Chapter 61

Jin Chengzhi stormed out of Qian Xiaomi’s Private Kitchen on his bicycle and rode back to the newspaper office, fuming. To call it a newspaper office was a stretch—it was just a two-room residential house with a crude plaque at the entrance reading Imperial Capital Weekly Digest.

Imperial Capital Weekly Digest was a fully private publication issued once a week. It had little in the way of serious content, publishing dubious stories from unknown sources with flashy headlines designed to grab attention and coax people into buying it. Its target audience was on the lower end—mostly those who had only attended literacy classes or had limited education. Reading this kind of paper required no knowledge or thought; it was all about novelty and spectacle—a thoroughly disreputable rag.

Jin Chengzhi sat at his desk, pulled out a stack of manuscript paper, and began writing furiously. When Zhang Min came over with tea and caught a glimpse of the draft, he saw lines like:
“Discovered a place called Qian Xiaomi’s Private Kitchen today—my appetite was ruined before I even entered, thanks to the pretentious and tasteless name…”

“Absurdly overpriced, trying to grab attention!”

“The chef is a young girl with zero experience in the kitchen!”

…

Jin Chengzhi vented his anger into more than a thousand words before finally putting down his pen. He’d pressed so hard the paper was torn in multiple places, and ink blotches stained the sheet. Zhang Min had to transcribe the article by hand, then got Jin Chengzhi’s signature and cheerfully delivered it to the editor-in-chief’s office next door.

There were only ten staff members at Imperial Capital Weekly Digest, and it had taken them a whole week to scrape together enough content for eight pages. This was the final issue before the New Year break—once the papers were sold, they could all go on holiday.

Though the paper had a publication number, the post office wouldn’t distribute it. They relied on personal connections with small vendors and newsstands. Once printed, the papers were delivered to these vendors, with payments settled monthly. Every staff member had a sales quota to fulfill.

Jin Chengzhi used to dine for free in small restaurants around the Imperial Capital under the guise of being a journalist, promising a write-up in return. Once the piece was printed and delivered, the restaurants usually bought a hundred or so copies to hand out to friends and customers. Others who had collaborated before would buy a few copies each issue to stay on good terms and have something to read to pass the time.

Zhang Min had delivered papers to all the cooperating vendors, but still had about a hundred copies left. Since they hadn’t even managed to eat at Qian Xiaomi’s Private Kitchen, it was unlikely the place would buy any papers. If they couldn’t sell them, the production costs would be deducted from their wages.

“Boss Jin, what should we do?” Zhang Min was exasperated. He didn’t make much to begin with—getting docked pay was the last thing he needed.

Jin Chengzhi glared at the unsold stack of papers. After a moment, his beady eyes lit up with an idea. He slapped on his woolen cap and ordered Zhang Min, “Grab the papers. We’re going to Qian Xiaomi’s Private Kitchen!”

“Again?” Zhang Min hesitated. The memory of being publicly called a beggar there was still fresh. Now they were going back? That was mortifying. “Boss Jin, maybe we should just drop it. That girl doesn’t seem easy to mess with.”

“Bull. She’s just a naive kid with no clue. If she had any smarts, she’d have served us a nice meal already, and none of this would’ve happened.” Jin Chengzhi’s eyes gleamed with calculation. “Just follow my lead. Once we throw the papers in front of her, she’ll fall in line.”

Zhang Min, who only ever followed Jin Chengzhi around for scraps, had no backbone of his own. Seeing Jin’s confidence, he eagerly followed along.

This time, they arrived fifteen minutes earlier than before. The restaurant still had about ten tables of diners, some finishing meals, others sipping tea. As they stepped inside and looked around the full house, they finally spotted Qian Jianing in the kitchen gnawing on a crispy roast squab.

Qian Jianing didn’t even look up when she saw them—fried squab needed to be eaten hot, while the skin was still crisp and the meat tender. Once it cooled, it lost all flavor. Li Xiaoyu and Wang Yahan recognized the two men and, seeing that Qian Jianing made no move, they exchanged glances and stayed silent.

The two men stood awkwardly in the middle of the dining hall, arms draped with newspapers. Curious diners looked on, murmuring amongst themselves.

“What are they doing? Selling newspapers?”
“Looks like it. Never seen someone peddling papers inside a restaurant.”
“People will do anything nowadays. What’s so strange about selling newspapers?”

Hearing the chatter, Jin Chengzhi began to feel embarrassed. He shot a glare at Zhang Min and jerked his head toward the kitchen. “Go get her out here!”

Zhang Min hurried toward the kitchen but had just reached the doorway when a pigeon bone came flying at him and hit him square in the forehead. Qian Jianing, holding a wing in her hand, said coldly, “Restricted area. No entry to the kitchen!”

The bone had left Zhang Min stinging. He froze at the doorway, unsure whether to go in or retreat, and forced himself to say, “Boss Qian, aren’t you going to look at your news coverage?”

“What news?” asked one of the diners excitedly. “Is it something praising Little Boss Qian? Read it to us!”

Someone else squinted and asked, “What paper is this? Doesn’t look like the Imperial Capital Daily. I’ve never seen it before. Is it a special supplement from another publisher?”

Zhang Min, for once, had the good sense to keep his mouth shut.

Qian Jianing finished off her last piece of roast squab, finally stood up, walked over to the sink, washed and dried her hands, then stepped out of the kitchen. She pulled a paper from Zhang Min’s stack.

“‘A Girl in Bloom Covered in Scars—Who’s the Real Culprit Behind the Scenes?’” Qian Jianing read the front-page headline and chuckled, then scanned the article.

The diners were immediately intrigued by the dramatic title. “Was there a murder?”

Reading at lightning speed, Qian Jianing soon burst into laughter. “It says a young girl kept turning up with bruises and cuts. The article suspects everyone—her grandmother, the neighbor’s mutt, her teachers… In the end, it turns out she had so many flea bites they all blended together. She couldn’t stop scratching, so the wounds became scabby messes.”

Some people chuckled and shook their heads; others were visibly annoyed. An elderly man snatched a paper from Zhang Min’s arm, flipped through it quickly, then slammed it down, furious. “And you call this trash sensationalism a newspaper?”

Just then, Qian Jianing flipped to Jin Chengzhi’s piece and laughed aloud. “Let me read this one to you: ‘A Culinary Wasteland—Undisputed Garbage Restaurant: Qian Xiaomi’s Private Kitchen.’”

At that title, Jin Chengzhi and Zhang Min froze. Typically, people kept bad press under wraps. Chinese readers had vivid imaginations—an ant-sized problem could get blown up to watermelon scale through gossip and exaggeration. Even though Imperial Capital Weekly Digest had little actual influence, people generally avoided any negative news like the plague. By all logic, Qian Jianing should be doing her best to bury this story.

That’s exactly what Jin Chengzhi was banking on. He figured once Little Boss Qian saw the hit piece, she’d panic, buy out the entire stock to destroy it, and even slip him a fat red envelope to hush things up.

Everything was going according to plan—except the girl wasn’t playing by the rules.

Qian Jianing cleared her throat and slowly read Jin Chengzhi’s article aloud. After criticizing the name, prices, service, and environment, the article finally turned to the food.

“To cut costs, the owner didn’t even hire a chef. She skimmed a few cookbooks and thought herself a master.” Qian Jianing read this with a smirk and raised her brows at Jin Chengzhi. “So you do know I learned to cook from recipes. Guess not everything in this report is a lie.”

The whole room erupted in laughter. Zhang Min leaned toward Jin Chengzhi and whispered, “Boss Jin… maybe we should leave?”

Jin Chengzhi clasped his hands behind his back, wearing a righteous expression. “I, Jin Chengzhi, am a renowned food critic in the Imperial Capital. I can’t stand restaurants like yours that pretend to be one thing and serve another—it’s a disgrace to the culinary world.”

“A food critic named Jin Chengzhi? How come I’ve never heard of you?” An energetic elderly man glanced at Jin Chengzhi and took a spoonful of lamb soup into his mouth.

Zhang Min, long used to playing the sycophant for Jin Chengzhi, instinctively retorted, “Our Master Jin is a royal descendant. His grandfather frequented the palace from a young age, and their household meals have always followed the imperial kitchen’s recipes. It’s a deep-rooted family tradition—he’s tasted the best foods in the world since childhood. Everyone in the food scene calls him Master Jin. And who are you to speak to our Master Jin like that?”

As Zhang Min bragged, Jin Chengzhi lifted his chin again, smugly staring at the ceiling.

The old man snorted through his nose. “I am Jin Yongxu.”

In an instant, Jin Chengzhi and Zhang Min were extinguished—this was like a fake running into the real deal. The true Master Jin had arrived!

Though they weren’t real gourmets, they’d been in the food world for a couple of years and knew the name Jin Yongxu well—it was legendary. Wealthy and leisurely, he had dined in every corner of the Imperial Capital as a bona fide gourmet. He knew every restaurant like the back of his hand. His food reviews were often published in the Imperial Capital Times, and he’d appeared on Imperial Capital TV as a culinary expert. Jin Chengzhi’s self-proclaimed fame couldn’t even compare to a single hair on the man’s head.

Jin Chengzhi’s chubby face turned a splotchy mix of red and white—utterly unsightly. Qian Jianing put down her newspaper and smiled. “This guy came by a few days ago trying to eat for free. I turned him away, and now he’s gone and written some article? Clever little stunt.”

Only now did the diners understand what had happened, and their faces showed disdain. “You really don’t need to bother with a low-tier rag like that—it’s only a matter of time before it gets shut down.”

Seeing that even Jin Yongxu was supporting Qian Jianing, Jin Chengzhi realized he’d kicked a steel wall this time. There was no point staying—better to leave before trouble found him. With that thought, he turned to go. But as he took two steps, Qian Jianing’s voice rang out: “Hold it!”

Jin Chengzhi turned back, his eyes full of venom. “Don’t push your luck.”

Qian Jianing walked over and stuffed the newspaper back into Zhang Min’s arms, a cold smirk on her lips. “You’ve come to my place twice already. I thought it wouldn’t be right not to send you off with a gift—so here you go.”

Jin Chengzhi eyed her suspiciously, clearly not buying it. Qian Jianing curled her lips and slowly said, “Besides cooking, I’m also good at face reading. Let me be generous today and give you three predictions. First, misfortune is looming—you’ll bleed today. Second, threats and intimidation will land you in jail someday. Third, your ill-gotten gains will all vanish, and you’ll live out your life in poverty.”

Jin Chengzhi was furious at hearing nothing but doom—his nostrils flared, and with a huff and a flick of his sleeve, he stormed off, not forgetting to toss back one last threat: “We’ll see.”

Qian Jianing shook her head behind him. “So full of hot air. Be careful out there!”

After the meal, Elder Wang, who was dining with Jin Yongxu, invited everyone over to his house for tea. The group stood up, bid farewell to Qian Jianing, and headed to Elder Wang’s home together.

It had snowed last night in the Imperial Capital, and the cold had frozen the snow solid. Many streets had become slick with packed, shiny ice—one misstep and you could slip badly. The group didn’t even bother discussing the new dishes from lunch; all their attention was on watching their footing.

After crossing two streets, they came upon a noisy crowd gathered in the middle of the road. Everyone stopped instinctively to look. Elder Wang glanced around and happened to see a neighbor, so he walked over and patted him on the shoulder. “What’s going on here?”

“A fat guy was riding his bike too fast. Took a turn, slipped, flew off, and smacked his head on a tree. Looks like he broke his leg too—can’t move at all.”

The group immediately thought of the words Qian Jianing had said earlier. They stepped closer, and sure enough—it was the same chubby guy, Jin Chengzhi, sitting on the ground with blood all over his face.

Elder Wang stroked his chin in admiration. “Little Boss Qian’s fortune telling is pretty spot-on. Next time we go back to Home-style Cuisine Restaurant after the New Year, I’ll ask her to read mine too.”