When the plane landed at the airport, the Hoffenheim players still carried the fatigue they brought back from Sevilla, but more than that, there was the excitement of escaping death and the satisfaction of a precious victory. On the way back to the training base, Gnabry seemed to think of something; he gently poked Oliver, who was looking out the window beside him.
"Hey, our goal-scoring hero," Gnabry deliberately drew out his words, with the unique German teasing tone, "What you said… the feast, does it still count?"
Gnabry's shout immediately drew responses from the seats in front and behind.
Uth poked his head over the front seat back: "Yeah, yeah! A last-minute goal for a big meal, Oliver, you said it."
Amiri, next to him, also joined in: "Oliver, you have to keep your word! My legs almost gave out running to pass you the ball!"
Even Vogt, who was usually more reserved, cast an expectant gaze from two rows back.
The noisy clamor made Oliver shift his gaze from the scenery outside the window; he nodded: "It counts, of course it counts."
The car instantly erupted in louder cheers and whistles.
"Awesome!" Uth excitedly patted the seat back.
"But don't get too happy too soon," Oliver poured cold water on them at the right moment, "Whether I can make it depends on whether I can buy the ingredients, and… you might not be able to handle the taste."
Oliver recalled the expressions of the Birmingham customers when they first tasted Chinese food when his mom's restaurant first opened. Mom lacked experience at the time and made some spicier dishes; customers kept wanting to drink milk after eating, and later, spicy dishes were no longer on Oliver Mom's restaurant menu.
"What's there to be afraid of!" Gnabry said confidently, "I've even seen your ridiculous last-minute left-footed curl, so how could I be afraid of your cooking?"
"Exactly!" Amiri echoed, "At worst, let Vogt help you buy the groceries. He's the expert among us; he knows which supermarket has the freshest meat and the most vibrant vegetables."
Vogt shrugged from a distance, indicating his agreement; he was the type of domestic husband who was very experienced. This suggestion was immediately approved by everyone, and Oliver thought about it and agreed. Having everyone participate was more interesting than preparing alone and could also bring them closer.
Moreover, he indeed needed a "guide." As a 17-year-old professional player, Oliver's time was packed with training and matches; getting a driver's license and learning to drive wasn't even on his schedule yet. He couldn't drive yet. The next day after returning to the club, on a rest day morning, the sun was just right, carrying a hint of early winter chill. Vogt's spacious SUV appeared punctually below Oliver's dormitory building. As soon as the car stopped, Gnabry poked his head out of the passenger seat and waved to him. Oliver opened the car door; Uth and Amiri in the back seat were enthusiastically discussing something, and the car was filled with the vitality and arguments of young men.
"Are you all ready? Destination: supermarket," Vogt, like an experienced hunter, steered steadily and turned to ask Oliver,
"Oliver, have you decided on the menu?"
Oliver nodded and rattled off a few names: "Noodles, Biryani, Cucumber Salad, Stir-fried Tomatoes with Eggs…"
After he finished, he looked at the curious faces around him and added, "Don't worry, these dishes are mainly fried and sweet-and-sour, which I think you'll find easier to accept, plus some refreshing cold dishes."
Oliver had a deep understanding of this; at his family's small restaurant in Birmingham, England, the best-selling dishes were sweet-and-sour or crispy fried dishes, which European customers particularly enjoyed. Oliver's experience of helping in the restaurant kitchen and being influenced by it since childhood made him well aware of the acceptance and popularity of these dishes.
"OK! The meat ingredients are on me," Vogt said confidently, "I guarantee I'll pick the best cut."
As a disciplined and self-controlled center-back and fitness enthusiast, Captain Vogt had almost strict standards for selecting quality protein. The car first drove to the largest local supermarket in Hoffenheim.
Uth curiously poked at the large dried shiitake mushrooms in a package; Gnabry picked up a bottle of chili oil, looked closely at the label, then put it back with a look of uncertainty; Amiri stared blankly at a row of soy sauces of different brands and colors:
"These are all… soy sauce? Why are there so many different shades?"
Oliver explained: "The lighter color is light soy sauce, for enhancing flavor; the darker color is dark soy sauce, mainly for coloring, like for braising or stewing…"
He skillfully moved through the seasoning area, muttering familiar names, his hand precisely taking bottles from the shelf: ginger garlic paste, basmati rice, white vinegar, small bottles of sesame oil, white sugar, potato starch, and other ingredients.
"This piece of meat is absolutely good!" Vogt's eyes lit up in front of a freezer, and he picked up a box of pork loin with a good mix of lean and fat, clear red and white.
"This loin looks tender enough and quite lean; it'll definitely be delicious when cooked." He examined the texture and color carefully under the light, like appreciating a work of art, and then satisfactorily placed it in the shopping cart.
He then purposefully selected a large piece of leaner pork belly, and subsequently picked a few well-sized chicken drumsticks from the freezer section. Gnabry watched from the side, clicking his tongue in amazement: "Captain, I didn't expect you to be so organized in the kitchen too!"
Uth immediately transformed into a porter, vigorously stuffing them into the cart.
Amiri, meanwhile, was stumped in front of the potato pile: "Oliver, these potatoes all look pretty much the same?"
"You want ones with a higher starch content; they won't get mushy easily when cooked." Oliver took one, weighed it, and looked at the skin, "Like these yellow-skinned ones are quite good, smooth surface without pits, and shallow eyes." He demonstrated by picking a few and putting them in the shopping cart, and Amiri followed suit, picking them similarly. "For green peppers, choose ones with a vibrant green color, thick skin, firm flesh, and a glossy surface. These will be less spicy but have a crisp texture," Oliver instructed in front of a pile of peppers.
Gnabry immediately picked up a few green bell peppers: "Is this it? They look very sturdy!"
Vogt shook his head from the side: "Serge, what you're holding is a bell pepper; the green pepper is this one."
He picked up a slightly smaller, more upright green pepper next to them.
"Choose ripe tomatoes, but not soft ones. The skin should be shiny and undamaged, and the stem should still be fresh green; they taste best when they become sandy when stir-fried with eggs," Oliver said while carefully selecting tomatoes at the stall.
Amiri followed behind, mimicking his actions, touching and squeezing, as serious as if he were doing scientific research.
Cucumbers, on the other hand, were the subject of debate between Uth and Gnabry.
"Of course, you have to choose straight ones!"
"No, slightly curved ones are fresher and more natural, right?"
Until the captain personally stepped forward, picking up a dark green, thorny cucumber that felt very firm when pinched: "When buying cucumbers, you should choose ones like this; they're fresh and crispy."
Vogt readily agreed and also purchased green onions and garlic along the way. The shopping cart was unknowingly filled to the brim: heavy potatoes, plump green and red peppers, shiny purple eggplants, fresh meat and poultry, various seasonings, and even unplanned radishes, tomatoes, cucumbers, and various auxiliary ingredients.
Oliver looked at these familiar ingredients, and images of food on the stove seemed to appear in his mind. His mother's busy figure in the back kitchen of the Birmingham restaurant became clear: the clanging of the wok, the sizzling of food frying in hot oil, the instant aroma that rose when vegetables hit the pan… Those memories and skills, long ingrained in his bones, now became a little taste of "home" that he could share with this group of foreign brothers who fought alongside him. The ingredients filled the trunk and the empty space in the back seat. On the way back, the car was even livelier. On the way back, everyone talked about why Oliver could cook, and Oliver mentioned that his family ran a small restaurant.
"Wow, Oliver, your family has a restaurant? That's so cool!" Uth was very interested in this topic.
"Yeah, my mom opened a small restaurant in Birmingham, and when I was little, I spent most of my time after school there," Oliver explained simply while looking out at the familiar streets, "Helping wash vegetables, carrying plates, watching my mom and the chefs busy, and by watching, I picked up a little myself."
"I bet your cooking is absolutely delicious," Amiri said with excitement and trust in his voice.
"A lot of pressure," Oliver rubbed his nose, a bit shy in his smile, "I have to try my best not to burn through the pot."
Vogt drove steadily, glancing in the rearview mirror at the excited guys in the back seat discussing who would smash the cucumbers and who would peel the potatoes later, and also saw Oliver in the passenger seat with an expectant look, a rare relaxed smile appearing on his face, one he seldom showed on the field. The post-match atmosphere indeed made everyone enjoy themselves more. The car drove into the players' apartment complex next to the training base and stopped below the building where Oliver lived.
"Come on, guys," Oliver opened the apartment door, stepping aside to let his teammates carrying large and small bags enter. A faint, subtle scent of a new home could already be smelled in the room.
"The kitchen is here. Today, welcome to Oliver's Little Hoffenheim Restaurant." The small apartment was instantly filled with the aroma of ingredients and the laughter of young men.
The real challenge was just beginning, but looking at the expectant faces before him, Oliver knew he had to make this meal well.
...
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