CHAPTER 50

First written: 2007-04-03

Rewritten: 2026-02-24

Lun loves flavorful fried rice. His standards are high — it must have strong “wok-chi” (that smoky “breath of the wok”), and the ingredients have to be generous.

His favorite Hong Kong style café once closed because the owner fell into gambling debt. Later, the staff pooled their money to take over and reopened it. When Lun came home for the weekend, we took him there right away to show our support. We ordered fried spicy wide noodle and Yangzhou fried rice.

The fried noodles were acceptable. Lun ate it as usual. But he gave the fried rice a cold reception. It lacked “wok-chi”— missing that blazing red-hot iron wok, the rolling oil, the fierce flame, the rapid-fire tossing in one continuous motion before plating. The ingredients were sparse, the egg yolk scant. He showed little interest, poking through the rice with his fork, picking here and there, forcing down a few bites before stopping altogether.

We old folks also felt it wasn’t worth the price. Worst of all, it disappointed our young master. Still, several familiar old staff members were there; the human warmth remained. So we will continue to patronize the place. As usual, we packed up the leftover fried rice and brought it home to refry it — determined to restore the missing wok-chi.

Our home stove runs on electricity and can’t compare with the restaurant’s powerful gas burners. So we improvised, like making teppanyaki: preheating a heavy flat cast-iron pan until it’s blazing hot before adding oil, sesame oil, ginger, scallions, garlic, soy sauce, sugar, and diced luncheon meat (the key ingredient). With crackling sounds, we stir-fried until the rice was heated through, dry, and fragrant.

When Lun hears the rice hitting the hot oil, he comes to the kitchen to investigate. Seeing the fried rice, he usually leans in close, takes a deep sniff, then returns contentedly to his private stool — the white rattan chair that always sits beside the dining table — waiting respectfully for the dish to be served.

He actually doesn’t like eating from a plate. He prefers a bowl, eating bit by bit with his fork. That way, he can remove the vegetables, peas, and scallions he dislikes (just like one of my close friends).

In our ongoing duel:

(1) We chop the vegetables as finely as possible and mix them thoroughly into the rice, just to see how skillfully he can pick them out one by one.

(2) We take the ingredients he leaves behind, add salt, sugar, and more rice, then refry everything. When he’s hungry, he’s less picky. This way, he ends up eating a bit more of the side ingredients instead of only starch.

Once, I even used a blender to pulverize the ingredients and mix them into the rice. He was clever. After observing for a moment, he turned and walked away without a word — the appearance simply didn’t pass inspection.

After that visit to the Hong Kong style café, I had a sudden inspiration: why not make flavorful rice ourselves? As it turned out, Dad’s version suited Lun’s taste perfectly.

The method is simple. When cooking plain rice, add a little sugar, soy sauce, sesame oil, and cooking oil to enhance the color and flavor. When the rice is nearly done, poke holes across the surface with chopsticks and pour beaten egg over it, letting it seep evenly through the rice. Then spread over pre-fried minced meat and diced luncheon meat (adding dried shrimp makes it even better). Cover and let the rice finish steaming.

This Sunday afternoon, Lun ordered food again, specifically asking to “eat rice rice.” I followed the recipe and made flavorful rice. He finished an entire large plate, leaving the rest for the three of us to share a bowl each. Patting his full stomach, he returned to his room to rest. Seeing our son enjoy the meal so much comforted us in our old age. Next weekend, we’ll add some chestnuts — that should make it even more delicious.