Chapter 3

The plate held a few translucent strips of pickled radish and some bright green lengths of pickled long beans, drizzled with a little glossy red sesame oil.

It needed nothing else. Just looking at it made your mouth water.

"Mr. Whitaker, would you like to try some?" Rose handed him a pair of chopsticks.

Walter's hand shook as he picked up a piece of radish and put it in his mouth.

Crunch.

The crisp sound rang out in the quiet living room.

Sour, spicy, crunchy, sweet.

The four flavors burst across his tongue and woke up taste buds that had been asleep for a long time.

Tears suddenly poured down the old man's face.

"That's it... that's the taste!"

He cried and kept reaching for more, shouting through a full mouth, "Rice! Get me some rice! A big bowl of it!"

That night, after three days of refusing food, Walter ate three big bowls of rice in one sitting with nothing but that plate of pickles.

When he finished, he was flushed and beaming. He patted his stomach and took hold of Rose's hand and wouldn't let go. "My dear, those hands of yours work miracles! This beats any medicine in the world!"

Rose's pickles took off.

It started with the Whitakers' driver, who got one taste and went back to brag to his buddies on the security team.

"That flavor? Unbelievable! One bite and you could work three extra hours!"

Next, the Filipino maid from the villa next door caught the smell and leaned over the wall to ask, "Excuse me, what is that smell? So good!"

Rose was warmhearted, and she gave a bowl to anyone who asked.

She never imagined that giving it away would lead to something big.

The neighbor was a wealthy businessman who had grown sick of eating rich food every day. After one taste of Rose's pickled green beans stir-fried with ground pork, he chewed out his own five-star chef on the spot.

"Look at this! This is real food for real people! What is that French crap you keep making?"

The businessman came by the Whitakers' house with two bottles of top-shelf bourbon. The visit was really about something else. When he left, he shamelessly talked his way into carrying off a whole jar of pickles.

Word spread, and then it spread some more.

The whole expat circle in the villa district was buzzing.

In a foreign land, the hardest thing to buy wasn't a Hermès bag or a luxury car. It was an authentic taste of home that stirred up homesickness.

Three days later came the scene from the very beginning.

Luxury cars blocked the gate, and rich people lined up.

Someone offered a thousand dirhams, close to three hundred dollars, for a single jar.

Someone even tried to lure Rose away with a big salary to be his private chef.

Mr. Whitaker watched it all, proud and exasperated at once.

"Rose, your pickles have turned into hard currency." He gave a wry smile.

Rose was a little dazed herself. "Sir, I don't have that much. Pickling takes time."

"Scarcity drives up value." Mr. Whitaker was a businessman, and his mind worked fast. "Rose, don't give away that last crock. I'm meeting my big boss tonight, and this will make the perfect gift."

Mr. Whitaker's big boss was Damian Sterling, Chairman of the Sterling Group and a famous American business titan in the Middle East.

Damian controlled tens of billions in assets. In Dubai, he could make things happen with a word.

That night, they met in a private room at the lavish seven-star Burj Al Arab.

The table was covered with the finest delicacies, caviar, lobster and foie gras, but Damian, seated at the head, showed no interest.

Something had been weighing on him lately.

His elderly father, Old Mr. Sterling, was ninety, and his health had been getting worse. He was so homesick that he couldn't eat.

"Mr. Sterling..." Mr. Whitaker forced himself to step forward. "I heard your father hasn't had much appetite. These are some homemade pickles our housekeeper made. I thought he might like to try them."

Damian's brow furrowed instantly.

He glanced at the crude, countrified crock, his eyes full of disbelief and a flicker of restrained anger.

"Rich, are you joking with me?"

Damian pointed at the table of top-tier dishes in the room, barely touched. "My father won't even look at white truffles that cost thousands of dollars an ounce, and you want him to eat this? Junk food loaded with nitrites?"

Mr. Whitaker was so embarrassed he wished the floor would swallow him. "Mr. Sterling, this housekeeper really is something. People are fighting over these. I just thought... what if? It's worth a shot when nothing else has worked."

Damian waved a hand irritably. "Fine, fine, leave it over there. I'll have someone deal with it when I get a chance."

He had no intention of giving it to his father.

Just then, a fit of violent coughing came from the suite, followed by the private nurse's frantic cry. "Mr. Sterling! Your father's trying to pull out his IV!"

Damian's face changed, and he rushed into the room.

On the bed, Old Mr. Sterling, withered to skin and bones, was having a fit of temper and threw his pillow to the floor. "No more IV! I can't taste anything! I want to die! Let me die!"

The room was in chaos.

Standing at the door, Mr. Whitaker found some courage from somewhere and quietly lifted the lid of the clay crock.

In that instant,

a bold, sour and spicy aroma, deepened by the years, drifted slowly into the room that reeked of disinfectant, like an invisible hook.

Old Mr. Sterling, who had been struggling and roaring, suddenly went still.

His nostrils flared hard, twice.

In that moment, time seemed to stop.

Damian froze. "Dad?"

Old Mr. Sterling slowly turned his head. His cloudy eyes locked onto the doorway, and a dry sound came from his throat. "That... that's..."

Mr. Whitaker hurried over with a small plate holding only a few strips of radish.

Damian moved to stop him. "Rich, that's not sanitary..."

"You ungrateful son, shut your mouth!"

With strength from who knew where, Old Mr. Sterling shoved his son aside, reached out with a trembling hand, grabbed a strip of radish, and without any thought for appearances, stuffed it straight into his mouth.

Crunch.

A crisp snap.

Then a second strip, and a third.

The old man who had been begging to die a moment ago now looked like a child who hadn't eaten in three days. He clutched the plate as big tears fell onto the pickles.

"Dad? Slow... slow down!" Damian was completely stunned.

The old man ate slowly and carefully.

With every bite, he seemed to be reliving a long-buried memory.

After the last bite, Old Mr. Sterling closed his eyes, and two clear tears ran down his wrinkled cheeks.

"So like it... so much like it..."

Having finished the last bite, Old Mr. Sterling suddenly grabbed Mr. Whitaker by the collar with startling strength.

"Who made this? Who made this? Take me to her! Now! Right now!"