Chapter 110: Master Quan’s Culinary Skills

Master Quan truly lived up to his reputation as a professional chef. He could pair any dish well. Visually, the food wasn’t as refined or attractive as in the future, but the taste was excellent—authentic Shandong cuisine.

There were no flashy gimmicks.

Speaking of gimmicks, it reminded Zhou Yimin of those so-called Michelin chefs in the future.

Netizens had summed it up best: “Big plate, small portion, smear some sauce, toss on some herbs.”

And just like that, the dish magically became “high-end.”

Zhou Yimin completely agreed with the netizens’ take. That’s exactly how it was. As for whether it tasted good or not—that didn’t even matter.

Michelin even went as far as establishing a chef ranking system, evaluating Chinese chefs and cuisine. But what right did they have? They even bragged about their knife skills.

Competing with Chinese chefs in knife work? That’s a joke—what a laughable idea.

And yet, plenty of Chinese people were also singing Michelin’s praises. The worst were the ones at home, who not only praised Michelin, but had to drag down Chinese chefs, culinary skills, and traditional food in the process.

Little did they know that Michelin originally was just a tire company. It had nothing to do with cooking at all.

Totally unqualified people judging the qualified.

But to give credit where it’s due—Michelin understood marketing.

Back in 1900, there were only about 3,000 cars in all of France. At best, they could only sell a few tires a year.

So Michelin came up with a plan: encourage car owners to go on long trips, so their tires would wear out faster, increasing demand.

Thus, the Michelin Guide was born, filled with recommendations for good food and fun places to visit.

To everyone’s surprise, the guide was a hit from the moment it launched.

Michelin seized the momentum and began improving the guide’s quality. They introduced strict standards for rating restaurants, even hiring anonymous inspectors to conduct reviews.

They started assigning star ratings to restaurants—from one to three.

One star meant a restaurant was very good. Two stars meant the chef was highly skilled and worth going out of your way to experience. Three stars meant it was worth crossing mountains and oceans just to eat there.

But the purpose was always the same: get car owners to travel farther, so they’d wear out more tires.

“Master Quan, your cooking skills are top-notch.” Zhou Yimin gave him a big thumbs-up.

Master Quan was quite pleased to be praised, but he stayed modest on the surface. “This is just the basics in our line of work. I started when I was…”

He began telling his story—how he started learning at a young age, first chopping vegetables, then learning to flip the wok. He spent years as an apprentice, running errands for his master. Only once the master was satisfied did he begin teaching how to actually cook.

Most people couldn’t make it past the early years. You were basically working for free, with little income to speak of—just enough to scrape by.

Very few could endure such hardship.

“I practiced my knife work for three years before I graduated,” Master Quan said with a sigh.

Cutting napa cabbage, cutting radish—he cut until his hands were numb.

They say being a chef means never worrying in times of famine. But who really knows how much a chef has to suffer?

As he spoke, Master Quan couldn’t resist showing off a little, smashing a clove of garlic with his cleaver for Zhou Yimin and the others.

Cleavers of that time were the real deal. If one broke just from smashing garlic, the seller would probably get cursed out—or even beaten.

Unlike those future cleavers from that well-known brand, which snap just from smashing garlic. And then they have the nerve to claim that smashing garlic is wrong. As if China’s thousands of years of culinary tradition are somehow incorrect.

Basically, just denying everything about traditional Chinese cooking.

And then using Michelin as some sort of benchmark.

What a joke.

Come on—before you start judging, at least learn what Michelin even is.

When Chinese people were already mastering the use of cleavers, Michelin and all of Europe were still eating like savages. Out of all the things to praise, they just had to pick Michelin.

Do they even have knife skills? Do they know how to cut vegetables?

Sure, they categorize their knives in detail—slicing, chopping, smashing, even peeling has its own tool. Looks professional, but it’s a massive hassle.

One Chinese knife could do it all, yet they insisted on dragging around a whole toolkit just to prepare a dish.

By evening, the elder of Courtyard No. 55 and the others returned.

They didn’t come empty-handed—each brought a bottle or two of liquor: some Fenjiu, some Erguotou.

They set up five tables, one for each fish—braised in soy sauce. There was a huge pot of braised pork with vermicelli—plenty enough for everyone in the courtyard to get a bowl.

“Come on, let’s have a drink to celebrate Dazhong moving into our courtyard. From now on, we’re all neighbors—let’s look out for one another…” Elder Niu raised his glass and made the first toast.

As for the housing matter, no one was allowed to bring it up again.

Everyone was tactful. With Zhou Yimin and Director Li from the neighborhood office backing Zhou Dazhong, no one would be foolish enough to cause trouble or push him out.

Besides, the guy knew how to treat people—he invited everyone to dinner.

If anyone still harbored resentment after that, they’d just be exposing their own pettiness.

“Elder Niu is absolutely right!” Second and Third Elders chimed in.

With the three elders showing support, everyone else followed suit.

Zhou Dazhong understood that most of this goodwill was thanks to his Sixteenth Uncle.

A little kid got excited eating fish and accidentally got a bone stuck in his throat. The adults brought out some vinegar, had him take a sip to soften the bone, and then had him eat a big mouthful of mantou.

This was the standard move when choking on a fishbone.

A rougher method was to just skip the vinegar and wolf down a few bites of rice.

Unlike the future, where people were so delicate. Get a fishbone stuck or a small cut on the hand, and off to the hospital they went. As one netizen joked, “By the time you make it there, the wound’s already healed.”

“Slow down, kids. Be careful when eating fish,” Zhou Yimin reminded everyone.

He didn’t tell them not to eat fish—there’s no need to give it up because of a single bad experience.

After the meal, there were still leftovers. Zhou Yimin didn’t decide for Zhou Dazhong.

But Zhou Dazhong thought—after eating all that meat, who cares about some leftovers? Might as well let the aunties divide it up.

The aunties were delighted, quickly jumping in to clean up the mess.

Zhou Yimin patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about those things. I’ll talk to you tomorrow—don’t rush off to work just yet.”

It was time for Zhou Dazhong to start “making money” for him.

“Alright!” Zhou Dazhong nodded.

Seeing that his Sixteenth Uncle had something for him to do, he wasn’t annoyed at all—on the contrary, he was thrilled. Just like his mother said: being able to help his Sixteenth Uncle was both an honor and a blessing.

After all, his little sister’s job still needed his uncle’s help.

Zhou Dazhong’s mother and sister didn’t return home that night. They planned to stay over and head back tomorrow.

As for the little one at home, someone in the village had already agreed to look after them.

After the residents returned, they chatted about what Zhou Yimin had hinted at earlier—that the noodle factory might be hiring.

(End of Chapter)