Because he had sothing on his mind, Jiang Yu’s movents appeared quick. In no ti, he brewed tea and placed it on the coffee table in front of Jia Dequan; by the way, he brewed himself a cup too.
After they both sat down on the sofa, Jiang Yu finally spoke:
"Can we talk now?"
"Hehe, actually, not only have I heard about this, most people probably know, right?"
Jia Dequan picked up his tea cup, blew away the leaves floating on top, took a careful sip, smacked his lips, and then said with a smile,
"For example, soone frequently ate the crust from a firewood stove when they were young. After many years, suddenly they unintentionally tasted that firewood stove crust again, and it triggered childhood mories—isn’t that quite normal?"
After a pause, he continued,
"Just like what you told before, why does Miss Pan really enjoy eating tomato oat noodle fish?
Because the tomato oat noodle fish you cook is not only delicious, but also because when she was young, her grandmother often cooked this dish for her.
She hasn’t eaten it for so many years; suddenly tasting your dish, if it didn’t evoke her longing for her grandmother, that would indeed be odd."
Prompted by Jia Dequan’s reminder, Jiang Yu suddenly realized that he indeed had heard about such things, and not just once.
Last ti when watching the news, he saw a story about soone buying a roasted sweet potato from a street stall, and as they ate it, tears stread down their face.
When the reporter asked, they found out that when this person was a child, their school was far from ho, and every winter when they walked ho from school, their hands would be icy cold, and they would shiver all over.
Every ti that happened, their mother would dig out a roasted sweet potato from the hearth. It not only ward their hands but also their stomach, making their whole body warm and cozy. They thought no sweet potato tasted as good as the ones from that hearth.
Later, when they left ho to work, whenever they saw roasted sweet potatoes for sale, they would buy one to try, but none compared to the ones their mother made.
The reason they were crying was that they seed to have tasted that childhood flavor again.
Thinking of this, Jiang Yu couldn’t help but ask:
"Lao Jia, according to you, is it possible that any dish could trigger emotions in diners, and it’s not about whether the dish tastes good or not?"
"Theoretically, that is indeed the case."
Jia Dequan took another sip of water, nodded, and said,
"However, your dishes seem different. The likelihood of others’ cooking triggering emotions is extrely low, unless a specific diner eats it.
Just like the firewood stove crust I ntioned earlier, it probably only moves those who ate this dish as kids and have deep, unforgettable impressions related to it.
For others, it’s just an ordinary farmhouse dish without any special effect.
But your cooking, like the sweet and sour carp before, not only affects Miss Pan but also evokes my mories. That’s quite remarkable."
Pausing a mont, he continued,
"I don’t know if it’s because your cooking is too delicious; anyhow, the dishes I make don’t have this effect."
"Never mind, let’s not dwell on this. The point is, my dishes seem to trigger emotions more effectively."
After thinking for a while, Jiang Yu suddenly shook his head and laughed, with a look of anticipation on his face, he said,
"I think we should find a few more anorexia patients and test them to see if they can’t resist my cooking?
This is the truly aningful thing."
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