particular, that she was also pregnant with his child. Mixed-race couples need the support of their families, not prejudices and misplaced pride. Papa King’s objections finally ended when he met Marjatta’s father Jorma. Jorma was in the glazing business in Vaasa, and he looked at the world from the same one-square-yard-sized plot of his native land asKing did. Like King, Jorma thought that everything was better in the old days, and that all the new places, objects, ideas, jobs, generations and music were characterised by an inexcusable laziness.
Ming cooked for the whole gang. How could one doubt a man whose Karelian hotpot melted in the mouth – or indeed deny him anything? Ming himself called it a Fhong Bain hotpot, after a recipe of his mother’s, with the difference that in the Finnish version all the spices were left out. Ding had not written down any of her recipes, and Ming had inherited them by doing, watching and trying. In the same way he passed them on to his children, the eldest of whom was born in 1984 and received the name Ling Irmeli Po-Virtanen.
Ming’s establishment was in competition with the Tillikka Restaurant, which served its schnitzels and herring sandwiches with beer to railway staff, librarians and people from the local engineering works. In the evenings they moved on to fortified wine and schnapps. Ming had followed his mother’s instructions and adapted. He kept his restaurant open slightly later than the Tillikka and sold takeaway meals to people in a state of paralytic drunkenness. He also added schnitzel to his own menu. As soon as Ling Irmeli was three, Ming got her into the restaurant’s kitchen and dining room. The little girl learned the trade from her father and became a customer attraction. No matter how frozen a nation may be, a small child always wins hearts. Even dictators don’t use children only for propaganda purposes; they actually like them, for they provide a momentary relief from the planning of evil.
If the MasterChef format had been known in those days, Ming would have won the contest and received a boost to his career, but back then people preferred to watchcomedy shows about rural police chiefs, and Ming had to take a longer road.
One cannot cheat in the matter of cuisine. Merely good is not good enough, but excellent always sells in the end. The price must not be too high, but the price of excellence must not be too low either. Ming bought his chickens, pork and beef from the Finnish countryside, caught his fish himself, learned how to hunt, adapted moose to his own style of cooking, set traps for hares in his back yard and taught himself how to use all those edible plants that grow in the Finnish forest, but which the Finns had forgotten about since the 1750s. Ming used no artificial flavourings, because he had at his disposal the flavourings he inherited from his mother: love, daring, knowledge, courage, passion, and the ability to deal with failure.
In the mid-1980s the Malmi restaurant began to make a profit. In January 1989 some skinheads in pilot jackets smashed the window with an oar, but the next time they tried the same trick Ming invited them in and suggested they sample a bamboo leaf boat and a bowl of sweet-and-sour beef before they engaged in any more acts of vandalism and violence. If they could say in all honesty that it tasted bad, they could go ahead and throw their oar. Kick the asylum seekers to hell, as their slogan said. Pete, Miksu and Tumppi sampled the beef. It made their hair grow. The lads repaired the window and found summer jobs in Ming’s restaurant.
Ming escaped xenophobia, but to cope with the economic downturn he had only the same weapons as his neighbours. A pint of lager for ten Finnish marks. To that, too, Ming adapted, hanging up his mother’s wok on the wall and waiting beside his beer tap for the day when people would be hungry again and not thirsty all the time.
On the day that ice hockey star Ville Peltonen scored
Ming cooked for the whole gang. How could one doubt a man whose Karelian hotpot melted in the mouth – or indeed deny him anything? Ming himself called it a Fhong Bain hotpot, after a recipe of his mother’s, with the difference that in the Finnish version all the spices were left out. Ding had not written down any of her recipes, and Ming had inherited them by doing, watching and trying. In the same way he passed them on to his children, the eldest of whom was born in 1984 and received the name Ling Irmeli Po-Virtanen.
Ming’s establishment was in competition with the Tillikka Restaurant, which served its schnitzels and herring sandwiches with beer to railway staff, librarians and people from the local engineering works. In the evenings they moved on to fortified wine and schnapps. Ming had followed his mother’s instructions and adapted. He kept his restaurant open slightly later than the Tillikka and sold takeaway meals to people in a state of paralytic drunkenness. He also added schnitzel to his own menu. As soon as Ling Irmeli was three, Ming got her into the restaurant’s kitchen and dining room. The little girl learned the trade from her father and became a customer attraction. No matter how frozen a nation may be, a small child always wins hearts. Even dictators don’t use children only for propaganda purposes; they actually like them, for they provide a momentary relief from the planning of evil.
If the MasterChef format had been known in those days, Ming would have won the contest and received a boost to his career, but back then people preferred to watchcomedy shows about rural police chiefs, and Ming had to take a longer road.
One cannot cheat in the matter of cuisine. Merely good is not good enough, but excellent always sells in the end. The price must not be too high, but the price of excellence must not be too low either. Ming bought his chickens, pork and beef from the Finnish countryside, caught his fish himself, learned how to hunt, adapted moose to his own style of cooking, set traps for hares in his back yard and taught himself how to use all those edible plants that grow in the Finnish forest, but which the Finns had forgotten about since the 1750s. Ming used no artificial flavourings, because he had at his disposal the flavourings he inherited from his mother: love, daring, knowledge, courage, passion, and the ability to deal with failure.
In the mid-1980s the Malmi restaurant began to make a profit. In January 1989 some skinheads in pilot jackets smashed the window with an oar, but the next time they tried the same trick Ming invited them in and suggested they sample a bamboo leaf boat and a bowl of sweet-and-sour beef before they engaged in any more acts of vandalism and violence. If they could say in all honesty that it tasted bad, they could go ahead and throw their oar. Kick the asylum seekers to hell, as their slogan said. Pete, Miksu and Tumppi sampled the beef. It made their hair grow. The lads repaired the window and found summer jobs in Ming’s restaurant.
Ming escaped xenophobia, but to cope with the economic downturn he had only the same weapons as his neighbours. A pint of lager for ten Finnish marks. To that, too, Ming adapted, hanging up his mother’s wok on the wall and waiting beside his beer tap for the day when people would be hungry again and not thirsty all the time.
On the day that ice hockey star Ville Peltonen scored
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