  Dad dipped a small spoon into the soup pot to taste, and asked casually, “Xiaofan, did you run into your mom?”

  “Oh, I did.”

  “Is she coming home for lunch?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Oh.”

  Just a few words—Dad seemed to be asking offhandedly, his attention always on those pots. James Brooks had heard Dad ramble many times: the dishes were just the surface. No matter what you cooked, as long as you added these soups, boiled them over high heat, the flavors would come together and you’d have a table full of delicious food.

  Stirring the food, James Brooks secretly watched his father. His tall frame was already a bit stooped, the wrinkles deeper than a few years ago, a classic square face—if you looked closely, he really did have a bit of a tough guy look! All along, James Brooks had felt ashamed of his own delicate features—he looked too much like his mom, and lacked Dad’s imposing presence! But emotionally, he was closer to Dad. Every time Mom disciplined him with a feather duster or broom, Dad would always speak up for him, even shielding him protectively behind his back! As a kid, he didn’t think much of it, but after graduating college—after the family spent over a hundred thousand yuan for him to get a third-tier degree, and he himself didn’t even know what he’d learned—he graduated only to be unemployed. James Brooks always felt a lingering guilt toward his family, as if he owed them a huge debt.

  After doing so badly on today’s exam, watching his busy father, James Brooks felt awkward and cautiously asked, “Dad, why aren’t you asking how I did on the test?”

  “You, kid, you’re just not cut out for it. If you’d done well, you would’ve told me as soon as you walked in.”

  Dad was unmoved, but from his words, it was clear—he didn’t even need to ask to know the result wasn’t good.

  “Then if you know I’m no good at it, why’d you let me take the test?” James Brooks pouted, sulking.

  “I didn’t let you go—your mom did.”

  “Dad, then I’ll just help you run the restaurant. Anyway, I’m not going to find a job anytime soon.”

  “I don’t mind. Ask your mom.”

  “Dad, can’t you be the head of the house for once? Why do you always have to ask Mom?”

  “Apart from cooking, your mom’s in charge of everything else at home!”

  “Hey… come on! Dad, you’re even less assertive than me.” James Brooks burst out laughing. Dad never hid his low status at home—even the householder’s name was Evelyn Brooks. With Mom being so domineering, James Brooks actually felt Dad had spoiled her into it.

  “What are you saying? Sounds like you’re itching for a beating.” Dad flicked his hand, tossing a rag over. James Brooks caught it without even looking up. The father and son had a deep understanding. Smiling, Dad said affectionately, “Don’t blame your mom. She means well—she just doesn’t want you to end up like me, spending your whole life around the stove with nothing to show for it. If you really wanted to be a chef, why would we have spent over a hundred thousand for you to go to college? …This set of skills of mine isn’t anything special—you’ve almost learned it all.”

  “Dad, I could do your tricks when I was ten.”

  “Wrong. You know how to pick ingredients, prep, and use a knife, but not everyone can make a good pot of soup. You’re just as impatient as your mom—always quick to lose your temper. You’re still a bit too green for this line of work.”

  “My mom’s just got an occupational disease. I’m nothing like her.”

  The father and son chatted idly, Dad always calm and unruffled, James Brooks always grinning and joking. Their conversations were always easygoing.

  As they talked, noon approached and customers started arriving one after another. The two waiters bustled back and forth, busy as bees. Dad rolled up his sleeves, calmly listening to the orders relayed by the waiters or the cousin at the bar, wielding the big ladle with practiced ease—adding ingredients, scooping dishes, draining oil, seasoning—putting each dish into the double-handled pot and onto the high flame: clear soup hotchpotch, pork stewed with cabbage, claypot rabbit, claypot chicken, winter melon with ribs and beans and fish, potato noodles with pancakes… The father and son worked together, adding soup to each pot, sending dish after dish out to the restaurant tables like a flowing stream!