I remember the wok.
It was black iron. Heavy. The bottom was round. The handle was wood, dark from years of heat. It hung on the wall above the stove. I looked at it every day. I washed it every night. I dried it. I hung it back. I did not use it. Master Zhang used it. His wok. His stove. His kitchen. I washed dishes. I cut vegetables. I watched. I did not cook.
Not for customers. Not for the restaurant. I made spring rolls. For Anna. For Old Li. For myself. I made them in the basement. With the small pan. The one I found in the kitchen. The one no one used. The wok was different. The wok was for cooking. Real cooking. The kind that made people come back. The kind that made people say "Not bad." The kind that made Master Zhang nod.
I wanted to use the wok.
I remember the day I asked.
It was winter. The snow was falling. The kitchen was quiet. Lunch was over. Dinner was not yet started. Master Zhang was at his bench. Cutting carrots. Thin. Even. His knife moved fast. His hands were steady. I stood at the sink. The dishes were done. The water was off. I stood there. Watching. Waiting.
"Master Zhang," I said.
He did not stop. The knife moved. Carrot. Slice. Carrot. Slice. Carrot. Slice.
"I want to cook," I said.
He stopped. He looked at me. His eyes were small. Dark. His face was round. The mole on his cheek was dark against his skin. He did not smile. He did not frown. He looked at me for a long time. Then he went back to cutting. Carrot. Slice. Carrot. Slice. Carrot. Slice.
"You cook," he said. "You make spring rolls. You make fried rice. You make for yourself. Not for customers. Not for the restaurant."
"I want to cook for the restaurant," I said.
He stopped again. He put the knife down. He turned to me. His hands were on the bench. The carrot was in pieces. Thin. Even. Perfect.
"You know what dish?" he said.
"Mapo tofu," I said. "I had it in Chongqing. My father took me once. A small restaurant. Near the river. The tofu was soft. The sauce was red. The pepper was hot. I remember."
Master Zhang looked at me. His face did not change. He picked up the knife. He went back to cutting. Carrot. Slice. Carrot. Slice. Carrot. Slice.
"Tomorrow," he said. "You come early. Before the morning shift. I show you."
I remember the morning.
I came before the sun. The kitchen was dark. The stoves were cold. The pots were clean. Master Zhang was there. He had the wok in his hands. The black iron wok. Heavy. He put it on the stove. He turned on the fire. The flame was blue. Then orange. Then red. The wok began to heat. The iron turned gray. Then blue. Then black again. He looked at me.
"You watch," he said.
He took the tofu from the basket. White. Soft. It trembled on the board. He cut it. Slowly. Not fast like the carrots. Slowly. Carefully. The knife went in. The tofu did not break. He cut it into cubes. Small. Even. He put them in a bowl of water. They floated. White. Soft. Waiting.
He took the beef. A small piece. From the back of the basket. The piece no one wanted. He chopped it. Fast. The knife was loud. Chop. Chop. Chop. The beef became small pieces. Tiny. Almost minced. He put it in a bowl.
He took the peppers. Dried. Red. Small. He crushed them in his hand. The seeds fell. The smell came up. Sharp. Hot. My eyes burned. He did not blink.
He took the doubanjiang. The jar was on the shelf. The label was Chinese. Red. The same jar my mother packed in my bag. The same jar I used for spring rolls. He opened it. The smell came out. Salt. Ferment. Heat. He took a spoonful. Dark red. Thick. He put it in a bowl.
He took the oil. The wok was hot. He poured. The oil shimmered. He put the beef in. It sizzled. The sound was loud. He stirred. Fast. The beef turned brown. He put the doubanjiang in. The oil turned red. The smell was thick. He put the peppers in. The smoke rose. My eyes burned. He did not blink.
He put water in. It boiled. He took the tofu from the bowl. The white cubes. Soft. He put them in. They did not break. They floated in the red sauce. He let them cook. The sauce soaked in. The white turned pink. Then red. He stirred. Gentle. The tofu did not break.
He took the cornstarch. Mixed it with water. Poured it in. The sauce thickened. He turned off the fire. He took the wok from the stove. He poured the tofu into a bowl. The white bowl. The red sauce. The white tofu. The green scallions on top. He put the bowl on the counter. He looked at me.
"You eat," he said.
I remember the taste.
I took chopsticks from the drawer. I picked up a piece of tofu. White. Soft. Covered in red sauce. I put it in my mouth. The heat came first. Sharp. Fast. It filled my mouth. My throat. My chest. Then the salt. The fermented beans. The beef. The scallions. Then the tofu. Soft. Quiet. It melted on my tongue. The heat was still there. But the tofu was cool. Soft. Quiet.
"Not bad," I said.
Master Zhang looked at me. His face did not change. He took the wok. He washed it. The water was hot. The steam rose. He dried it. He hung it on the wall. He turned to me.
"Now you do it," he said.
I remember the first time I made it.
The tofu was in the water. The beef was chopped. The peppers were crushed. The doubanjiang was in the bowl. The wok was on the stove. The fire was on. The oil was in the wok. The beef went in. It sizzled. I stirred. Too fast. The beef stuck to the wok. I scraped. It came off. The doubanjiang went in. The oil turned red. The peppers went in. The smoke rose. I coughed. My eyes burned. The water went in. It boiled. The tofu went in. I stirred. Too hard. The tofu broke. White pieces in red sauce. Small. Broken. I poured it in the bowl. The white bowl. The red sauce. The broken tofu. The green scallions on top. I put the bowl on the counter. Master Zhang came. He looked at it. He picked up chopsticks. He took a piece. The piece was small. Broken. He put it in his mouth. He chewed. He swallowed. He put the chopsticks down.
"Too hot," he said.
I remember the next time.
Less peppers. The same tofu. The same beef. The same doubanjiang. I put the peppers in. Half. The smoke was less. My eyes did not burn. The tofu went in. I stirred. Gentle. The tofu did not break. I poured it in the bowl. The white bowl. The red sauce. The white cubes. Whole. Master Zhang came. He took a piece. He chewed. He swallowed.
"Still too hot," he said.
I remember the next time.
Less peppers. Half of the half. The sauce was red. But not dark. The smell was there. But not sharp. The tofu was white. Soft. Whole. I poured it in the bowl. Master Zhang came. He took a piece. He chewed. He swallowed. He put the chopsticks down.
"Too salty," he said.
I remember the next time.
Less doubanjiang. Half. The sauce was pink. Not red. The smell was light. The tofu was white. Soft. Whole. I poured it in the bowl. Master Zhang came. He took a piece. He chewed. He swallowed. He looked at the bowl. The pink sauce. The white tofu. He picked up another piece. Chewed. Swallowed. He put the chopsticks down.
"Not hot," he said. "Not salty. Not Mapo tofu."
He walked away. I stood at the stove. The wok was on the counter. The bowl was in my hands. The sauce was pink. The tofu was white. It was not Mapo tofu. It was something else. Something with less heat. Less salt. Something that was not from Chongqing. Not from the small restaurant near the river. Not from my father. Something from here. From this kitchen. From this wok. From my hands.
I remember the day Master Zhang smiled.
It was not a big smile. It was small. Quick. Like the flame when it first catches. I was at the stove. The wok was hot. The oil was in. The beef was in. The doubanjiang was in. The peppers were in. Half of the half of the half. The smoke was there. Not too much. My eyes did not burn. The tofu was in. I stirred. Gentle. The tofu did not break. I poured it in the bowl. The white bowl. The sauce was red. Not dark. Not pink. Red. The tofu was white. Soft. Whole. I put the scallions on top. Green. Fresh.
Master Zhang came. He looked at the bowl. He picked up chopsticks. He took a piece. He put it in his mouth. He chewed. He did not swallow. He chewed. His face did not change. He chewed. Then he swallowed. He put the chopsticks down. He looked at me. His eyes were small. Dark. He did not smile. He did not frown. He looked at me for a long time.
"Not bad," he said.
He walked away. I stood at the stove. The wok was in my hands. The bowl was on the counter. The sauce was red. The tofu was white. The scallions were green. I put the wok in the sink. The water was cold. The steam rose. I washed it. I dried it. I hung it on the wall. Next to Master Zhang's wok. His was black. Mine was black. They hung together. Two woks. Two black iron woks. On the same wall. In the same kitchen. In the same city. In the same winter. I looked at them. I did not smile. I did not frown. I looked at them for a long time. Then I went to the sink. There were dishes to wash. There were always dishes to wash.
I remember the words Master Zhang said to me later.
We were in the kitchen. Late. The restaurant was closed. The pots were clean. The counters were wiped. The woks were on the wall. His. Mine. He was smoking. His cigarette was short. The ash was long. He looked at the woks. Mine. His.
"In Sichuan," he said, "they make it hot. Very hot. The pepper burns. The mouth burns. The stomach burns. You sweat. You cry. You eat. You want more. That is Mapo tofu."
He took a drag from his cigarette. The ash fell. He looked at me.
"Here, they do not want that. They want less heat. Less salt. Less burn. They want something else. Something that is not from Sichuan. Something that is from here. From this kitchen. From this city. From this country. You made that. Not Mapo tofu. Something else. Something new."
He put out his cigarette. He stood up. He walked to the door. He stopped. He did not turn around.
"That is cooking," he said. "That is what we do. We take the old. We make it new. For the people here. For the place here. For the time here."
He opened the door. The cold came in. He went out. The door closed. I sat in the kitchen. The woks were on the wall. His. Mine. The black iron woks. The same wall. The same kitchen. The same city. The same winter. I thought about my father. The noodle stand in Chongqing. The small restaurant near the river. The Mapo tofu I ate when I was young. The heat. The salt. The burn. I thought about Master Zhang. His words. "We take the old. We make it new." I thought about the bowl I made. The red sauce. The white tofu. The green scallions. It was not my father's Mapo tofu. It was not Chongqing. It was Warsaw. It was this kitchen. It was my hands.
I remember the dish.
I made it many times. For the restaurant. For the customers. Some liked it. Some did not. Some said "Too hot." Some said "Not hot enough." I did not change it. I kept it the same. The red sauce. The white tofu. The green scallions. The heat that was not from Sichuan. The salt that was not from Chongqing. Something from here. From this kitchen. From this wok. From my hands. I did not have a name for it. It was not Mapo tofu. It was something else. Something new. Something that was not from my father. Something that was from me.