Skinny Cook: Coco Kwok瘦厨子 Coco Kwok

Coco从前骨瘦如柴，怕冷，和我总是伦敦最早穿上秋裤的那帮人。可是就这样，Coco毕业之后的第一份工作是去家附近的鱼摊（fish monger）帮忙。冬天太阳升得晚，她很早摸黑去上班。为了保鲜，鱼都摊在冰里，地面和空气湿冷，她的手也冻得通红。很难想象个头不高的她是怎么搬动成箱的水产的，但她告诉我们自己得到这份工作时眉飞色舞，干瘦的脸上难得地绽出大笑，兴奋地讲个不停。2016年冬天她从圣马丁的服装面料毕业，不想进时尚行业，只想做个厨子，可她在伦敦的餐饮业是毫无背景的一张白纸。所以能呆在自己喜欢的地方她就很知足了。她就开始尝试在家做私厨（supper club），取名NewGate Studio，有人愿意来吃饭她就高兴到不得了。许多现在待客的许多仪式那时就有：在暖色的新闻纸上用黑色水笔写下今日的菜单，画上些果蔬杯盘，偶尔有个衣袍宽大的人形，正独自坐着或者抽着烟。这是她的插画，线条萧索，带些笨拙，偶尔又见得到可能是从前设计衣服时利落的笔法，像Cy Twombly。因为有关厨房和食物，这些画面变得温热。

认识Coco之前我并不太会吃东西，从高中到大学一直寄宿，从未厌恶食堂，来了伦敦大多数时候是在煮挂面和速冻水饺。因为偶尔低血糖，常常冲进超市买巧克力和面包狼吞虎咽下去。食物是我的生命必需品，似乎也只是必需品。有次我下课时要路过Coco家，便提前两三个小时发了信息问能不能过去见个面，顺便在她那里吃点东西——我想的就是煮碗面或者买个三明治带去她家吃。但Coco很生气，说这怎么会有时间准备呢，要提前说，这不是买一个三明治或者煮碗面的事，在她的厨房里这不可能发生。我当时意识到，对于Coco来说食物是作品，不，甚至比作品更需要被珍重，因为食材难遇且不等人。烹调于她，不是我的应付；吃饭当然也不是我的果腹即可。对她来说，烹煮饮食是件见心见性的事。

认识Coco和是因为她和她的妈妈吴洁来看我的艺术项目，当时我和吴洁聊得热络，Coco偶尔说句话，自在寡言。没多久，我们一起去了CASS雕塑公园看展览，回到伦敦Coco带我们去了东伦敦的一家餐厅St. John Bread and Wine。平常不太讲话的Coco突然变作主角，说起这家以一头趴着的猪为标志的餐厅可以把一头猪从猪鼻子到猪尾巴全部入菜，难得对食材珍惜而无偏见。我们蘸着加了海盐粒的橄榄油嚼着切片面包，等菜时嘴巴里慢慢就生出了一些甘甜。我第一次吃到了烤牛骨髓（后来学会了从Waitrose买来自己烤），配一小撮欧芹菜，动物油膏的滑腻被植物的清脆中和，留下一阵馥郁香气。甜品里有一道伏特加酒浇在水果冰沙（Sorbet）上，吃到饭晕时被这一勺辛辣冰凉浇醒过来。我头一回觉得（混了法式的）英国菜不是炸鱼薯条那么简单，当然，印象最深的，是Coco说一般人我可不会带出来到这儿吃饭。而另一个印象深刻的，是吴洁担心Coco吃不胖。

Coco对食物诚恳、尊重，副作用是挑剔而固执，St. John是我印象中她在伦敦唯一一家会再三回返的餐厅，平常她几乎不会买临时的吃食，也不愿意为了网红餐厅买单，饿了顶多在外面买杯咖啡就坐上公交车回家做饭。她在圣马丁读书的时候，中午顶多吃一小杯酸奶，一放工就立刻回家。或许因为这挑剔，作为一个立志成为厨师的人，她居然瘦到让人担心。都是留学生，相形之下，我来者不拒、从不挑食，要务是喂饱自己，因此常常去她家蹭饭。其实最早我在她的餐桌上被“禁止发言”，因为常会语出惊人，四下白眼翻飞，而另一位朋友金老师则总能尝出烹调里的佐料和食材而被倍加宠爱。我才发现自己其实缺乏对食物和烹调的知识，甚至常识，因而也无从体会厨师的巧思妙想。这样想来，我们能在对食物的认知水平如此悬殊的情况下生出一段友谊，实属难得。

可以说我是在朋友们的启发和熏陶之中，在不断回到她的餐厅的过程里，重新发现了Coco的食物。我记得在她家吃的第一顿饭，她喜欢做肉菜，但不是红烧肉或者炖鸡汤这样的菜式，而是烤鹌鹑、蒸一种我没见过的粉红色的鱼，几盘小碟腌菜里有小萝卜（radish）和黄瓜。她的菜里有对故乡广东和祖父母的思念，也有少年之后在英国寻得的慰藉，但最后是她对此时此地的食物的理解，像她从前的Instagram的签名，“Cantonese Root, British Leaves”。到后来，我和朋友们总能吃到她最近的试验——或许是她自己灌的香肠（结果被狐狸叼走了），再是自己腌的咸鸭蛋，慢慢可以观察到她在菜式上越来越有自己的风格。她的菜里带着食材的本味，依靠搭配制造出丰富的口感，并不会浓酱重彩，也并不震慑或惊艳，但微妙、暖和、惬意又自在，会让人想聆听、体味、给予时间。我记得有配了黑芝麻糊的南瓜汤，新鲜的鱼生和花生碎，还有一道清蒸大葱（Leek，不辣且可以当菜吃的葱）和海米。作为山东人，我吃惊的尝了尝，结果发现特别清甜。

还是别说太多食物了，说多了我会露馅。以上提及的食材搭配一定有些错漏，但这都是我一个不专业的食客记忆里心眼舌胃被食物点醒的时刻，聊以记录，以便诸位能认识一下我人生中第一个认识的大厨。印象里和Coco在一起的饮食时光总是很踏实，即便她家冬天暖气欠奉，看到Coco在小小的灶台上炖煮着食物，会想起日本的老匠工或者掌了一辈子勺的老奶奶，她气定神闲地抽着烟，但心思还全然系在食物上。这种超出自身年龄的气场能让人相信她的食物。这两年Coco开始开始去St. John帮厨，去读了厨师学校，也被更多食客慕名寻来。或许是因为走进了别人的厨房，或许是碰到了更多的同道与同好，她在Instagram上明显话多了。前一阵子去她周末驻留的咖啡馆Meletius，我看到她裹着头巾、戴着围裙，在餐台上展开自己的刀具包，尤其两颊还多了些肉。做完饭她到门口抽着烟看着我们吃东西，眼里带着欣慰和桀骜，着实像《东京大饭店》里的木村拓哉。感觉五年走来，她终于站到了大家眼前，用自己的身形大声宣告“我是一个厨师”。至于从一开始，为什么她愿意做饭给我吃，或许就像我愿意写一篇文章给她，我们都是用自己的方式去照看一个身边的人。而我吃着吃着，觉得或许我懂了一点她的食物。

2021年9月7日

伦敦

Machine translation (AI) of the Chinese original, not yet reviewed by the author. Please cite the original.

Coco used to be as thin as a rake and hated the cold; she and I were always among the first people in London to put on our long johns. Even so, Coco’s first job after graduating was helping out at the fishmonger near her home. In winter the sun rises late, and she would set off for work early, in the dark. To keep the fish fresh, they were laid out on ice; the floor and the air were damp and cold, and her hands were red raw. It was hard to imagine how someone as small as her shifted whole crates of seafood, but when she told us she’d got the job she was beaming, a rare broad grin breaking across her thin face, and she couldn’t stop talking about it. In the winter of 2016 she had graduated from Central Saint Martins in fashion textiles. She didn’t want to go into fashion; she only wanted to be a cook. But in London’s restaurant world she was a blank sheet of paper, with no background at all. So she was content just to be somewhere she liked. She began trying out a supper club at home, which she called NewGate Studio, and whenever anyone wanted to come for dinner she was over the moon. Many of the rituals she uses with guests today were already there back then: the day’s menu written in black marker on warm-toned newsprint, with a few drawings of fruit and vegetables, cups and plates, and now and then a figure in loose, wide robes sitting alone or smoking. These are her illustrations – the lines spare and forlorn, a little clumsy, though sometimes you can glimpse the deft strokes she perhaps once used for designing clothes, a bit like Cy Twombly. Because they are about kitchens and food, the pictures take on a warmth.

Before I met Coco I didn’t really know how to eat. I boarded all the way through secondary school and university and never minded canteen food; after coming to London I mostly lived on boiled dried noodles and frozen dumplings. Because I sometimes had low blood sugar, I would often dash into a supermarket and wolf down chocolate and bread. Food was a necessity of life for me, and seemingly nothing more than a necessity. Once, on my way home from class, I was going to pass Coco’s place, so two or three hours beforehand I messaged to ask whether I could drop by to see her and grab something to eat there – what I had in mind was boiling a bowl of noodles or bringing a sandwich round to eat at hers. But Coco was cross. How could there be time to prepare anything? I had to tell her in advance; this wasn’t a matter of buying a sandwich or boiling some noodles – in her kitchen that could never happen. I realised then that for Coco food was a work of art – no, something that deserves even more care than a work of art, because good ingredients are hard to come by and don’t wait for anyone. Cooking, for her, was not something to get through, as it was for me; and eating, of course, was not just a matter of filling your stomach. For her, cooking and eating were things that revealed your heart and your nature.

I got to know Coco because she and her mother, Wu Jie, came to see an art project of mine. Wu Jie and I hit it off and chatted away, while Coco put in the odd word, relaxed and quiet. Not long after, we went together to see an exhibition at the Cass Sculpture Foundation, and back in London Coco took us to a restaurant in East London, St. John Bread and Wine. Coco, who didn’t usually talk much, suddenly took centre stage. She told us that this restaurant, whose logo is a pig lying down, could turn a whole pig, from snout to tail, into dishes – a rare way of treasuring ingredients without prejudice. We dipped slices of bread in olive oil sprinkled with sea-salt flakes and chewed, and as we waited for the food a slow sweetness rose in our mouths. It was my first taste of roast bone marrow (later I learnt to buy it at Waitrose and roast it myself), served with a small pinch of parsley: the slipperiness of the animal fat balanced by the crispness of the leaves, leaving behind a rich fragrance. One of the desserts was vodka poured over a fruit sorbet; just as the food coma set in, that spoonful of fiery cold brought me round. For the first time I felt that British food (with a French influence) was not as simple as fish and chips. What stuck with me most, of course, was Coco saying that she wouldn’t bring just anyone here. The other thing that stuck was Wu Jie worrying that Coco just couldn’t put on weight.

Coco is sincere and respectful towards food; the side effect is that she is fussy and stubborn. St. John is the only restaurant in London I can remember her going back to again and again. Normally she hardly ever bought food on the go, and wouldn’t pay for trendy Instagram restaurants; if she was hungry, the most she would do was buy a coffee while out, then get the bus home to cook. When she was studying at Saint Martins, lunch was at most a small pot of yogurt, and the moment she finished for the day she went straight home. Perhaps because of this fussiness, for someone set on becoming a chef, she was astonishingly, worryingly thin. We were both international students, but by contrast I would eat anything and was never picky – my priority was feeding myself – so I often turned up at hers to cadge a meal. In fact, at first I was “banned from speaking” at her table, because I often said outrageous things that set eyes rolling all round, while another friend, Teacher Jin, could always taste the seasonings and ingredients in a dish and so was doted on. That was when I discovered how little knowledge – or even common sense – I had about food and cooking, which meant I had no way of appreciating a cook’s clever ideas. Looking at it this way, it’s remarkable that we formed a friendship at all, given how far apart our understanding of food was.

You could say that it was through my friends’ inspiration and influence, and through going back to her restaurant again and again, that I rediscovered Coco’s food. I remember the first meal I ate at her home. She liked cooking meat, but not dishes like red-braised pork or stewed chicken soup; instead it was roast quail, a steamed pink fish I had never seen before, and a few little dishes of pickles, including radishes and cucumber. Her food carries a longing for her home province of Guangdong and for her grandparents, and also the comfort she found in Britain after her teenage years, but in the end it is her own understanding of food here and now – like the bio she used to have on Instagram: “Cantonese Root, British Leaves”. Later on, my friends and I always got to eat her latest experiments – perhaps sausages she had stuffed herself (which ended up being carried off by a fox), then salted duck eggs she had cured herself – and gradually we could see her developing more and more of her own style. Her dishes keep the natural flavour of the ingredients and create a rich range of textures through combination. They are never heavy on sauce or colour, and they don’t overwhelm or dazzle; they are subtle, warm, comfortable and at ease, the kind of food that makes you want to listen, savour and give it time. I remember a pumpkin soup with black sesame paste, fresh raw fish with crushed peanuts, and a dish of steamed leeks (the kind of allium that isn’t sharp and can be eaten as a vegetable) with dried shrimps. As someone from Shandong, I tasted it in surprise, and found it wonderfully sweet and fresh.

Better not to say too much about the food, or I’ll give myself away. There are bound to be mistakes in the pairings I’ve mentioned above, but these are all moments, in the memory of an amateur eater, when food woke up my eyes, heart, tongue and stomach. I set them down here, for what they’re worth, so that you can all meet the first real chef I ever knew. In my memory, the times spent eating with Coco always felt grounded. Even though her flat was short of heating in winter, watching her simmer food on her tiny hob would make me think of an old Japanese craftsman, or an old granny who has worked the wok all her life: she would smoke calmly, but her mind was entirely on the food. That presence, beyond her years, makes you trust her food. In the past two years Coco has started working in the kitchen at St. John, gone to cookery school, and more and more diners have sought her out on the strength of her reputation. Perhaps because she has stepped into other people’s kitchens, or perhaps because she has met more kindred spirits and fellow enthusiasts, she has clearly become much chattier on Instagram. A little while ago I went to Meletius, the café where she has a weekend residency, and saw her in a headscarf and apron, unrolling her knife bag on the counter – and, notably, her cheeks had filled out a bit. After cooking she stood at the door smoking and watching us eat, a look of satisfaction and defiance in her eyes, just like Kimura Takuya in Grand Maison Tokyo. It feels as if, after five years, she has finally stepped out in front of everyone and is loudly declaring, with her own body, “I am a chef.” As for why she was willing to cook for me from the very beginning – perhaps it is like why I am willing to write this piece for her: we are each, in our own way, looking after someone close to us. And as I kept on eating, I felt that perhaps I had come to understand a little of her food.

7 September 2021

London