AGN -Chapter 148 This Chef Is Worth It

The Four-Joy Dumplings had four small compartments, each filled with ingredients of a different color. Diced shiitake mushrooms, diced ham, spinach stems, and thin egg omelet strips were all beautifully steamed, their colors bright and vivid—like leafy greens quickly rinsed in water infused with lard and then lifted out.

Beneath the ingredients was a traditional dumpling filling that suited most people’s tastes.

Of course, it wasn’t entirely traditional.

Previously, Qin Huai had always used a pork, mushroom, and diced carrot filling for the Four-Joy Dumplings. But recently, since he had been making so many pastries and had been using pork with diced bamboo shoots and carrot puree, he gradually came to feel that carrot puree was better than diced carrots.

Carrot puree had a milder flavor than diced carrots, blended better into the filling, and after steaming, helped the meat retain more juices, improving the texture.

So Qin Huai made a routine adjustment to the recipe, changing the filling to pork, mushrooms, and carrot puree.

The result was excellent.

It received unanimous approval from all diners—except Ou Yang.

As for why Ou Yang didn’t approve—he ate in such a crude, careless manner that during his first tasting, he didn’t even realize Qin Huai had changed the filling. This infuriated Qin Huai enough to revoke his tasting privileges.

Of course, whether his privileges were revoked or not made no real difference, since Qin Huai had already come to Gusu three days after finalizing the recipe, and Ou Yang had only had two extra days of tasting compared to the others.

In short, if the Four-Joy Dumplings Qin Huai made before were the basic version, the current ones were definitely an upgraded “plus” version.

Previously, Qin Luo could only eat 18 at a time. Now she could eat 25.

As for how Qin Huai knew she could eat 25…

On the final day of tasting, this food-loving girl ate 25 dumplings without knowing her limits. As a result, she was so stuffed she couldn’t sleep all night and had to take a day off to go to the hospital the next morning.

The people working at Huangji Restaurant that day were in luck—they were directly served the upgraded “plus” version of the Four-Joy Dumplings.

Qin Huai steamed them in the kitchen’s largest steamer, laying out a full layer. When the lid was lifted, the sight was quite stunning, almost like stepping into the world of a gourmet anime.

Huang Anyao clearly had also watched that anime.

After Qin Huai and Zheng Siyuan pointed out where the dumplings and wontons were, Huang Anyao immediately chose the ready-to-eat Four-Joy Dumplings without hesitation and opened the steamer himself.

A full steamer of brightly colored, beautifully shaped, and fragrant dumplings stunned him.

“Golden ratio shumai!” he blurted out.

He had completely forgotten what Qin Huai had just told him. Carefully, he picked out two dumplings with tongs, didn’t even close the steamer lid—since more people would be coming to get them anyway—and held his plate while blowing on the dumplings.

Not everyone had Qin Luo’s iron tongue.

Meanwhile, Huang Jia had already started organizing the wontons.

“Who wants wontons?” Huang Jia called out loudly.

Although it was technically already work time, he felt that since the restaurant rarely provided breakfast, they should eat first to reward themselves.

The handmade delicate wontons and bubble wontons prepared by Zheng Siyuan were simply too good to miss.

“I do! I do!” Huang Anyao raised his hand enthusiastically while holding his plate, stepping aside so others could grab dumplings.

Seeing everyone so eager for dumplings and wontons, Qin Huai found it odd and quietly asked Zheng Siyuan, “Did everyone not eat breakfast?”

That didn’t make sense. Huangji Restaurant didn’t normally provide breakfast. They started work at 9 a.m., which involved physical labor, and lunch wasn’t until 1 p.m. People should normally eat well in the morning.

Zheng Siyuan glanced at him with an expression that said, “You really don’t understand what it’s like to be hungry,” and asked, “If you had just finished dinner, but my senior uncle told you he was going to personally cook a few dishes and asked if you had eaten, would you say you had?”

“Of course not,” Qin Huai replied without hesitation. “But I’m not comparable to Master Huang.”

“The logic is the same,” Zheng Siyuan said, then glanced at him. “Who’s making the glutinous rice cakes—you or me?”

“You make them. Yours taste better. They’re for tomorrow anyway. If I have time in the afternoon, I’ll make another batch.”

Zheng Siyuan continued, “And the crab shell pastries?”

“I’ll handle those along with the sesame flatbread. I’ll start baking around 11:30. But the minced meat filling might need you to handle—I’m still not very good at frying minced meat…”

Halfway through, Qin Huai stopped himself, realizing he was worrying unnecessarily. In a place like Huangji Restaurant, there was no need to worry about no one handling the filling.

Anyone present who was eating dumplings or preparing wontons—except Huang Anyao—was likely better than him at stir-frying minced meat.

“Alright, I’ll also make some jujube yam cakes. What were you thinking last night? You sent such a long list to Huang Jia—even with helpers, you wouldn’t be able to finish it. The sales volume here is far beyond what you imagine. Every time my senior uncle asks me to help, I’m busy from morning till night.”

“I just thought the things I’m good at, the more the better. At least one of them will be popular,” Qin Huai explained. “What did you list?”

“Fresh meat mooncakes and Ding Sheng cakes,” Zheng Siyuan replied.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Zheng Siyuan said expressionlessly. “You’ll understand why by noon.”

Qin Huai: “?”

Although Qin Huai didn’t yet understand why, many people in the kitchen already did—because the Four-Joy Dumplings had cooled slightly, and everyone had started eating.

To put it simply, the moment Huang Anyao took a bite, only one thought came to his mind:

If he were to cry and beg Qin Huai to stay at Huangji Restaurant permanently, offering a huge salary and even giving up a quarter of the shares—could he keep him?

Thinking of what Qin Huai had said the previous night—that he knew at least 120 kinds of pastries—if each one was at the level of these dumplings…

Huang Anyao would be willing to give up half the shares.

No more than that, or his father would kill him.

He felt that if he could eat Qin Huai’s pastries every morning—120 kinds, one per day, four months without repetition—then managing the restaurant, dealing with suppliers and customers, wouldn’t be such a hassle anymore.

Even his dream of becoming a food critic didn’t seem that important. After all, one should stay grounded and focus on what’s in front of them.

And right now, what was in front of him was the dumpling.

He took another bite.

Delicious.

Having grown up eating his father Huang Shengli’s dishes, Huang Anyao had to admit—these dumplings were truly outstanding.

From the moment he tasted them, he felt Qin Huai must be like a brother to him—just not by blood.

The last person he had felt that way about was Zheng Siyuan.

Because of their family connections, Huang Anyao had been close to Zheng Siyuan since childhood. Even though he was a year older, he often acted more like the younger one, following behind Zheng Siyuan waiting for pastries.

But now…

Sorry, Siyuan. Even though your skills are excellent and comparable to Qin Huai’s, you specialize in too few things. Qin Huai, on the other hand, knows 120 kinds!

Unlike Huang Anyao, who was lost in thought and even considering using half his shares to retain Qin Huai, Huang Jia finished the dumplings and immediately went to find Wang Jun.

As the sixth disciple of Huang Shengli, Wang Jun joined later but had very solid fundamentals. Coming from a small family restaurant, he had entered Huangji Restaurant at 16 as a helper, later working at the prep station handling raw ingredients. After a year, Huang Shengli recognized his diligence and reliability and accepted him as a disciple.

Now Wang Jun still worked as a prep cook, mainly assisting in the kitchen.

“Old Six, today you’ll assist Qin Huai and pick a couple of people with white-case experience. Qin Huai doesn’t know much—help him out. Do whatever needs doing. If manpower isn’t enough, let me know and I’ll assign more. He just arrived yesterday, so today is his first real day—don’t wear him out.” Huang Jia said quietly, glancing at Dong Shi. “Avoid Dong Shi—he talks too much and will keep chatting with Qin Huai. Da Dong is fine.”

Wang Jun still had a dumpling in his hand and nodded seriously. “Don’t worry, Senior Brother. With me here, he won’t be overworked.”

Huang Jia gave him a confirming look and walked over to Qin Huai: “Qin Huai, we’ve discussed it. Since today is your first official day, treat it as getting familiar. You won’t be responsible for the staff meals for now—don’t tire yourself out.”

Qin Huai paused. “That shouldn’t be necessary. It’s just a bit more work…”

“Don’t do the lunch today. See how things go in the afternoon and decide whether to handle dinner,” Huang Jia interrupted.

Qin Huai nodded. “Alright.”

Then he continued working.

Wang Jun quickly arranged people to assist Qin Huai. Whether it was chopping fillings, handling ingredients, wrapping buns or dumplings, or shaping molds, Wang Jun and the others took over everything. Even the filling adjustments Qin Huai thought he needed to handle personally only required him to set the proportions—others handled the rest.

To put it bluntly, Qin Huai felt like an emperor for the first time.

All he had to do was “issue orders,” while others did the work.

Under Wang Jun’s coordination, Qin Huai quickly prepared a large batch of pre-made pastries.

They were called “pre-made” because most pastries taste best when steamed or baked fresh. Huangji’s kitchen had ample space, enough stoves, steamers, and ovens.

By Qin Huai’s estimation, the Four-Joy Dumplings, Five-Ingredient Buns, Round Dream Flatbread, Crab Shell Pastries, and Fermented Rice Buns he prepared would be sufficient to sell from noon to evening. If needed, they could make more in the afternoon.

Fermented rice buns themselves were high-quality—good even without enhancements. Chenpi tea, however, was different. Its base quality was too ordinary; without enhancement, it was just a plain dessert. So Qin Huai specifically limited its daily quantity, framing it as “scarcity marketing” without explaining further.

At 11 a.m., the dumplings, buns, and fermented rice buns went into steamers; crab shell pastries and flatbreads went into ovens. Qin Huai, freed from monitoring ovens and steamers, calmly made mung bean cakes and even had time to observe others.

By this time, the hot-dish chefs led by Huang Jia had entered the final prep stage, with ingredients neatly stacked—enough to resemble a banquet kitchen in a rural feast.

On Zheng Siyuan’s side, helpers were assisting him as well. Fresh meat mooncakes were already in the oven, and he was also making Ding Sheng cakes.

Qin Huai glanced at the number of fresh meat mooncakes waiting to be baked and realized the quantity was about 1.5 times the total of his Five-Ingredient Buns, Four-Joy Dumplings, and Fermented Rice Buns combined. He was quite surprised.

Wasn’t that too much? Who would come to a restaurant at noon just to eat mooncakes?

As a staple item, there was no need to prepare that many in advance.

“Brother Jun, aren’t Siyuan’s mooncakes a bit excessive?” Qin Huai asked quietly.

Wang Jun glanced over. “Not really. Compared to before, he’s already reduced the amount. He probably considered that with you here and so many other pastries, customers won’t order as many mooncakes.”

Qin Huai: “?”

Is business at Huangji really that good? It didn’t feel that way yesterday.

At 11:10 a.m., Huangji Restaurant officially opened for business.

Of course, customers who arrived early were already seated at 11:00; they just couldn’t order until 11:10.

Although Master Huang hadn’t been working much recently and prices hadn’t been reduced, the restaurant’s reputation still drew many loyal customers.

After all, what if Huang Shengli suddenly showed up and cooked?

Among those loyal customers was Uncle Qian Zhongheng, a former accountant from the long-closed cotton mill.

He didn’t come alone—he brought his entire family: his wife, son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter.

His son and daughter-in-law even took an hour off work to come early.

His son complained quietly, “Dad, why did you make us take time off just to eat here? That time off costs money. I already asked the waiter—Master Huang isn’t here today, so we won’t get dishes like Three-Flavor Duck or Braised Silver Carp Head.”

His daughter-in-law, Ma Yuan, said nothing, busy replying to messages from her boss.

His mother-in-law added, “Yesterday when your father was out shopping, he ran into Xiao Dong—Master Huang’s apprentice. Xiao Dong told him a new pastry chef has joined, personally invited by Master Huang from out of town. He’s young, but his skills shouldn’t be bad. That’s why your father insisted you come and not miss out.”

The son muttered, “What skills can a young person have?”

Still, his hand obediently opened the menu category for pastries.

“Five-Ingredient Bun, Four-Joy Dumpling, Fermented Rice Bun, Fresh Meat Mooncake, Ding Sheng Cake, Crab Shell Pastry, Round Dream Flatbread… There are a lot of new items, but I’ve never heard of any of these. What even are they? Let’s start with four fresh meat mooncakes—last time I had them at a banquet, they weren’t sold regularly.”

“Four-Joy Dumplings… they look fancy, give me five.”

“Crab shell pastry… boring. Round dream flatbread… who eats flatbread? That’s enough.”

He continued ordering other dishes.

When the printed menu arrived, Qian Zhongheng noticed an additional white-case page and was delighted. After scanning it, he immediately said, “Don’t count the kids—order one of each pastry per adult.”

His son exclaimed, “Dad, are you crazy? These are buns, steamed items, and flatbreads—they’ll fill us up! And the fermented rice bun costs 18 yuan each! The Five-Ingredient Bun is even more outrageous—65 each, almost the price of a high-end restaurant!”

“Don’t worry,” Qian Zhongheng said. “I’m paying. Order everything. If we can’t finish, we’ll eat it tomorrow morning.”

Then he asked the waiter, “Any other new items?”

“Yes, Mr. Qian. There’s also a new drink—Chenpi tea, 25 per bowl.”

The son didn’t object to the price; drinks in restaurants are often overpriced.

After thinking, Qian Zhongheng said, “Bring three bowls.”

His son continued ordering other dishes, but after seeing his father splurge on so many expensive unknown pastries, he became reluctant to order more and ended up choosing only three dishes for the family of five.

Almost immediately after ordering, the fermented rice buns were served.

The timing was perfect—they had just come out in the first batch.

The aroma of the fermented rice buns drifted from the kitchen. The son, who had been quietly complaining about the restaurant possibly overpricing new items, suddenly lost interest in complaining and instinctively stretched his neck toward the kitchen, inhaling deeply.

Very unrefined behavior.

“What’s that smell? There’s a hint of alcohol fragrance.”

Qian Zhongheng and his wife were also inhaling deeply, but their expressions were completely different from their son’s—besides intoxication, there was also nostalgia.

“Where did Xiao Huang find this chef?” Qian Zhongheng murmured. “Does he have a hidden junior apprentice?”

“It’s been years since I smelled this,” his wife smiled. “Back then, we couldn’t afford steamed buns. We could only sit there eating while watching others, just smelling them. It makes me want to hold a bowl of rice and eat now.”

“Smells so good!” their five-year-old granddaughter clapped happily.

The waiter brought the fermented rice buns to their table.

Their table was served first and became the center of attention. Several nearby tables looked over, waving at the waiter to ask what those buns were—they wanted some too.

Qian Zhongheng picked up one bun, tore off a small piece to feed his granddaughter, then took a big bite himself.

That taste.

Exactly that taste.

The taste that once filled an entire street with fragrance decades ago, when people would rush on bicycles after work, pedaling furiously as if their wheels were about to spark, just to queue up and buy these fermented rice buns.

The taste of those times when, before long trips, parents would try their best to queue or ask favors to buy extra buns, packing them into small metal lunch boxes as travel food. Even after a day and night on a train, the buns would still regain their softness when opened, and they tasted delicious even when eaten with cold water.

It had been so many years.

Qian Zhongheng suddenly realized he hadn’t tasted this flavor in a long time—it was like his youth, something that had left him years ago.

He seemed to understand Huang Shengli’s intention now. The long-time residents living nearby had all grown up with the fragrance of these fermented rice buns. Though times had changed, and the old state-run dining hall had become Huangji Restaurant, in their hearts, it was still the same place—and the chefs were still descendants of Master Jing’s lineage.

Thinking this way, the previous white-case chefs indeed hadn’t been worthy of this place.

This chef is worthy.

Good—Huang Shengli has good judgment.

Qian Zhongheng looked up again and found his disappointing son had already finished his bun in record time, not leaving a single bite for his granddaughter.

The son licked his lips, still unsatisfied, and said, “Dad, let’s order ten more buns!”

“We can save them for breakfast tomorrow if we can’t finish.”