Not by the Recipe

"Double-check if you have the recipe," Master said as I was heading out. I paused, took it from my bag, and waved it with a smile. "Don’t worry, Master. Even if I forget it, it's all up here." I tapped my temple.

As soon as I left, Mrs. Winfield greeted me with a nervous grin, pressing three silver coins into my hand. “For you,” she said.

I quickly declined, knowing these coins meant a lot to her. But she insisted, “Young man, I know my life may not be worth much, but my grandson, due next spring, certainly is. Your master's prescription calls for that rare 'Mist Matsutake, picked at 3 AM from Ram's Edge.' They’re nearly impossible to find! Please, I beg you, don’t just bring me any ordinary mushrooms!”

“Ma’am, this isn’t a prescription, it’s a recipe! You can trust me to find the real, authentic ingredients!” I tried my best to smile kindly, without any hint of superiority-- that’s the policy of my master’s kitchen—any mention of “prescription” had to be corrected. The recipe also ended in bold letters, stating, “Not approved by the Royal Medical Board.”

“My mistake, blame it on my old age.”Mrs. Winfield quickly said, “ But let me tell you something, young man: your master is a miracle doctor. That’s what everyone around here believes. When we ask for his recipe, it’s really about trust. I trust him! I trust you, and I trust this recipe to help me survive this illness and live a good few more years! I know these ingredients are rare, and this bit of silver is just to make your journey a little easier.”

After much back and forth, I finally accepted the silver and watched her leave. Then, I tossed the coins into the charity box inside the door. Master sat in his rocking chair, the morning light filtering through the window, catching the smoke curling from his pipe. In the haze of drifting smoke, he gave me his usual kind smile—though this time, it felt strangely knowing. My master was a man of few words, and when he spoke, it was always of great importance. Today, however, his words were even earth-shattering:

“When you return, it’s time I teach you the secret of the recipe.”

I bowed deeply to my master, but inside, I was bursting with joy. It took all my strength to hold it in, like trying to contain fireworks with a lit fuse inside a linen shirt. Only when I had left the village, and the smoke from my master’s kitchen had faded into a thin wisp, did I finally let myself burst open, leaping and laughing in the empty valley as my joy exploded into the air.

Ten years! For a whole decade, I have served my tight-lipped master, in his unremarkable, silent little kitchen, with its strange and mysterious recipes, never once glimpsing the secrets within. Not because I couldn’t—but because I didn’t want to. That recipe saved my life ten years ago and gave a home to a nobody like me. I’ve never gone without; I’ve had food, clothing, and even lessons in reading and writing. I’ve long regarded him as a father. He practices such a noble profession, and to assist him in the kitchen, helping desperate people find rare ingredients for his recipes, and being part of his healing mission—that’s been the greatest fortune of my life.

Driven by a sense of duty, I cleared my mind and recited the life-saving recipe once again:

Ingredients: 

From Deerbrook: 5 quail eggshells from black-and-white striped quails

From Oakmeadow: Half a liter of milk from pure black and pure white cows

From Desertglass: One bottle of 150-year-old wine

From Brackenfield: 2 pounds of beef belly, exactly 3 layers of fat and lean

From Ram’s Edge: 1 pound of Matsutake mushrooms, picked at 3 AM

Garlic，Rosemary，Onion，Thyme and Cinnamon sticks

Preparation：

Strained the wine through sun-baked desert stones to capture the heat of the sand;

Marinate the beef in wine within a berried gourd, absorbing the earth's coolness over 3 days;

Ground the quail eggshells on vocanic ash using a petrified tree branch; 

Burn the Matsutake under a glass dome at sunrise and only collect the first drop of tar;

Mix all ingredients and stir with willow branches, under the precise rhythm of a ticking clock, to form exactly 180 identical pancakes, each perfectly equal in weight.

Instructions:

Consume 1 pancake after breakfast and dinner.

Walk for an hour before, meditate for an hour after.

Note: 

Not approved by the Royal Medical Board. 

We serve cuisine, not prescriptions.

Trust is the finest ingredient at your table.

As I recited the last line, I couldn’t help but smile bitterly. My master had once been a top graduate of the Royal Medical Academy, opening a private clinic in the capital where his renowned skills made him famous nationwide. Big hospitals competed for his talents, and he was engaged to Minnia, the academy director’s daughter. Everything was perfect, maybe too perfect, and too early. In his youthful arrogance, he believed that even turning down the offer to become a royal physician wouldn’t affect his bright future—Until a “medical incident” changed his life. 

he still can’t understand why a fully recovered patient suddenly relapsed, and why the other patients who had been saved by him suddenly turned on him, accusing him of malpractice. His clinic was shut down, his medical license revoked, and his engagement ended. Betrayed and abandoned, shock, more than sorrow, he wandered for years before stumbling upon this remote, forgotten village. Here, by chance, he opened his humble kitchen. What seemed like an ending became the start of a new legend—over the decades, he gained the trust of many, still serving as a doctor under the guise of a chef's apron……

One week later, exhausted but triumphant, I returned with the prized Mist Matsutake. Heaven knows how I managed to get the rare ingredients, but that no longer mattered. What mattered was that after some closed-door work by Master, Mrs. Winfield happily left with her 180 mini pancakes.

That night, for the first time, I was invited into the inner “kitchen”. I was awestruck by its fine, luxurious details, scanning every corner like a thief of sights. The desk, the cabinets, the books, the rocking chair, the stove, and all the medical tools… In this poor village, Master had built his own sanctuary, piece by piece, much like a bird building its nest. It was in this small, refined space that he had saved so many lives.

My eyes skimmed over the gleaming silverware and the crystal-studded wine goblet, marveling at Master’s refined taste. He had wrapped his past in this small room, hiding memories of his elite life. Then something caught my eye—a sharp pang hit me as I recognized the 150-year-old wine bottle Mrs. Winfield had given him, sitting right in the middle of the table!

A rich aroma filled the room as Master brought over a dish of braised Matsutake and beef!

One, two, three… Three layers of fat, three layers of lean… My heart raced with unease. And...this was the very Matsutake I had risked my life for, climbing 800 meters up Ram’s Edge at 3 AM! I could recognize its distinct pattern anywhere.

“Why…why is this on... our table?” I stammered, still in shock. Master smiled but said nothing. I pressed on, “What... did you give Mrs. Winfield, then?”

“I gave her the power of belief.”

My mind spun, clouded with conflicting thoughts. “That makes sense—your recipe... has always brought life and hope to patients. But wait… are you telling me the pancakes weren’t made according to the recipe? That there’s no real medicinal value in them?”

Master raised his wine glass and took a sip, smiling calmly. “Beef, wine, milk, mushrooms picked at 3 AM… what medicinal value could they possibly have?”

“No, no… You’re joking. You’ve cured so many people with your secret recipe, people with terminal illnesses that no regular hospital could save! There must be something about the precise timing, the exact location, that gives the ingredients their power. Otherwise, how did so many patients recover?”

“Those who believe, survive,” he said, delicately wiping the slick oil from his mouth with a napkin. “I gave them vitamins, told them to eat on time, exercise, meditate, and most importantly, to believe they would live. My recipe is foolproof.” He added lightly, “If it doesn’t work, it’s because they didn’t believe hard enough. And everyone believes that.”

“Master… you must be teasing me. Your recipe… it’s real, right? Weren’t you going to teach me your secret?”

Master chuckled softly. “My lovely silly son! Use your imagination—write whatever you fancy in the recipe. Add the most impossible, bizarre ingredients, things no one could ever find. Oh, and here's a secret: make it up, if you want a treat for yourself. Indulge yourself sometimes. Don’t starve. Promise me, okay? This place is yours now. I’ll be leaving tomorrow. ”

I was stunned. “Why?” I looked at him in confusion.

“My time is up. My disease has no cure.”

I didn’t know whether to feel pity or anger. I searched his face for a trace of bitterness, but found none. It was as if he had shed the years of hardship, the lifelessness, and the marks of age etched into his features, and the confident vigor of his youth had suddenly returned. “In the time I have left, I want to roam freely. No more confinement in this little kitchen.”

Sympathy overtook my anger. Without thinking, I blurted out, “But why? You can write a recipe for yourself!”

“They’re lucky, the patients,—lucky to believe in hope, in my recipes. But me? I don’t believe.”

My anger surged again. What was the point of the recipe, the patients, his reputation? And what about me? I had braved storms, slept in the open air, waded through rivers, scaled cliffs, fought wild beasts, and risked my life countless times, searching every remote corner of the land—all for the ridiculous ingredients in his bizarre recipe? What am I in all of this?

 “You… you’re a fraud?” My voice trembled as I spoke.

My master was a man of few words, and when he spoke, it was always of great importance:

“The recipe isn’t approved by the Royal Medical Board. We serve cuisine, not prescriptions.”