Ngoh Hiang Lab

Chapter 34 – Ngoh Hiang Lab

Saturdays with intent smell like shallots remembering oil. By nine, the flat had put on its practical face: windows cracked, fan on low, table cleared like a stage. On the fridge, his mother’s tidy teacher script: Ngoh hiang lab. Knife skills. Oil patience. Wipe stove. A smiley, rationed with respect.

Aleem set nouns where nouns go: chopping board with a biography, the good cleaver, paring knife graduated from fruit to responsibility, stainless bowl for filling, another for aromatics, a plate of beancurd skin thawing under a damp cloth like a shy performer waiting for their cue. Minced pork and prawn sat in cold obedience. Water chestnuts glittered like well‑behaved confetti. Five‑spice had made the kitchen smell like a drawer of old festival clothes.

A: Lift lobby. Carrying humility + band‑aids (superstition), the text flickered.

Aleem: Door open. Beancurd is listening. The oil will negotiate, he replied, then washed his hands the way aunties like to see–soap, silence, sleeves up.

Aoi entered with the thud of someone who has memorized the shoe rack. Hair tied for knives; sleeves rolled; linen that forgave flour. From the tote she produced a small jar labelled in lowercase: white pepper / patient. She placed it on the counter like a student bringing a textbook.

“Morning,” she said.

“Morning,” he returned. “Welcome to the lab. Department Chair will arrive shortly.”

His mother emerged with an apron patterned in unobtrusive flowers and the posture of a woman who has never needed to google a recipe. “Good,” she said, approving of the mise en place. “Today we test hands. Knife first. Later we teach oil to wait.”

Knife skills are honesty. Mdm Rahman slid the water chestnuts across the board and handed Aoi the paring knife. “You cut into dice,” she said. “Not cube for architects–dice for soup. Fingers like cat. Knife straight. No heroics.”

Aoi curled her fingers, the dancer’s economy migrating to hands. The blade tapped a rhythm polite enough for downstairs neighbors. Click, click, click. One irregular piece appeared; she corrected the next without apology.

“Good,” his mother said. “Sharp knife is kindness. Dull knife is drama. We avoid drama.”

She turned to Aleem. “You–spring onion. Angle cut. Pretty but not Instagram. We are not performing; we are creating audience.”

“Yes, Ma,” he said, sliding the green into obedient diagonals.

They built the filling like a committee that had learned to be useful: minced pork, prawn, the crunch of water chestnut; grated carrot for color that wouldn’t argue; spring onion; one egg white to persuade; sesame oil that refused to brag; soy with no swagger; salt coaxed in pinches; white pepper in a whisper; five‑spice sifted like a story.

“Mix with hand,” his mother instructed. “Clockwise until texture changes. You will feel when the meat decides to be friends.”

Aoi put her hand in and turned. The bowl sucked air, then gave it back. She paused, nodded to herself, resumed. “It’s… becoming polite,” she said, delighted by chemistry that looked like behavior.

“Correct,” his mother said. “We don’t scold. We invite.”

Beancurd skin is paper with opinions. Mdm Rahman unrolled a sheet onto the towel and looked at it the way librarians look at patrons who will behave but must be told to. “We wipe surface with damp cloth,” she said. “Too wet and it will sulk. Too dry and it will gossip.”

Aoi dabbed with the reverence due to old documents. “Listen with hands,” she murmured, as if the gloves she had gifted months ago had cousins in beancurd.

“Good,” his mother said. “Now we roll. Thin–like secret, not lie.” She placed a line of filling, folded edges in with the thrift of a well‑run household, then rolled forward, gentle tight. “No string. We use paste.” She held up a small bowl: flour and water, the world’s oldest glue.

Aleem glued; Aoi rolled; his mother audited; the first log sat on the board with the confidence of an HDB block. They paused to admire without worship.

“Second,” Mdm Rahman commanded.

They fell into a rhythm. Fill, fold, roll, paste. One sheet tore–Aoi’s face changed, a flicker of sorrow which she caught and laughed at. “Patch,” his mother said. “We mend. Correct break.” Aoi overlapped a scrap with paste; the seam obeyed.

“Correct break,” Aleem repeated, storing the phrase in the drawer where auntie proverbs live.

By the sixth roll, the tray looked like a collection of stories tied by theme. Aoi brushed the tops with sesame oil as if varnishing small boats. “Why oil?” she asked.

“So skin not drink all your frying oil later,” his mother said, approving the question. “Also it browns like it went to school.”

Oil is a subject. They poured enough into the wok to make a shallow river and turned the flame to patient. His mother flicked a drop of batter; it sat in thought. She dipped a chopstick; a polite halo of bubbles formed.

“Not yet,” she judged. “We wait. Chopstick test must say ‘hello’ not ‘party.’ Ngoh hiang needs to learn in warm bath before carnival.”

Aoi watched flame like a scientist. “Signal for oil?” she asked, half‑joking, half‑inventing.

“Two taps on the wok handle,” Aleem said, amused. “One hold if we stay. Three light taps if we lower heat. House dialect for temperature.”

“Filed,” she said.

When the chopstick sang the correct small song, his mother nodded. “First roll in. Lower, not throw. Oil doesn’t like being scared.” She slid the log into the oil; the surface responded like an auntie greeting a neighbor–sizzle polite, not gossiping. “We don’t touch it too much. Brown, turn, brown, rest.”

They worked in rounds of two. The kitchen took on the smell of five‑spice deciding to be useful. Aoi turned with chopsticks, respecting structure. One roll tried to tattoo itself to the wok; she held patience like a shield until it released. “It wants to stay,” she said, laughing softly.

“Everything wants to stay if you hold it wrong,” his mother said, a line that applied to more than lunch.

They drained the logs on a rack because paper towels are a good idea but racks are policy. Aoi brushed surfaces with a little more oil which made his mother nod twice–counterpoint approval reserved for students who begin to anticipate.

“Rest is part of recipe,” Mdm Rahman said as if reading from a textbook. “Cut too early, filling falls out. We don’t want tragedy.”

While rolls exhaled, they prepared the dip: garlic, vinegar that smelled like a plan, sugar to bribe, chili padi chopped into commas. Aoi measured seating for each ingredient like a stage manager placing chairs.

“Tea?” Aleem asked.

“Tea,” both women said in unison; the kitchen approved.

They sat with cups warm between palms. Rest period is when aunties test futures.

“You will stop the group soon?” his mother asked Aoi without drama, like checking weather. “Or you will rearrange?”

Aoi put her thumb on the cup’s ear, as if asking porcelain for counsel. “We are ending properly,” she said. “It is kind to name endings. There will be a last show in Tokyo. Then… we rest. Then we choose work that is not wind.” She glanced at Aleem; he kept his eyes on his cup and his attention on her.

“Good,” his mother said. “Plans are soup; ingredients can change, but stock must be honest. Your stock?”

“I will teach rooms,” Aoi said, the sentence arriving with relief built in. “Workshops for theaters–audience etiquette, soft singing, ushers’ choreography. Also, movement classes for people who think they cannot dance–benches learning to be bodies.” Her smile reached a little too far and then came back, disciplined. “A choreographer friend asked if I will assist. Not company yet. Project. I want… to be person first.”

“Person first,” his mother repeated, as if stamping a form. “Where will your bed be?”

Aoi considered geography. “Mostly Tokyo first year. Then… maybe seasons. Singapore when schedules are kind. I can be guest here–teach ‘quiet bridge’ to our theatres. And eat correct cake,” she added, not begging, just reminding the room that pleasure is legal.

His mother accepted the lay of the land as if reading a bus timetable. “Long distance is respect. We will not make you choose badly to prove anything to anybody. You two will proceed by invitation. Public first. Always.” She looked at Aleem. “Your job is to be bench, not border control.”

“Yes, Ma,” he said, grateful for instructions that made his chest less busy.

Aoi set her cup down. “May I… ask permission to be honest?”

“Always,” his mother said, not unkind.

“I like your son,” Aoi said, not performing, as if reporting inventory. “We have rules. We are slow. We will stay slow until my contract’s last day is finished and the last bow is real. After, we will still be slow because the world is fast enough. I will not bring mess to your door.”

“My door is used to shoes,” his mother said. “Bring good shoes.” Then, gentler, “We are adults. We do not collect trophies; we collect days. If you keep each other person while collecting days, you have my tea.”

Aoi bowed her head briefly. “Thank you.”

“Tea finished,” his mother said, with the merciful instinct to move rooms along when things have landed. “We cut.”

The knife went through rested ngoh hiang like a sentence that knew where it was going. Cross‑sections revealed filling tidy and skin smug. Steam made the correct small clouds. Aoi arranged slices offset, not stacked, because airflow is manners. “We plate without high buildings,” she quoted, already bilingual in auntie.

They ate standing for the first slice, then sitting because sitting makes flavor last. Dip did its diplomacy. Crunch of water chestnut announced itself and retired. Five‑spice remembered to be background singer.

“Moral lesson?” Aleem teased.

“Sharp knife; soft hand,” Aoi said. “Oil waits.” She chewed, eyes closing briefly. “And rest makes architecture.”

“Promoted to medium spicy chili,” his mother declared, sliding the small saucer closer. “You have potential.”

They reached for seconds at a pace that would make doctors approve. The kitchen smelled like a holiday that had decided not to push.

They packed a box for Auntie Lila because keeping aunties resourced is how neighborhoods remain civilised. Aoi labelled it–ngoh hiang / today / heat gently– with lowercase calm. His mother wrote lemongrass later on the shopping list, nodding to Nadiah’s last sermon.

“Dish station,” his mother decreed. “We do not let oil win.”

Aoi wiped the wok with tissue, then boiled water in it because auntie techniques involve physics; the oil sulked and released. Aleem scrubbed the rack where crumbs had staged a brief protest. They stacked, not artistically but correctly.

At the table, his mother slid a small envelope across to Aoi. “Inside, recipe,” she said. “And my phone number for when you panic in another kitchen.”

Aoi received it with both hands. “I will panic politely,” she promised. “And I will send photos of failures only to you and kitchen cat if present.”

“Kitchens must fail privately sometimes,” his mother said. “Public only gets success after it behaves.”

At the door, shoes auditioned for outside again. Aoi lifted her palm–flat. Two taps; one hold; three light taps. “Here,” she said. “Stay. Air.”

“Here,” he returned. “Stay. Air.” He touched his own cheekbone with two fingers–the grammar they had earned. “Request?”

She smiled, pressing his hand–later. Then she leaned and kissed his cheek at the angle flour prefers. “For oil patience,” she said, amused. “For bench.”

“Oil patience,” he echoed.

They bowed–earned, finite, correct. She left with a small box of ngoh hiang and a recipe in an envelope that had already decided to grow fingerprints.

He washed the last cup because leaving one behind is how ants write their own constitution. Then he opened the locker door’s paper museum and cut three squares from the corner of a calendar that had given up on months and joined the family of labels.

Sharp knives are kindness.
Oil waits for patience.
Ask futures; don’t demand them.

He slid them under Rest is allowed and above Hold the room steady. The stack made the soft sound of paper recognizing kin.

His phone chimed once.

A: Home. Department Chair passed me with medium chili. Oil patience filed. Thank you for benching while futures spoke.

Aleem: Home. Paper museum updated. Recipe archived. Next lab: fish cake or tofu puffs? We proceed by invitation.

A: Proceed. After Tokyo, we will cook and be boring on purpose. For now, we practice knife, oil, rules.

He set the phone face down. The fan rehearsed rain. The wok dried without sulking. He lay on his side facing the wall that had memorized his breath and counted, not for magic, but for structure that had agreed to be theirs.

Two in, hold, three out.

Respect. Distance. Gratitude.

Outside, an auntie compared chopstick bubble tests with a neighbor over the stairwell, a courier learned to balance soup for a flat that believes in rules, and in a kitchen that had passed an exam, a plate of ngoh hiang waited to be taken to another table where it would be judged correctly by teeth, not phones.