C62: Golden Ratio Shaomai
"It should be fine."
In the kitchen tucked behind the Harlem antique store—once a rumored safehouse for S.H.I.E.L.D. agents before HYDRA's infiltration—Li Ran took the time to open the bamboo steamer.
The moment the lid came off, a powerful aroma surged outward like a concussive blast, thick and fragrant. Li Ran blinked. For a second, he could swear he saw a golden shimmer wafting up from the steam, like the halo of light that sometimes surrounds the Power Cosmic artifacts from deep space.
Of course, it might just be his imagination.
After all, this was the world of Marvel and DC, not "Chuuka Ichiban!"—though in this reality, he was beginning to wonder if food itself might just qualify as a superpower.
Shaking his head to dispel the image of a culinary showdown between Aunt May and Alfred Pennyworth, Li Ran turned his attention back to the bamboo-lined steamer.
Laid carefully atop emerald lettuce leaves, the siomai gleamed with moisture, their translucent skins practically glowing under the kitchen light. Even though he had made them himself, Li Ran's throat moved with anticipation as he swallowed involuntarily.
"Golden Ratio Siomai."
He murmured the name softly.
It was a dish straight from the first appearance of [Xie Lu] in Chuuka Ichiban!—where the "Steel Stick Chef" faced off against the young culinary prodigy Liu Angxing. In that match, Xie Lu's golden ratio siomai—a culmination of years of refined technique lost to the unpredictable ingenuity of Liu's "Cosmic Big Siomai."
But for those who paid attention, Xie Lu hadn't really been defeated by taste. He had chosen to concede, impressed by the young master's innovation, recognizing that raw creativity like Tony Stark building the Mark I suit in a cave, sometimes supersedes mastery.
Still, setting aside anime culinary showdowns, the fragrance rising from the steamer had already ignited Li Ran's hunger like a Phoenix Force awakening in his gut.
He plucked a siomai from the steamer and popped it into his mouth. Immediately, layers of flavor unfurled—umami pork, sweet-savory shrimp, and the vegetal freshness of Chinese cabbage danced across his palate like Spider-Man flipping through Midtown traffic.
"Unfortunately… without the smooth, umami-laced finish of authentic Jinhua ham, the taste lacks that final oily-yet-light note," he muttered, chewing thoughtfully.
Perhaps it was the influence of the [Xie Lu] D-rank card still occupying one of his system slots. As a [Superior Pastry Chef], Xie Lu's passive memory-transfer skill made Li Ran hyper-aware of subtleties in taste and texture. Just like how Batman could detect a poisoned glass of wine from scent alone, Li Ran could identify a missing layer of flavor with precision.
Still, despite being limited by supermarket-grade ingredients and no access to premium cuts or heirloom spices, the siomai was undeniably excellent.
But the question lingered in Li Ran's mind like a dangling plot thread in a crossover event: How should I use the [Xie Lu] card?
Unlike his [Phantom Thief Kid] or [Ah Xing] cards, [Xie Lu] had no combat utility, no stealth or subterfuge, no mystical martial prowess like Iron Fist's chi or Shang-Chi's pressure-point strikes. But that didn't make him worthless. Culinary mastery—especially in a city as competitive as New York could still shift the tide in unexpected ways.
And this card had cost a thousand Legends.
He frowned, glanced around the modest kitchen, and then let his gaze settle on the now-empty steamer.
Or maybe…
A wild idea struck him like Thor's hammer landing on his foot.
---
Three days later — Upper West Side, New York.
On the same avenue where Peter Parker once chased down an ice cream truck in Ultimate Spider-Man, a bold new food truck now parked in defiance of the countless burger and hot dog stands surrounding it.
Painted a bold crimson red with golden trim reminiscent of a Shaolin monk's robe, the food truck featured elegant Chinese calligraphy over its awning: "Steel Stick Gourmet: Taste the Ratio". Bamboo steamers were stacked high in the kitchen window, reminiscent of the mystical pots seen in Dr. Strange's Kamar-Taj kitchens.
For many New Yorkers, these utensils were foreign—something seen only in Chinatown or in a flashback panel involving ancient martial arts masters. But the scent—God, the scent—was undeniable.
Most passersby wrinkled their noses at the unfamiliar, preferring the comfort of greasy pretzels and churros. But a few brave souls couldn't resist the siren song of slow-cooked dim sum.
"Yo, buddy, what is this?" asked the first customer—a bald, heavyset Black man in a Knicks hoodie who looked like he could bench press a subway train. He sauntered up to the window with curiosity and caution.
"Dim sum," came the reply, delivered in awkward English.
The speaker emerged from inside the truck. Towering, bronze-skinned, and muscular, he had a jagged scar trailing down one cheek and eyes like he'd stared down Killer Croc in Arkham Asylum. He wore a white apron, faintly stained with flour and soy.
His presence felt less like a cook and more like someone who once sparred with Luke Cage in an underground martial arts tournament.
"Dim… sum?" The man blinked, unconvinced. Then his eyes moved to the menu board.
His jaw dropped.
"Ten dollars? Bro, you outta your mind?" he barked. "This ain't Avengers Tower or Times Square! You tryna rob people on 89th?"
For comparison, most food trucks priced their meals around five to seven bucks, unless they were featured on a TikTok food blogger's Top Ten. This truck, new and unproven, had zero clout. Ten bucks for dumplings? Absurd.
"As someone who's eaten at almost every cart in Manhattan including that guy near Hell's Kitchen who claims Daredevil blessed his gyro—I'm telling you, man, you need to cut this price down."
"You don't have to eat," came the chef's sharp reply.
It was blunt, unapologetic, and utterly confident. Like Namor telling Wakandans to surrender.
The bald man was momentarily stunned. He glared at the chef, then glanced back at the bamboo steamers.
The smell… damn, the smell.
He stood in agonized silence, the internal war between pride and appetite raging within him like Hulk and Banner fighting for control.
Eventually, appetite won.
Grumbling under his breath, he pulled out a crumpled $10 bill and waved it like a white flag.
"One 'Golden Ratio Siomai,' alright?" he muttered.
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