Chapter Thirty: The Four Pillars of the Culinary Way

“What price do you set for this meat, this duck? Can ordinary folk afford such a meal? What a repulsive stench! Rotten meat! Putrid duck! Bah!” The loud-voiced old man spat the soup and meat onto the floor, glaring fiercely at the portly and the thin men. Ma Sheng scratched his head, puzzled, “Why is senior brother acting this way?”

“How much does this duck cost? And this bowl of meat soup, what’s its price?” the old man demanded.

Fat Liu braced himself and replied, “The duck is chosen from ten rare breeds from North and South, with a century-old ginseng and crow’s meat to enrich its nutrients—about a hundred gold coins.” Thin Zhu added, “The meat is the essence of dozens of piglets, roughly the same price.” The old man snorted angrily, “An ordinary family saves perhaps half a tael of silver each month. Are you suggesting that common folk should save for decades just to taste such a meal? Get out! Get out! Jingxiang House cannot afford cooks who only serve the wealthy!”

The two retreated, disheveled, not daring to show a hint of dissatisfaction toward the loud old man. Zhou Qian quietly tugged at Su Cha’s sleeve, “Who is that old man? Why is he so eccentric?” Su Cha, usually eloquent, simply shut his mouth and remained silent.

Next, the assembled chefs displayed their skills: skipping cooking methods, flying cutting techniques, butchering artistry—all using ordinary ingredients, which made their culinary prowess stand out even more. In the end, only three passed: Liu Peng, the heir to Sichuan cuisine; Su Cha, head chef of Tianxiang Residence; Old Guo, a master of small dishes; plus the exceptionally lucky Zhou Qian, making four in total.

“You are all renowned chefs. Surely you know the four fundamentals of the culinary arts: knife skills, eye for detail, ingredient pairing, and creativity,” Zhang Fu proclaimed loudly. “The next challenge will test you in these four areas!”

“On this table are ordinary white radishes—slice them using Jingxiang House’s kitchen knives, and we’ll compare thickness and size.”

The four glanced at each other. Slicing radishes—such a task, even a mediocre cook or an ordinary person could manage well with enough patience. But once they picked up the knives, they fell silent. Each blade had seven or eight nicks, and the thickness varied from handle to tip. Could such a knife really be used for cooking?

Zhou Qian took a radish and tried slicing it; one slice turned into cubes. The knife was blunt and heavy, thudding on the cutting board. He looked around; the chefs struggled awkwardly with their radishes. Zhou Qian shook his head, but then an idea dawned on him—

“All right, everyone!” Zhang Fu checked the time and nodded.

Zhang Fu, Ma Sheng, and the loud old man inspected the results. They first examined the three chefs’ work; despite the difficult knives, their skill showed: the radish slices were roughly uniform in size and thickness. They nodded in approval, then turned to Zhou Qian’s work.

“These radish slices—” Zhang Fu shook his head, “Why are they so uneven? They’re not only inconsistent in thickness, but curved as well.”

Ma Sheng also shook his head, leaving only the loud old man. He glanced casually, then let out a surprised “Hmm!” “These radish slices—”

“What’s the matter, Uncle Hei?” Zhang Fu asked. Zhou Qian wondered—how could anyone have the surname Hei?

“These radish slices are intriguing!” The old man picked up several slices and held them under an oil lamp. The faint light shone through, revealing waves.

“Solar halo radish slices? How did you manage that?” The old man exclaimed. Even among top chefs, only three or four out of ten attempts yield such slices, requiring meticulous control over thickness and length. How had Zhou Qian done it?

“I didn’t slice along the radish’s grain, but along the knife’s grain,” Zhou Qian explained.

“Oh? What do you mean by slicing along the knife’s grain?” the old man asked curiously.

“The knife has nicks and varying thickness, forming a sort of grain. I sliced following those patterns, so the radish slices aren’t flat,” Zhou Qian explained.

“A clever adaptation, well done. Interesting approach.” The old man nodded.

“Next is the ingredient pairing challenge…”

Unfortunately, Zhou Qian’s performance in pairing and eye for detail was mediocre—according to the loud old man, barely on par with a third-rate street vendor. Zhou Qian wanted to ask how he could know that.

“The final challenge is creativity! Here is your ingredient—pumpkin. Use it to make a dish, and the winner will be decided by taste—”

What can one do with just a single pumpkin? Zhou Qian shook his head, uncertain. Looking around, the others were already shredding, simmering soup—each using their preferred methods. The final round called for caution, as taste would decide the outcome.

“Let’s do it this way, then!” Zhou Qian murmured to himself. Since he couldn’t make it into Jingxiang House on merit, he might as well follow his instincts.

‘Pa, pa, pa!’ The sound drew everyone’s attention. Zhou Qian’s culinary skills were only impressive in the northern town of Changzhou, hardly enough to earn notice on a grand stage. Still, his actions surprised everyone—

“What’s that little fellow doing, slapping the pumpkin? What’s the trick?” an outsider chef wondered.

“His technique seems rather refined,” another chimed in.

Indeed, it was refined. This method was known in martial circles as “stealth force infusion”—an advanced technique, notorious for its subtlety and danger. It could kill a person days after contact, baffling even the most seasoned coroners. Zhou Qian, with his foundation in the Floating Cloud Eight Forms, had been diligently practicing and was just beginning to grasp its secrets.

After slapping the pumpkin, Zhou Qian lit a fire and roasted the pumpkin, occasionally turning it.

“Time’s up! Please present your dishes.”

Stir-fried pumpkin shreds, pumpkin porridge, pumpkin soup—these were the dishes presented by the other three, each using their signature techniques. Standard fare, but appetizing, showing their mastery of heat, knife work, and soup-making. The old man nodded in approval. When it came to Zhou Qian, he offered only a blackened lump of roasted pumpkin, causing the three judges to frown in unison.

“Whose apprentice are you? Are you here to make trouble? Aren’t you afraid I’ll call the constables?” Zhang Fu said sharply.

“What’s special about this pumpkin?” Uncle Hei raised his grizzled brows, his voice booming.

“I only had a single pumpkin, so I tried the beggar’s chicken method. Since it’s my first attempt, I don’t know how it tastes,” Zhou Qian replied honestly. For him, cooking and tasting the results was the greatest attraction; others’ opinions mattered little. Otherwise, the disciple of the world’s top martial artist applying for a cook’s position would be laughable.

Zhou Qian tore open the pumpkin; golden juice poured into the bowl, and a rich aroma flooded the dining hall. Thanks to Zhou Qian’s unique technique, the flesh and pulp blended seamlessly, even the seeds pulverized, creating a pure, thick pumpkin juice.

“Please, try it!” Zhou Qian urged, full of anticipation.

The three exchanged glances. Uncle Hei snorted, “Afraid it’s poisonous!” He raised the bowl and drank it all.

“Gulp, gulp—” Without waiting for the others, Zhou Qian eagerly lifted his own bowl, pouring the hot pumpkin juice into his mouth, smacking his lips, then helping himself to another bowl. Uncle Hei did the same, gulping down three or four bowls. The two shared a smile—

“It’s delicious,” Zhou Qian grinned, wiping his mouth, unabashedly praising himself.

“In terms of taste, it’s pure pumpkin juice—nothing could be purer. Excellent! Very creative!” Uncle Hei commended, satisfied.

“Is it really so?” Ma Sheng asked, half-doubting, and drank a mouthful. He quickly praised, “Remarkable!”

“Hmph!” Zhang Fu disdainfully pushed aside his bowl, saying, “Even if this pumpkin juice tasted like nectar and jade dew, your previous rounds were far too poor. Jingxiang House will not accept someone who relies only on clever tricks without solid fundamentals!”

Ma Sheng shook his head quietly. This Yishan master’s favorite and most promising apprentice was talented, but overly arrogant and narrow-minded—such an attitude would only limit his path. How could he compare to Master Yishan’s boundless tolerance?

“Your cooking skills aren’t enough for the kitchens of Jingxiang House. But we do need someone to wash dishes and serve food. Would you be willing?” Uncle Hei suddenly asked.