刀工境界 – The Realm of Knife Skills

dāo gōng jìng jiè

Chúfáng lǐ zhǐyǒu yī zhǎn hūnhuáng de dēng. Lǎo Chén bǎ yī kuài xǐ gānjìng de zhū lǐjí fàng zài zhěnbǎn shàng, zhěnbǎn biānyuán yǐ bèi suìyuè mó de fāliàng. Tā wò qǐ nà bǎ yòngle èrshí nián de càidāo, càidāo luòxià de shùnjiān, ròu piàn báo de néng tòu guāng. Tā cóng bù jízào, měi yī dāo dōu jīngzhǔn de bìkāi jīnluò. Zhěnbǎn shàng hěn kuài pū mǎn zhěngqí de ròu piàn, xiàng yī yè yè fānkāi de shū.

Chǎoguō yǐjīng shāo rè, yóu zài guō dǐ zīlā zuòxiǎng. Lǎo Chén jiāng ròu piàn huá rù chǎoguō, shǒuwàn qīng dǒu, ròu piàn zài rè yóu zhōng fān juǎn chéng huā. Tā zhuǎnshēn cóng zhēnglóng lǐ qǔchū shìxiān zhēng hǎo de yú, zhēnglóng de zhú xiāng hùn zhe yú xiān mínmàn kāilái. Tā ná qǐ lòusháo, cóng fèiténg de gāotāng lǐ lāo qǐ jǐ kē xiā wán, lòusháo lì gān tāngzhī, xiā wán gǔnluò pán zhōng, yuánrùn bǎomǎn.

Lǎo Chén yòu huí dào zhěnbǎn qián, zhè cì tā qiē de shì cōng sī. Càidāo zài tā shǒu lǐ xiàng yī zhī bǐ, cōng sī xì rú fà sī, zài zhěnbǎn shàng duī chéng yī zuò xiǎo shān. Tā zàicì ná qǐ lòusháo, bǎ qiē hǎo de cōng sī sā zài yú shēn shàng, gǔntàng de rè yóu jiāo shàngqù, zī de yī shēng, xiāngqì zhà kāi. Zhēnglóng lǐ hái zhēng zhe dì èr dào cài, zhēngqì cóng zhú fèng lǐ niǎoniǎo shēng qǐ.

Zuìhòu, tā qīnglǐ le zhěnbǎn, yòng bù cā jìng càidāo, bǎ chǎoguō hé lòusháo guà huí qiáng shàng de tiě gōu. Zhēnglóng lǐ zuìhòu yī dào diǎnxīn yě hǎo le. Tā jiē kāi zhēnglóng gài, bái wù pū miàn. Chúfáng hěn ānjìng, zhǐyǒu zhēngqì zài dēngguāng xià huǎnhuǎn piāosàn.

The Realm of Knife Skills

There was only a dim yellow lamp in the kitchen. Old Chen placed a cleaned piece of pork tenderloin on the cutting board, whose edges had been polished shiny by years of use. He grasped the kitchen knife he had used for twenty years; the moment the knife fell, the meat slices were thin enough to let light through. He was never impatient; every cut precisely avoided the sinews. Soon the cutting board was covered with neat meat slices, like pages of an open book.

The wok was already hot, and oil sizzled at the bottom. Old Chen slid the meat slices into the wok, flicking his wrist lightly, and the meat curled into flowers in the hot oil. He turned and took out the pre-steamed fish from the steamer; the bamboo fragrance of the steamer mixed with the fish’s freshness spread out. He picked up the strainer, scooped a few shrimp balls from the boiling broth, drained the soup, and the shrimp balls rolled into the plate, round and plump.

Old Chen returned to the cutting board; this time he was cutting scallion shreds. The kitchen knife was like a pen in his hand; the scallion shreds were as thin as hair, piling up into a small hill on the cutting board. He picked up the strainer again, sprinkled the cut scallion shreds over the fish, and poured hot oil over them; with a sizzle, the aroma burst out. The steamer still had the second dish steaming, and steam rose gracefully from the bamboo gaps.

Finally, he cleaned the cutting board, wiped the kitchen knife with a cloth, and hung the wok and strainer back on the iron hooks on the wall. The last dim sum in the steamer was also ready. He lifted the steamer lid, and white mist rushed to his face. The kitchen was very quiet, with only steam slowly drifting under the light.

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