Chapter Forty-Four: Rising Fame

Zhou Qian and his companion finished almost simultaneously with the plump chef. Fearing that the nearby diners might favor the chef out of courtesy, the three of them even switched soup pots to ensure no one could tell whose dish was whose.

Back in the restaurant, a crowd had already gathered. Several young attendants joined two tables together and set the soup pots for the Boiled Cabbage in Water upon them. The plump chef began to call out loudly—

“Ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters, everyone knows about the wager between these two young men and me, the fat chef. Today, we ask you all to bear witness: is the Sichuan cuisine of our Renhe Residence truly authentic, and can it compare to the skill of these two young gentlemen?”

“All right, since there’s only a limited amount of this clear soup dish, please nominate ten seasoned gourmets to taste these two versions of Boiled Cabbage in Water!”

At once, the crowd erupted into noisy debate—some clamoring, some modest, some canvassing for votes, others leveraging their connections. There’s no need to recount it all in detail; suffice it to say, after the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, ten tasters were chosen.

“Please, have a taste!” the plump chef said confidently.

The first to try was Old Huang of the teahouse, a cultured man who, after serving as an official, opened a teahouse and now spends his days cultivating flowers, sipping tea, and savoring food.

Old Huang first lifted the porcelain lid on the left. A rich, mellow fragrance wafted forth. The color was a pale yellow, clear and unblemished. He nodded in satisfaction, sipping the broth before tasting the cabbage, and after a long pause, smacked his lips and declared, “Not bad! The broth is excellent—on par with Taibai House!”

The onlookers buzzed with excitement. The three great restaurants of Sichuan—Taibai House, Heavenly Delicacies Hall, and Fragrant Residence—are the most renowned in the region, said to rival the famed street of scholars in the capital. Such high praise from Old Huang was not to be taken lightly.

He then lifted the lid of the other pot and was first stunned, then amazed, and stood silent for a long while.

“Old Huang, what’s the matter?” a familiar voice called.

“Is this carving depicting the landscapes of Sichuan?” Without waiting for a reply, he muttered to himself, “It must be. Look at Mount Qingcheng, look at the Tianma Bridge… To carve such a scene into a cabbage! To have Sichuan’s mountains and rivers within Sichuan cuisine—this artistry elevates the meaning by five or six degrees. It’s simply the work of gods and spirits!”

“Will you eat, Old Huang? If not, let someone else try!” someone shouted from behind. Old Huang raised his chopsticks, then set them down, repeating the action several times before sighing with a wry smile, “To think there’s a dish so exquisite I can’t bear to eat it—what a rare thing indeed! I’ll just taste the broth!”

The soup was as clear as water, cool and translucent. Old Huang was puzzled: “Why is this broth so flavorless?”

“Old man, is there something wrong with your nose? Try inhaling again,” Zhang Fu folded his arms and replied coolly. He was clearly displeased that his own broth had been overshadowed by Zhou Qian’s knife work.

Unbothered by the tone, Old Huang sniffed again. This time he detected a refined fragrance. Each subsequent sniff brought a stronger aroma, and by the ninth, he felt utterly refreshed, his senses awakened. At this level, the soup was truly peerless.

Unable to wait any longer, Old Huang took a sip, closed his eyes, and exclaimed, “This is indeed a supreme broth! The nine layers of returning flavor are well-deserved—remarkable!” Even his local dialect slipped out in excitement.

The others hurried forward, lacking Old Huang’s appreciation for subtlety, and soon the dish was devoured.

“Fresh in the vegetables, fresh in the broth, fresh in color, fresh in taste—this is truly a soup of four-fold freshness.”

“Upon seeing it, one feels clarity and brightness; upon smelling, a refined fragrance; upon tasting, tender softness that melts away—the very spirit of Sichuan cuisine is embodied in this dish…”

“Don’t finish it all—let me try another bite! I haven’t fully tasted it yet—”

By now, the outcome was clear: not a soul touched the plump chef’s version of Boiled Cabbage in Water. Zhang Fu and Zhou Qian exchanged a smile. Zhang Fu deliberately raised his voice, “It seems Renhe Residence hasn’t quite captured the essence of Sichuan cuisine!”

Leaving Renhe Residence, Zhou Qian asked, “Which restaurant is next?”

Zhang Fu thought for a moment. “The Health Hall. Their Orange Cordyceps Duck, Fermented Rice Red-Braised Pork, and Lord Liu’s Elegant Fish are all outstanding. The two of us should go and see for ourselves!”

Inside the Health Hall, a young man’s voice suddenly rang out, “Why does this dish taste so terrible? Bring me the manager at once…”

Within three days, the names of Zhou Qian and Zhang Fu had spread throughout the entire capital of Tiandu Prefecture. Even the prefect himself took an interest and came to watch their culinary duels. Some, knowing Zhang Fu’s nickname as the Young Kitchen God, gave Zhou Qian the elegant title of Young Kitchen Immortal. Thus, the fame of one Immortal and one God began to circulate in the world of cookery.

The Prefect of Tiandu sat in Heavenly Delicacies Hall, hesitating as he gazed at two gleaming, translucent Dongpo Pork Knuckles, each tender but not greasy, soft but not mushy—each unique in its own right. One was cooked over a fierce flame, the other chilled with ice; one shone like hidden fire, yearning to blaze forth, the other like melting ice, its flavor deep as if aged for a hundred years. Even this usually decisive prefect could not make up his mind. The onlookers held their breath, for this was the last of the seventeen great restaurants of Tiandu. If the heir to a century-old Dongpo Pork Knuckle tradition lost again, not a single house in Tiandu could claim to uphold the true legacy of Sichuan cuisine. The reputation of Sichuan chefs would be trampled by two young men.

“Ah, what a headache! Not even choosing between marrying a princess or my childhood sweetheart was as troublesome as this!” The handsome and refined middle-aged man gave a bitter laugh, drawing knowing smiles from those around him, all well aware of their lord’s romantic history.

He paced back and forth before finally gritting his teeth and declaring, “The victory goes to the Crystal Pork Knuckle!”

“Sir! Why is that? Is there something wrong with my Flame Pork Knuckle?” The elderly chef opposite Zhou Qian grew pale and cried out.

“No, not at all. It’s not that yours is lacking, but the young man’s is simply too outstanding. In terms of color, aroma, flavor, meaning, and form, the two dishes are equally matched. But there’s one point—the texture of his meat is just a bit more fresh and tender. I can’t say why. Perhaps the quality of the meat was different? Try it yourself and see…”

“Impossible! Impossible! We both chose black pork at the same time—how could there be a difference?” The old chef tasted it with eyes closed and was shocked. “Impossible! How can the meat be so tender and smooth, as if it were freshly cut? This black pork was hunted from Beast Mountain—there should always be some toughness! How can this be…”

“I’m curious, too—how did you do it?” Zhang Fu nudged Zhou Qian, puzzled.

In truth, the principle was simple: Zhou Qian used his Cloud Hand, Rolling Clouds technique to loosen the pork’s fibers and invigorate the blood, expelling impurities, which made the meat so exceptionally tender.

Why was Zhang Fu, so proud and arrogant, willing to accept Zhou Qian in his own field of expertise? First, Zhou Qian’s talent and ingenuity in the art of cookery were extraordinary. Second, most chefs did not practice martial arts, and most martial artists disdained the culinary arts; to reach a high level in both was perhaps unique to Zhou Qian. What Zhang Fu could master, Zhou Qian could learn in time, but what Zhou Qian knew, Zhang Fu could never achieve. That was why Zhang Fu regarded Zhou Qian as his true rival. Only when meeting such a worthy opponent could he truly pay attention.

The onlookers, however, were left dejected, for the glory of Sichuan cuisine had been revived in the hands of an outsider, which stung their pride.

“Young hero Qian, your master asked me to tell you—the plot has been foiled, the villain executed. He wants you to return home soon and stop wandering around Sichuan,” the prefect whispered into Zhou Qian’s ear before leaving. “And I swear, I wasn’t biased toward Young Master San; it’s just that this Crystal Pork Knuckle is too delicious. I wonder when I’ll ever taste something so exquisite again.”

Zhou Qian smiled wryly, but felt a weight lift from his heart—it seemed his efforts had not been in vain.

Meanwhile, a thousand miles away, Li Sanshan—Second Brother Li—was facing the greatest crisis of his life. Several masked men in black seized him from the arms of the courtesan Liu Xiaoxiao, not even allowing him to put on his short trousers before whisking him away.

“Gentlemen, uncles, grandfathers, could you please show a little mercy?” Second Brother Li pleaded miserably. “At least give me a set of clothes—running around naked just isn’t right!”

“Silence!” one of the men growled, his eyes flashing coldly, making Li Sanshan’s heart tremble. That was the look of a killer.

“If it weren’t for you tipping them off, how could our protector’s disguise as Song Ci have been exposed? One false move and the entire scheme is lost. Now the court is gathering its armies and martial artists to sweep our alliance. The losses are heavy. Since we’ve caught you, we’ll use you to threaten Zhou Qian into stealing his master’s key to the Qin Emperor’s Tomb. At least you won’t be completely useless.”

Li Sanshan was stuffed into a dark, cramped space and locked behind iron bars. Though blindfolded, his wit remained sharp; by listening, feeling, and sniffing, he deduced he was in the hold of a large ship. “Are we going out to sea?” he wondered, uneasy.

For over ten days, Li Sanshan was held in darkness, surviving on scraps, but his remarkable endurance saw him through. One day, a violent storm struck, lightning crashing and waves pounding so fiercely that a hole was smashed in the compartment. Squinting through the gap, Li Sanshan saw a giant turtle over a hundred feet long lying on the surface of the sea, inhaling and exhaling, its movements raising mountainous waves. The turtle had two heads and four feet, its back covered in scales, and streams of blue-gray vapor poured from its mouth as thunder roared across the sky.

At that moment, a divine vessel dozens of feet long burst through the clouds with a thunderous charge toward the giant turtle. The turtle quickened its breath, then let out a piercing cry—

“Great Wilderness! Great Wilderness!”

Amid the earth-shaking tumult, Li Sanshan lost consciousness. But from the divine vessel came a soft exclamation, and a ray of gray light split off, transforming into an armored celestial general who snatched Li Sanshan from the ship. Another huge wave struck, smashing the ship to pieces…