030. DIM SUM SECRET

Ming Shi did not black out for very long.

Just long enough for the nameless thing to arrive where it had always been.

In other words, no time at all.

A few seconds, if we must put a clock to it.

But when Ming Shi opened his eyes, Xiaoye had disappeared.

Or so he thought. It turned out she was behind him.

She was behind him, with her arms hooking him by the armpits, dragging him into an upright position. He registered it when he looked down and saw her hands glowing with qi as she raised her arms to haul him up. He let out a little oof at the sudden yank.

Realizing he was conscious, Xiaoye promptly released him. Ming Shi was not prepared for the sudden loss of structural support. He face-planted onto the floor.

“I am so sorry,” he heard her say. Her voice was shaky. “I am so terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine. Everything is fine,” said Ming Shi. He got up and dusted himself off. The qi-boost from Chang’s congee was definitely gone now. The qi in his dantian had fallen back into a state of slumber.

On the upside, his relationship with his qi seemed vastly improved. It was no longer actively hiding from his advances. When he gave it a nudge with his consciousness it responded with a sleepy shrug and an obliging sense of Eh, I’m napping, but ask again later.

So they’d made some crucial progress after all.

He was about to suggest they call it a day when Xiaoye spoke first.

“This morning, you indicated in the affirmative when I asked if you’d suffered from a recent spiritual injury. And more than a mere injury—something that crippled your cultivation.”

“Hm?” said Ming Shi. He cast his mind back to the encounter. “Oh, yes. That’s right. I guess you could say that. That’s roughly what happened.”

“That stove you keep failing to light—it’s because your injuries are so significant they prevent you from performing a basic technique.” Xiaoye was looking at him very oddly.

“Yup,” said Ming Shi. “That’s the problem I’m facing. Any insights, Fellow Daoist?”

Xiaoye was silent for a while. Then she said, “Let’s try again another day. It’s getting late. Sometimes Madam Zhang goes to bed early; we should make sure we arrange your lodgings with her in time.”

“Fair point,” said Ming Shi, nodding.

I’ll be back, he thought, tucking the manual into his robes. You just wait. My qi and I are on the same side now, and we’ll be back.

The thing that had awakened agreed.

***

“I didn’t faint, by the way,” Ming Shi insisted gamely as they walked through twilit streets. His method of walking this evening was wonky but defiant-special. It relied on a close personal relationship with every wall they passed. “I was testing gravity’s cultivation level.”

“And?” Xiaoye watched him careen off another corner. She seemed to be vacillating between laughter and sympathy.

"Rock-hard Foundation Establishment," he mumbled into the wall he was using as a face rest. “I felt it deeply.”

“I see you’re still conducting extensive research.” She caught his elbow before he could initiate further gravity studies.

Around them Fragrant Bowl City was firing up its evening appetites. The city sprawled across its ancient basin like a massive wok, with the Lower District simmering in the valley floor while the Middle District’s neighborhoods climbed the surrounding hills in terraced rings of increasing prosperity.

Lights winked to life along the winding streets, each district marked by its own stye of illumination, from simple qi-enhanced oil lamps and spirit lanterns in the Lower District’s maze of alleys to the Middle District’s showier displays of crystalline spirit-lights flowing up the slopes like frozen rainbows. Above it all, the Upper District’s grand restaurants perched along the hilltops, their lights competing with the stars.

Night-market sellers emerged with spirit-enhanced wares creating rivers of colors. A woman fanned flames under roasting spirit-chestnuts that danced and sang to the tune of “Not possessed, not I.” Across from her, a man arranged spirit-sesame-cakes that bounced in time with his sales pitch.

“Is that man’s soup supposed to be arguing with itself?” Ming Shi squinted at an especially vigorous pot.

“Oh, that’s Old Ting’s Three-Opinion Soup. It’s very popular with people who need to win arguments.” Xiaoye laughed softly. “Though sometimes the soup wins instead.”

They passed a crowd gathering around a stir-fry chef reading fortunes from his tossed ingredients. Every flick of his wok brought new oracular declarations. Ming Shi caught fragments of prophecy ranging from “Beware tall strangers bearing cultivation manuals” to “That robe really isn’t working for you.”

 “Thank you,” Xiaoye said suddenly.

“For my gravity research? You’re welcome. I do it for future generations.”

“For trusting me.” She smiled as she watched a vegetable seller ignite a row of spirit-gourd lanterns, their light reflecting in her dark eyes “It’s been not very lively, practicing alone. It’s nice to have someone around who recognizes certain cultivation techniques, even if you can’t do them.” Her lips curved. “Actually, it was especially nice watching you fail today.”

“I live to serve," Ming Shi deadpanned. “My face-first encounters with the floor are for the public good.”

“But I mean it.” She steadied him as he executed another creative stumble. “You obviously recognized every technique I practiced. You must have been at least Foundation Establishment once. But even though you’re starting over from nothing, you’re not ...” She sighed looking up at the moon hanging above them. “You’re not bitter. Not angry. You make jokes and you stay good-natured. It’s admirable.”

For a moment Ming Shi did not know what to say.

That’s just how I cope. That’s how I am. There are aspects of this approach that, uh, aren’t completely healthy.

“Well,” he said eventually, “it’s no good to keep drinking from a pot of over-steeped tea. The acridity makes everything else taste worse. Better to throw it out and move on. After all, revenge is a dish best served delicious. Which means cooking from scratch with a clean station and nice, fresh ingredients.” He grinned at her startled look. “Anyway, I should thank you for your excellent company. My commitment to slapstick comedy is half-fueled by your amusement.”

At last they reached an old building that looked like it had won numerous arguments with the passing of time and was prepared to do so again. A sign read “ROOMS FOR RENT – Inquire Upstairs.”

The door flew open before they could knock, revealing a woman built from several different landlady stereotypes stacked in a fighting formation. The dragon-matriarch bun, the hands-on-hips-stance-proficiency, the house slippers that could fend off a sword immortal—she had it all. Even a Chef God would have thought twice about being tardy with the rent.

“Madam Zhang,” Xiaoye clasped her hands at her waist and bobbed her knees in a commoner’s curtsy. “How was your day?”

“Enlightening!” Madam Zhang snorted. “My sister stopped by to drag me up to this new Ascension Cuisine place in the Middle District. Portions so small you need cultivation just to see them! And the bill?” She whistled. “Almost had to sell a kidney. Though I suppose that’s how they fund all those free clinics in the Lower District. At least the money’s going somewhere useful, I’ll admit.” She pursed her lips. “And I suppose the food itself had some impressive qi-enhancements and manipulations. I’ll grant them that too. But this old lady needs real-people portions. Had to stop for actual food on the way home.”

Her eyes narrowed at Ming Shi, who was using the doorframe as a primary source of structural support, too tired as he was to even flinch at the mention of Ascension Cuisine.

“Speaking of cultivation, you look like you couldn’t cultivate your way out of a storage bag. Old Zhen spoke to me a few hours ago about his young relative needing lodging. You’re Ming Shi, I assume?” She did not wait for Ming Shi’s reply before carrying on. “What happened, Gourmet? You fight gravity or what?”

“Actually—” Ming Shi began.

“He did,” Xiaoye confirmed. “Gravity won.”

“Ah.” Madam Zhang shrugged. “Well, come in. I’ve got medicinal soup on the stove. And you”—She jabbed a finger at Ming Shi—“look like you’re about to become one with my doorframe in a way that violates several city ordinances.”

The building’s interior was a maze of narrow corridors and steep stairs that nonetheless felt cozy rather than cramped. Wind chimes hung from every window, their gentle music carrying protective qi that made Ming Shi’s scalp tingle with comfort. The whole place held a warm, lived-in energy.

It feels like home cooking and good property management, thought Ming Shi drowsily.

“Room’s on the third floor, last door on the right," Madam Zhang directed, thrusting a bowl of soup into Ming Shi’s hands. “Previous tenant was a candymaker. Started with nothing but a copper pot and big dreams. Now she’s got her own shop in the Middle District, though if you ask me, her success went a bit to her head. Started calling herself the Honey Phoenix Maiden.” She rolled her eyes. “Good girl at heart, though. And at least the room still smells like caramel.”

Ming Shi nodded, gulping down the soup. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. Like any good chef, he’d tasted his cooking as he went, but he hadn’t had a real meal all day.

And that last piece of flatbread he’d been saving for himself had, alas, gone to Chang.

“Rent’s four taels a month,” Madam Zhang continued. “You’ll fit right in. Folks here are like you: honest cooks and chefs early in their cultivation journey. Plus a band of retired Kitchen Spirit Tamers who stick around for my medicinal soup.” Her lips pursed. “And one accountant who insists he’s taming tax spirits.”

She fixed Ming Shi with a stare that could grill dragons. “Rules are simple: no parties, no forbidden techniques, and absolutely no aging of spirit-wine in knock-off vessels without seals. I like my wine warm on a cold winter’s night—not sentient and filing for tenant’s rights.”

To punctuate her words, she slapped a slim scroll against Ming Shi’s chest.

“That’s your copy of your tenancy agreement, along with building regulations on one side. On the other side, there’s a welcome guide. It’s got a map of shortcuts from here to the main markets, nice eateries nearby, which streets to avoid at which hours and the like.”

Ming Shi must have swayed slightly as he held the scroll to his chest because both women were suddenly frowning at him.

“Bed,” Madam Zhang ordered. “Now. Before you fall down my stairs and I have to explain to Old Zhen why his country bumpkin relative lasted less than a day beneath my roof. Also, the Flame Temple paperwork would be tragic.”

“I'll help him up,” Xiaoye offered. “Thank you, Madam Zhang.”

The room was small, but, as promised, clean, with a narrow bed and a window that looked out onto a rare quiet alley. The little cooking alcove in the corner did still smell of caramel. The air even had a honey-tinged glow, as if the previous tenant’s dreams lingered.

“Rest,” Xiaoye commanded as she helped him to sit on the bed. “We can try again tomorrow. Maybe start with something simpler.”

But Ming Shi was already falling asleep, with Madam Zhang’s soup working its magic as exhaustion claimed him. He mumbled some kind of good-night, eyelids drooping, before curling up on his side.

Xiaoye left, golden eyes gleaming in the gathering dark as she looked once over her shoulder.

He dreamed.

***

He dreamed in three languages, across two lives and two worlds, of one truth at the heart of his cooking, in every universe that could be.

***

Golden, the air.

Afternoon, flour-dusted.

His mother—Luke’s mother—in Golden Heart’s kitchen, teaching him to fold dumplings, speaking English and Cantonese.

Wonderful. It’s all wonderful.

He takes a deep breath and holds it.

Ginger and soy sauce, white pepper and Mom.

“Luke, my little bun," says his mother, “do you want to know a secret? Dim sum—or dian xin, as your Mandarin teacher would pronounce it—has a hidden message. Do you want to guess what it is?”

A shift in the air.

Silver fog, blue steam.

Now he learns from his mother—Liu Baozi’s mother—pleating shining dumplings, speaking the Realm’s Mandarin.

She is humming, folding space and dreams in a kitchen misty with qi.

I love this. I want this forever.

He takes a deep breath and holds it.

Star-root and soulsoy, moonpepper and Mother.

“The secret of dian xin,” whispers his mother, winking, “is hidden in plain sight. Simply look and it is there for everyone to see.”

A twist of steam—how delightful!

An enchanted character forms.

“Look,” she says, “The character dian 點. It means to ignite or to touch.”

“Touch what?” He asks, all three of his selves together.

Luke’s mother answers, brushing flour off his cheek with a kiss: “The heart, of course. Sum 心. Or xin. Or however you say it.”

A second character blossoms in the steam beside the first. They shimmer, they shimmy, they whirl, old friends reunited.

“點心” say his mothers, across worlds, across lives, across time. Their different pronunciations lilt and mingle to make music.

“Dian xin.

Dim sum.

Touch the heart.

Ignite the heart.

That’s the secret.

Right there in the open.

Dim sum.

Dian xin.

Dim sum.”

His happiness in this moment encompasses all that could be.

He takes a deep breath and holds it. He is never letting go.

This golden air, this silver fog, this afternoon, this mist of blue, this star-root, ginger, mother, mom, in golden humble heart and pearl, and flour-kissed cheeks, and listen, listen, look you see right there it says—

Dian xin.

Dim sum.

The heart.

A touch.

Ignite it.

The steam-characters grow and stretch, spreading and diffusing …

Mist. Why is the expanse turning to mist?

No, what is happening?

Things are splitting, peeling apart. A horizontal seam, expanding, tearing open the world.

This split, this horrible split … It curves, it gleams, it smiles.

Ah—no—!

It speaks:

“A chef without cultivation? I advise seated meditation …”

No!

“Until you can identify as something other than stupid …”

Voices stacking, echoing, as that smile grows larger, sharper, brighter.

Dian xin. Dim sum. Chef without cultivation? Touch, ignite the heart. Seated meditation.

That cutting smile, right through the middle, right to the heart of the matter.

A crescendo, roaring, peaking—

Identify! Dian xin!

You pure-hearted fool! Dim sum!

***

Ming Shi woke with a gasp.

Through his window, the night peered in. The sky had deepened to that unnamed shade of velvet dark that comes in the last small hour, when the stars waver between this world and another. The city’s heartbeat had settled not into its slowest rhythms but its most mysterious, that underbelly hour when the stirrings of the night’s last drunken carousers obscure the quickenings of assassins and bakers.

The secret secret hour.

A secret hidden in plain sight.

He sat up, drenched in sweat.

Less than an incense stick later, Ming Shi was out the door of Madam Zhang’s building. He made his way quickly through the dark, narrow alleys. Even when he looked down to consult the welcome-guide map from Madam Zhang, he hardly slowed. A cool night breeze sent gooseflesh up his sweaty arms. He was shivering but didn’t clock it. Despite the breeze, he felt hot, stifled, and clothed in too many layers.

The pieces he’d been puzzling at were beginning to come together.

The thing in him that had awakened smiled and warmed with anticipation.

***

Author's Note:
Do you remember Chapter 1?

“Correct.
We are not in the restaurant business.
We don't measure by table turnover.
We do dim sum.
This is the long game.
We do food that lasts forever.
The meaning of dim sum is a secret ...”

:) Welcome to Dim Sum Dao, Seniors. The journey's just begun. It's one thing to know a secret, another to comprehend it. You, me, and the Scripture—it's going to be delicious.