Oliver's dorm kitchen, usually quiet and empty, was bustling like a New Year's celebration. The countertop was piled with fresh ingredients just bought from the supermarket: tomatoes, rice, cucumbers, and various seasoning bottles, etc…
"Come, come, let's watch our Masterchef perform!" Uth handed an apron to Oliver, then rubbed his hands together, his eyes darting towards the pile of potatoes and cucumbers.
"Chef, do you need help peeling potatoes? Or cutting cucumbers? That sounds pretty satisfying."
"Yes, yes, I can peel potatoes!" Gnabry also squeezed over, reaching for the peeler nearby.
Oliver quickly smiled and stopped them: "My big stars, I appreciate your good intentions! Quick, go sit in the living room, leave the kitchen to me. This… the process is quite special, your help might… make me even busier."
He pointed to the opened peanut oil, cornstarch, and various forms of chili peppers and sauces.
"Especially with my family's cooking, there are indeed some tricks to it, so I have to do it."
Amiri looked at the bag of snowy white starch and curiously grabbed a handful: "This powder… it's like snow, what's it for?"
"It's one of the secrets to making the meat crispy when it's coated and fried," Oliver explained, then unceremoniously pushed them out of the narrow kitchen area.
"Alright, guys, trust me, just wait for the aroma to waft out! I promise not to 'poison' you." He half-jokingly pushed them out to wait.
As the captain, Vogt was more composed; he nodded understandingly: "Okay, we'll listen to the chef. Today is Oliver's stage."
He led the others back to the living room, but their eyes couldn't help but glance towards the kitchen door. Oliver closed the sliding kitchen door and took a deep breath. The narrow space instantly became his personal stage. He deftly began to prepare the ingredients. Potatoes were peeled and cut into rolling chunks, green and red peppers were deseeded and broken into pieces, rice was soaked in salt water, pork belly and tenderloin were sliced and marinated with seasonings…
Everything was orderly, flowing as if he had practiced a thousand times in this culinary realm.
His gaze was focused, his movements steady and skillful—tossing the wok, shredding, coating—that composure beyond his age vaguely brought back memories of helping his mother cook when he was little.
In the air, first, a rich vinegar aroma mixed with the pungent spice of ginger and garlic exploded; that was Oliver preparing the soul sauce for Noodles.
Immediately after, thinly coated tenderloin slices slipped into the sizzling hot oil, "Sizzle~" a long sound, and the unique aroma of fat intensely embracing protein burst forth.
"Oh my god… what is that amazing smell?" Gnabry was the first to get restless, craning his neck to look into the kitchen, only to see the hot oil bubbling and the focused profile of the young man.
"Is this… is this real food?" Amiri sniffed the enticing sweet and sour aroma in the air, and his stomach uncooperatively rumbled.
Vogt tried to maintain his captain's authority, but his throat subtly swallowed. Uth had already snuck to the kitchen door, peering through the crack: "Oliver! It smells so good! Can I taste a piece? Just a tiny piece!"
"Not ready yet, Uth, what's the hurry," Oliver replied without turning his head, focusing on flipping the meat slices in the hot oil, carefully controlling the heat.
"The extra seasoning pork for the hasn't been added yet, go back and sit down!" His voice carried a smile, but also a chef's undeniable authority.
Just as the aroma filled the air and everyone was salivating, Vogt's phone rang. He picked it up, made a shushing gesture to the others: "It's the coach."
On the other end of the line, Nagelsmann's voice came through: "Vogt, regarding a few adjustments for tomorrow's training, I need to confirm with you…"
"Uh, coach, I'm… probably not very free right now…" Vogt sounded a bit embarrassed, and another "clatter" of stir-frying came from the kitchen, so he had to explain,
"I'm at Oliver's place… it's just… a few of us… um… Oliver is fulfilling his promise after scoring, personally cooking for us."
There was a two-second silence on the other end, seemingly a bit surprised by the situation: "Oliver? He can cook too?"
Nagelsmann's voice carried a hint of disbelief; he imagined his incredibly talented protégé wielding a ladle in the kitchen.
"Is Oliver really making food?"
"Yes, coach," Vogt glanced at the few heads peeking out from the kitchen door, winking and nudging each other.
"It smells absolutely fantastic. Would you like to… drop by? We can talk while we eat? Oliver's cooking is really something to look forward to." He boldly extended the invitation.
There was another pause on the other end, then Nagelsmann's voice, with a hint of amusement: "Sounds like I missed out on a wonderful goal celebration dinner. Of course, I'll be over shortly, and I'll bring some drinks for you all."
About twenty minutes later, a knock sounded at the door. Vogt opened it to find Nagelsmann standing outside, holding two bags. He curiously surveyed the small apartment, his gaze immediately drawn to the smoky aroma and the clanging of spatulas coming from the kitchen. The complex aroma in the air—vinegar, soy sauce, oil, and the fresh scent of vegetables—was thick and intoxicating.
"Coach!" Oliver heard the sound and poked his head out of the kitchen, wiping his hands. Seeing the visitor, a fleeting moment of youthful awkwardness crossed his face, quickly replaced by delight.
"Why are you here? Please come in! The food will be ready soon!" He hadn't expected his small meal to attract his mentor.
Nagelsmann handed the bags to Vogt; one contained several bottles of good quality German white wine, the other was juice and cola specifically for Oliver: "Congratulations on your brilliant winning goal, kid. And thank you for giving everyone, well, including me, a chance to experience Chinese flavors."
He smiled as he looked around at his disciples crowded in the living room, clearly excited yet a little restrained.
"The atmosphere here is really great."
He handed the juice to Oliver: "This is yours."
Oliver quickly thanked him and took it.
"Do you need my help, Oliver?" Nagelsmann asked symbolically.
"No, no! Please sit!" Oliver quickly waved his hand, skillfully pulling out the folding table in the living room.
"I'm just making the last two dishes, very quickly!"
In the short time it took for the coach to sit down, the kitchen had entered its final sprint. The iron wok hissed and scraped on the high heat, and the sizzling sounds of hot oil frying rose and fell.
Then came the grand finale, a sound that invigorated everyone: the hisssing of pressure cooker. Accompanied by a strong, wafty aroma, thick with rice's essence, suddenly spreading, the final step of the Dum Biryani was complete!
Immediately after, the kitchen door finally slid open.
"Dinner's ready!"
Oliver emerged carrying two plates, fine beads of sweat on his forehead, his cheeks slightly flushed from the stove's heat.
Behind him, on the kitchen counter, steaming plates of enticing, fragrant dishes were laid out.
The light and swirly noodles lay quietly on a plate, soaked in sauce, soft and tempting; golden, shiny, and crispy Dum Biryani piled up like a small mountain, its amber glaze clear and translucent; In the richly sauced Stir-fried Potato, the potatoes were golden and crispy; bright green cucumber was cut into sections and stacked, drizzled with sesame oil and minced garlic, refreshing and crisp; vibrant tomatoes mingled with golden scrambled egg, juicy and sweet-sour, stimulating the appetite. The dining table was instantly ignited with color and aroma.
"Oh my God…!" Everyone couldn't help but exclaim.
"Oliver! This looks so professional!" Uth was the first to reach for his chopsticks.
"This… did you really make this yourself? Not takeout?" Gnabry still couldn't quite believe it.
Nagelsmann's eyes were also full of surprise; he didn't speak but expressed his anticipation through action, directly picking up a plate and starting to serve. There was no extra ceremony; with delicious food before them, hunger was the best dinner bell. Vogt picked up a piece of pork steak. The thin, crispy outer shell conveyed a pleasant, slight resistance almost instantly upon contact with his fork. He bit down, his teeth first breaking through that extremely crispy thin layer with a faint "crunch," followed by the well-marinated, exceptionally tender tenderloin inside. The strong taste, with just the right hint of vinegar, instantly hit his taste buds, followed by the charred aroma of oil and a savory aftertaste. He didn't speak, but his eyes suddenly lit up, and he couldn't help but pick up another piece.
Gnabry had a special fondness for curried stir-fried potato; he really enjoyed it, He used a spoon to scoop up a piece of onion, soft and oily, having absorbed the savory sauce, paired it with a piece of potato, crispy on the outside and floury on the inside, and added a piece of green pepper. The complex flavors of rich oil and dark sauce, wrapped in different textures, bloomed in his mouth. He said contentedly: "This is so delicious! It's perfect with Biryani!" He instantly shoveled a large mouthful of rice.
Oliver instantly retorted, "B@stard, you eat Birayani seperately, not by MIXING IT!!"
Amiri focused on the bright red tomato and scrambled egg dish. He skillfully scooped a large spoonful over his rice. The fluffy scrambled egg, wrapped in the sweet and sour, slightly sandy tomato sauce, quickly permeated the snowy white rice grains.
He scooped a large mouthful into his mouth. The sweet and sour taste, mixed with the oily aroma of the scrambled egg and the subtle sweetness of the rice, was rich in layers and extremely harmonious. He couldn't help but give a thumbs-up: "Oliver! I could eat this every day!"
Uth was like a greedy child, wanting to try everything. He ate several large bites, sniffing his nose, which was slightly red from the spicy radish strips, while exclaiming: "Oh my goodness! I swear! Those sweet and greasy sauces I used to eat at restaurants are completely different! Your's is… it's… living flavor!"
He waved his fork, his mouth full of braised eggplant, speaking indistinctly. Oliver ate his meal a little shyly, paying attention to everyone's reactions, eager for their feedback. He saw that Amiri particularly liked the crispy fried pork, Gnabry kept reaching for Biryani, and Uth had a soft spot for the stir-fried potato. Vogt also carefully tasted each dish, especially the refreshing crispness and aroma brought by the simple smashed cucumber, which made him use the last slice of cucumber to wipe clean the garlic and sesame oil sauce at the bottom of the plate. Even Nagelsmann put aside his usual seriousness from the training ground, appearing unusually relaxed.
He put down his fork and sincerely said to Oliver: "Oliver, I have to admit, every bite of your cooking feels very 'substantial,' and it's very different from the flavors we're used to, but it's very… hmm… satisfying."
He swirled the white wine in his glass and continued, "This meal has made me re-evaluate my attacker, Oliver. How many more surprises do you have in store?"
Oliver's face turned even redder: "Coach, you flatter me. Actually, my mom taught me everything. These… are just some very ordinary home-cooked dishes."
Everyone ate and chatted, and after a whirlwind of eating, the plates were visibly empty. The plates were visibly emptied at an incredible speed, even the appetizer of spicy radish strips and the rice in the pot were completely devoured. Everyone patted their bellies, letting out satisfied sighs. Only a little oil stain and a few scattered green onions and minced garlic, too small to pick up, remained on the plates.
"No, no, I'm stuffed to death," Gnabry leaned back in his chair, lazily saying.
"But… it was so worth it! This is definitely the best food I've ever had!"
"Oliver, have you considered retiring to open a restaurant?" Amiri asked half-jokingly, with genuine lingering taste in his eyes.
Uth directly made exaggerated gestures: "From now on, when you score, we'll come here to eat! We don't even want the goal bonus; we'll use it to buy you groceries directly!"
Vogt looked at the messy but joyful dining table, seeing his teammates relaxed and content after eating their fill, and also smiled. He didn't say anything, just got up and quietly began to clear the empty plates from in front of everyone.
"No, leave them, I'll wash them," Oliver quickly stood up.
"Sit down!" Vogt unceremoniously stacked the plates.
"You're the hero today, and cooking was hard work. Leave the washing up to us." Gnabry, Amiri, and Uth immediately responded to the call: "Yes, chef, rest!"
"I'll rinse!"
"And I'll dry!"
The few of them, with many hands and perfect synergy, gathered the dishes, knives, and forks into the small kitchen. Soon, the sound of rushing water, dish soap bubbles, and the playful banter of young men filled the area around the sink. They clumsily cooperated, some rinsing, some scrubbing, some drying, and although water splashed everywhere and there was a constant clatter, that sincerity and liveliness warmed one's heart. Oliver watched his teammates laughing and washing dishes in the small kitchen, then looked at Coach Nagelsmann, who was tidying the table and helping him organize the remaining scallions, ginger, and garlic. An indescribable sense of warmth and pride permeated the small dorm room. There were no dazzling stadium lights, no roaring cheers from fans, only the warm aroma of home-cooked food, sincere laughter among friends, and a truly homey evening.
This promised meal was more than just a satisfaction for the taste buds; everything here inexplicably gave Oliver a "sense of home." This was his "home" in Germany.
...
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